3. Quake
QUAKE
The office feels different today.
I’ve been coming to Sacred Haven for years.
At first, my visits stemmed from a drive I’ve carried since I was a kid.
Over time, my reasons evolved, became deeper, and were driven by an intense belief that I had to balance the scales between good and evil, or at least do my part.
It also doesn’t hurt that the club is heavily involved in giving back to the community.
Hell, our civic engagement is how Whiz met Zoey.
Normally, walking through the front door is familiar, standing in this space is part of a routine I’ve developed over the years. Coming here has always brought me a level of comfort that nothing else has. But today?
Today, I’m aware of more than the space, more than my motives, routine, and comfort. And it has everything to do with the nun who sent a jolt of lightning through my system with a simple handshake.
Motherfucker.
“Mr. Jeffries?”
The sound of my legal name snaps me back to the conversation at hand. “Yeah?”
“Not that we’re not grateful for your presence,” Sister Beatrice begins. “But was there a reason you stopped by?”
“I, uh, yeah,” I stammer. “Lyric said you called about needing help.”
She smiles. “Yes, I did. Yesterday.”
“Right. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but we were celebrating.”
“No need to apologize,” she assures me. “I simply meant that you could’ve called rather than come all the way here.”
“I was in the area,” I say with a shrug.
“Well, thank you, we appreciate it.”
I barely manage to contain a grimace, uncomfortable with the gratitude. If someone needs help, you show up to help them, and you definitely don’t fucking do it to hear ‘thank you’.
Before I can say just that, Sister Beatrice moves to sit in the chair behind her desk.
She gestures to the seat across from her, but I don’t take it.
Not only would it be rude when Sister Emiliani remains standing, but it would also put me in a vulnerable position.
Standing allows me to stay alert and keeps my surroundings visible.
Sister Beatrice’s expression shifts to one of concern, and that gets my attention.
“You’ve arrived at a good time,” she states, folding her hands on top of her desk.
“Why’s that?” I ask, trying not to jump to conclusions.
The nuns exchange a look, and it’s the younger nun who answers. “The truth is, we’re struggling.”
Her voice is smooth, breathy, and more than a little arousing.
Pull it together, man. She’s a nun!
In an effort to compose myself, I stare out the window for a few seconds. Some of the kids are outside for recess. Two little boys are racing toward the swingset while a girl no more than twelve or thirteen leans against a tree with her nose in a book.
“How bad?” I finally ask.
The older nun sighs, and there’s a weight in the exhaled breath that I haven’t heard from her before.
“We’ve taken in six new placements in the last month,” she says.
I wish I could say the number surprises me, but it doesn’t. As long as humans exist, there will always be parents who don’t give two shits about their children and children who just need a place to lay their heads at night.
“More children means more expenses,” she says unnecessarily.
Sister Emiliani steps closer to me. “We’ve managed so far,” she says, pride in her tone. “But—”
“There’s nothing left to manage,” I growl, unable to keep the disdain from my words.
“We’ve done the best we can,” Sister Emiliani says defensively.
I heave a sigh and face her, forcing my expression to soften. “I don’t fuckin’ doubt it.” Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What do you need?”
“To start, school supplies,” Sister Beatrice says.
“Backpacks, pencils, notebooks, calculators…” Sister Emiliani extends a finger with each new item she lists.
“Most of the children come to us with little to no supplies. Some are able to continue in the school they’re enrolled in, but others are no longer in the right district, so we homeschool them here. ”
“I’m aware,” I say, letting her know that she doesn’t have to explain. “How many children are you currently homeschooling?”
“Eight,” she replies. “It should be nine, but one of the newest arrivals is having a hard time acclimating.”
“We also need clothing,” Sister Beatrice adds, pulling the conversation back.
“Clothing?”
“Yes,” Sister Emiliani confirms, her eyes darting to the children playing outside. “Some come with nothing, and others come with clothes that don’t even fit.”
Her words hit me harder than they should. The idea that kids arrive here with nothing isn’t a foreign concept. Unfortunately, it’s all too common. That doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.
“We’re also running low on toiletries,” she says. “Shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, soap, toothpaste and toothbrushes… all the things that the social workers don’t even consider.”
“I know you’ve helped in the past, and our last fundraiser wasn’t all that long ago, but when you’re providing for so many children, things disappear quickly.”
Silence surrounds us, and I take the time to look around the office. No matter how many times I set foot in here, I’m always amazed at what the sisters running this place are able to do with very little.
Drawings and photos line the walls, a shrine to every child who spends any time here. The furniture is sparse, worn from decades of use, and yet, it’s homey, cozy.
“We’ll make do,” Sister Emiliani says, no doubt reacting to the stretched silence.
“No, you won’t,” I snap, and again, my words are harsher than I intend. “I believe you can make do, Sister, but you shouldn’t have to.”
“Which is why I called you,” Sister Beatrice states matter-of-factly. “For whatever reason, you care about the children who come through our doors, probably just as much as we do in your own way.”
“You know my reasons,” I remind her because she’s one person I’ve always been honest with about my motives.
“And they’re not my story to share,” she quips.
“No, I don’t guess they are,” I agree, shoving a hand through my hair. “Tell me exactly what you want from me. Gimme a number.”
“A number?” Sister Emiliani queries.
“I was hoping the two of you could work together to come up with a longer-term solution,” Sister Beatrice says, rising to her feet. “Monetary donations are always welcome and appreciated, however, funds run out, putting us right where we are now.”
“The two of us?” I ask, simultaneously hoping I heard her wrong and praying I heard her right.
“Yes,” she confirms. “Sister Emiliani has organized several successful fundraisers.” The younger of the two blushes at the praise. “And you have connections in the community.”
I laugh, amused by her description of the club. “Community connections, Sister?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I believe the two of you will work well together,” she says, walking toward the door. “I have other matters to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Right now?” I demand.
“Right now,” she confirms, and then she’s gone, leaving me with Sister Emiliani.