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precisely this place, precisely this program of providing food and clothing
under the interstate. Not everyone shared Maxine s vision, according to Roger
 some social workers saw Lost Sheep and other mission-type programs as
 enablers, crutches that made it easier for people to avoid getting jobs and
becoming self-supporting. But what jobs, I wondered, could some of these lost
and broken souls do?
Maxine handed over the microphone to a young man who  by his own account 
had been one of Knoxville s biggest drug dealers before finding God and
cleaning up his life. He was followed by a singer  a pretty young woman with
long brown hair, an acoustic guitar, and the sweet, simple voice of a
folksinger.  When the music fades, she sang,  I simply come longing to bring
something that s of worth, that will bless your heart. I wasn t sure how many
people were following the lyrics  most seemed more intent on what awaited
them at the food tables or the tables of men s and women s clothing and
over-the-counter medications  but perhaps the words weren t the most
important part of the message. I remembered the inscription on Jess s plaque
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at the Body Farm  WORK IS LOVE MADE VISIBLE  and I admired the compassion of
this army of volunteers, more than a hundred strong, even if they were
treating symptoms rather than curing the root causes of homelessness.
Almost as swiftly as it had begun, the service  and the services  came to an
end. Even as the final stragglers received their rations of stew and shoes and
aspirin, the furniture brigade began folding and storing the chairs and
tables. The plates of food had been picked clean by the five hundred people
who had converged on them, and the throng dispersed toward the shelters and
the bridges and the creek-side camps where they would lay their heads on this
particular night. One of the last to wander off, I noticed, was the twitching,
mumbling man I d seen near the head of the food line. As he shuffled toward
the trees flanking the railroad tracks, a man fell in beside him and took his
arm, stopping him for a brief conversation at the edge of the darkness.
It was one of the Lost Sheep volunteers, I realized, probably concerned for
the man s well-being. But it could just as easily have been Garland Hamilton
waylaying him  offering money to a down-at-the-heels alcoholic, who might
literally die for a drink.
THE SURREAL scene beneath I-40 was still vivid in my mind the next morning as
I studied skull fragments in the bone lab. When the phone rang, I ignored it,
intent on the oval of pieced-together temporal bone cradled in one hand and
the jagged shard clasped in a pair of tweezers. After half a dozen rings, the
phone fell silent, then began clamoring again. Glancing at the display, I saw
that it was Peggy, the one caller I couldn t ignore. I sighed, laying the
larger segment in the sand of the cake pan and the single piece back in the
tray with countless other bits.
 Hello, Peggy, I grumbled.
 Are we a tad grumpy this morning?
 We are, I said.  Sorry.
 There s a Lisa Wells on line one for you, said Peggy.
 Wells? That name didn t ring any bells.  Could you take a message? I ve got
my hands full at the moment.
A moment later the phone jangled again; Peggy again. I cursed under my breath
as I reached for it.  Now what?
 I m sorry, Dr. B., but Ms. Wells says it s important. She says she might know
a homeless man you re looking for.
 Oh, put her on, I said. A moment later the quiet background sounds of
Peggy s office were replaced by a cacophony of street noise in my left ear 
cars whizzing past, wheels thumping into potholes, a jackhammer off in the
telephonic distance somewhere.  Hello, I said,  is this Lisa with the
dimples?
 Excuse me? I wasn t sure whether she was taken aback or simply hadn t heard
me over the noise.
 Hello, this is Dr. Brockton, I said, a bit louder and more formally.  It
sounds busy there at the dayroom. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]