Page 38 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Please.”
“No problem. And, Katy?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet you’re a crackerjack on sand.”
“A lot of good that’ll do me with this creep.”
“What creep?”
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She disconnected.
What the hell? Katy was never this fragile. I couldn’t imagine my daughter spooked about driving on ice. And who was the “creep”?
Uneasy, I secured the body, grabbed my things from my office, and set out.
9
In 2019, the Urban Ministry and the Men’s Shelter of Charlotte merged to form Roof Above, an organization offering shelter and aid to single adult males.
The original facilities stand within a stone’s throw of each other. Well, a small stone. Both are on the wrong side of a beltway circling uptown. Neither will ever appear in a Christie’s luxury real estate spread.
Katy had been assigned to the facility on N. College Street. Driving to it, my emotions went aerial, rising and falling like a kite on a summer wind. It was dark. And cold. And snowing hard.
Lights glowed in apartment and condo windows I passed on the way. TVs flickered blue. I envied the occupants their cozy domesticity, wished I could go home and shed my dirty scrubs. Share defrosted beef stew with Birdie. Sleep.
I dreaded facing Katy’s prickliness. Where would her moodiness take her tonight? I worried that her irritability was symptomatic of something more serious.
My thoughts pinballed. Frustration over the “dead dude.” Concern for my daughter. Annoyance at having to venture into a sketchypart of town at night. Didn’t taxis operate in blizzards? I thought so. Anyway, it wasn’t a good mix.
I arrived at the shelter a half hour after leaving the MCME. Twice the time it normally took. Despite the snow, business was booming. Perhaps because of it.
Men in baseball caps and ratty jackets lingered on the walks or leaned against the building’s high stone foundation. A few talked, some to others, some to themselves. Many stood with shoulders hunched, hands thrust deep into their pockets. Most smoked.
Katy was waiting just inside the door. A dozen eyes watched her hurry to the curb and climb into my car.
“Have you ever thought of dumping this heap?” she asked, buckling her seat belt with unsteady hands.
“All the time,” I said.
“Does this car have snow tires?”
“What do you think?”
I could sense Katy trying to control her breathing. For a very long moment she said nothing.
On a bench up a small hill on the shelter’s grounds an old man arranged a bundle and dropped onto it, one hand cupping the stub of a cigarette clamped in his lips. I watched his smoke drift up and dissolve among the flakes.
The silence in the car was deep enough to drill for oil.
“Good first day?” I asked to break it.
“Good enough. Let’s get out of here.”
The tires crunched softly as I turned onto Twelfth Street and began wending my way toward Elizabeth, hands white knuckling the wheel, speed topping out at a blistering twenty mph. The snow was giving the wipers a run for their money.
