“You see, when he was a child they didn’t have much, so this became personal to him because he knew what it was like to go hungry.
“The next year, two boxes turned into four, then eight, and now we do as many as we can each year. We get donations and sometimes the grocers give us a discount. We’re up to fifty-four this year. Each box has a ham, a bag of potatoes, some boxed and canned food, and a cake. Kathleen bakes those. Then we get some candy and stuffed animals to make up baskets for any families with children. We’ve got thirty-two of those. We’ve always put those in black garbage bags so the children don’t see them.”
“You’ve got quite an operation going. I imagine it takes weeks of planning and work to pull this off.”
“That it does.” Ma brushes her hands together. “Well, they’re all packed. We just need to load them up.”
“I’ll carry them out to my truck. If we double stack them, we should be able to fit them all.” Sly grabs a box and heads for the door.
I grab one and move to follow. Ma’s hand on my arm stops me. After Sly steps outside, she whispers to me, “He seems nice, but he has too many tattoos, dear.”
I grin. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts, though, isn’t it, Ma?”
She purses her lips, but admits, “I suppose you’re right about that. He’s a good man, then, Michaela?”
I nod, surprised to find myself defending him. “Yes, Ma, I believe he might be.”
She nods in return. “It’s the sinners who need our help most of all.”
“We’re all sinners, aren’t we, Ma?”
“Yes, Michaela. That we are.”
Nineteen
Sly—
We load up and Michaela carries the list of addresses, directing me to one of our destinations. A few minutes later, I pull up to the first home. It’s a rundown clapboard house on the edge of town. Empty beer cans lie abandoned in the yard.
I park at the curb, eyeing the place, hating to think of Michaela and her brother doing this alone if I hadn’t offered to come along. “Ever been to this house before?”
“No, this is a new family.”
We climb out.
She double-checks the list. “The Carsons have two children.”
I grab the box of food, and Michaela and Ryan grab the bags with the Easter baskets hidden inside. We approach the door, and I balance the box on my hip while Michaela knocks.
A boy of about eight answers the door. He’s skinny and dirty, but his eyes light up when he sees the box of food I hold.
“Hello there,” Michaela greets the child. “Is your mother or father home?”
The sound of boots approaching carries to us, and the boy cowers back.
A big, gruff-looking guy fills the doorway. His eyes sweep over us, and he barks, “We don’t take charity!”
I realize he’s about to slam the door in Michaela’s face. Oh, hell no. I ram my shoulder to the door, stopping him. My gaze darts from the man’s surprised eyes to the hopeful ones of his son, and something trips inside me. That poor kid is stuck in this desperate family at the mercy of this man, wanting nothing as badly as the gifts we’re bringing. I want that kid to have this food and the Easter basket, and I’m not about to let his jerk of a father keep him from getting this gift.
I meet the father’s eyes. “This isn’t charity, it’s a gift.”
“We don’t need it.”
“Look, man. Don’t make your family suffer for your ego. Take it.”
He storms past me, jumps in an old car, and barrels back out of the driveway. When he’s gone, a tired and worn-out woman with a baby on her hip comes to the door.
“I’m sorry about my husband. Clyde’s been out of work for a while. He’s pretty touchy about handouts.”
Michaela holds out one of the bags. “For tomorrow morning when the Easter bunny comes.”
The woman takes it, feeling through the bag for what’s inside, and nods as her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.”
I carry the box into the house and set it on the kitchen table for her.
Ryan carries another bag.
Michaela hands the woman a greeting card in an envelope. I know there’s a gift card for the grocery store inside. She wishes them all a Happy Easter, and we pile back into my truck. As I pull from the curb, I see the little boy in the window waving to us.
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
We drive to the next house. This one’s a mile farther out of town. I turn onto the gravel drive and up to an old single-wide trailer. Clothes hang out on a line, flapping in the breeze. Although it’s just a trailer, the place is neat and kept with no trash or rusted broken items lying in the yard.
I climb out and lift a box from the bed of the truck. “How many kids?”
Michaela checks the list. “Maria Gonzalez is a single mother with three children.”
We walk up the wooden stairs, crowd together on the landing, and I rap on the metal door. A boy of about six opens it.
Michaela bends down, smiling. “Hello, is your mother here?”
His eyes are big as he turns and excitedly calls for her.
A short, round woman comes to the door, wiping her hands on an apron. She’s smiling, but there’s confusion on her face. She begins speaking Spanish. I don’t understand a word, and I can tell Michaela doesn’t either.
The little boy acts as translator.
“She says ‘hello.’”
Michaela smiles. “Tell her this is a gift. Happy Easter.”
The boy translates for her, and then back again. “She says ‘this is a gift from God. Thank you.’”
An older brother, maybe ten, comes to the door, a toddler girl behind him. I hold up the box. “A gift.”
His eyes get big and he turns to his mother. “Madre, comida!”
She nods, tears running down her face. She wipes them with her apron. “Gracias! Gracias! Por favor, entra.”
She steps back and we go inside. I set the box down on the small table in the kitchen area.
The little boy is euphoric. He’s jumping around like it’s Christmas morning. Then he flings himself at me, clutching my legs as I try to leave. He won’t let go of my leg. It’s like I’m Santa Claus and he doesn’t want me to go.
Michaela hands the woman the envelope and gives her a peek at what’s inside the black bags. The woman nods, understanding, and hustles them back to probably a closet or bedroom to hide them.
I grin. I doubt those bags last an hour before the boys find them and tear into them. That’s okay. They’re happy, and that’s what matters.
We head outside and pile into the truck. As I back up and head down the gravel drive, I glance in my rearview mirror. The mother is on the porch, crying and smiling, waving us off.
I turn out onto the blacktop highway and run a hand down my face. Relatively speaking, it was not an excessive gift, but to those boys and that woman, it meant everything. This experience is touching shit deep inside me that I haven’t felt in years, and I know I’m not going to forget it for a long time, maybe never.
Twenty