Never Again – 16

 

It was late the following morning when Jennifer got back to Joseph to tell him he had an appointment with a man named Calvin Gilbert at three o'clock.

"He heads an organization called Rebuild NOLA."

Joseph cocked an eyebrow, saying, "That sounds like a construction company, not a group that helps the homeless."

"That's what I said when I interviewed him. He somewhat snarkily told me rebuilding a city involved all its citizens, including those who had no place to go home to. He'd made it his mission to solve the problem."

"Hmm. I remember seeing the organization mentioned in your files for your story but not his name."

"I know. He's very… how shall I put it? Reclusive? As far as he's concerned, and he made this very clear to me, what his organization does is what's important, not the people involved in it, including himself. I was lucky to even get him to talk to me."

"And yet you managed to get me an appointment."

"I think"—she laughed—"I might have mentioned you had money and were interested in investing it in the organization if it met your criteria."

"Gee, thanks. Now he's going to think I'm some dilettante with nothing better to do than spend my time looking for good causes."

"Hey, whatever works. At least he is willing to talk to you."

"Good point. Thank you, Jennifer." When he asked, she gave him the address where he was to meet Mr. Gilbert and they hung up.

* * * *

At two-fifty-five that afternoon Joseph was standing across the street from an obviously rebuilt house on the edge of the Lower Ninth Ward. It was surrounded by its less fortunate neighbors and areas where nature had taken over, filling vacant lots with weeds, some standing a tall as a man's head, others covering the ruined structures with clinging vines. He wondered what sort of things lived in the weeds, what sort of trash was buried beneath them, and he decided he didn't really want to know when it came right down to it.

A sign on the front door of the house announced Rebuild NOLA in plain lettering. No logo, nothing but the two words. Joseph cocked an eyebrow at that when he rang the bell. He heard footsteps then the door swung open.

The man standing there was about two inches taller than Joseph's five-eleven. He had short, almost military-cut dark hair, and piercing dark blue eyes. The black tee shirt he was wearing emphasized his muscular torso.

"Mr. Gilbert?" When the man nodded sharply, Joseph held out his hand. "I'm Joseph Moncure. I have an appointment."

For a second, Joseph thought the man would ignore his outstretched hand. He didn't. Shaking it briefly, he gave a quick jerk of his head to indicate Joseph could come inside. "I'm Calvin but I prefer Cal. If you'll follow me, we'll go into my office to talk."

The office was utilitarian at best with a large metal desk in the center, two armless straight-backed chairs facing it on one side and a somewhat more comfortable-looking wheeled executive chair on the other. One wall was lined with tall, steel file cabinets, the second held a large window covered by Venetian blinds. On the wall opposite the file cabinets, there was a low metal table with a coffee-maker and a few unmatched cups. Above it hung several framed documents. From where he was now seated, Joseph thought they were awards and perhaps graduation certificates.

"How may I help you?" Cal asked, lacing his fingers, as he stared at Joseph.

"To begin with, I want to know exactly what it is you're doing to help the city's homeless. I also need to know more about the problem itself. It's one thing to read about it or listen to news reports. It's another to talk face-to-face with someone who's intimately involved."

Cal shook his head. "Do you always talk like a lecturing professor, Mr. Moncure?"

Joseph winced. "Not usually, I hope. And call me Joe, if you would."

Getting to his feet, Cal crossed to one of the file cabinets, took out a thick folder, and came back, setting it down in front of Joseph. "This should tell you all you need to know about my organization, Joe."

"Can't you tell me?"

"I could, but I have better things to do than spend time talking about it when all the information is right there in front of you."

"I think," Joseph replied, feeling anger rising, "you need to find someone to talk to potential donors who is a bit more courteous."

Cal gave him a brief smile. "I let my work speak for me." He leaned forward to tap the folder. "It's all in there, as I said. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do." He stood, obviously waiting for Joseph to do likewise so he could escort him out of the office.

"Go ahead and do them." Joseph got up, but only long enough to take off his suit coat and hang it over the back of the chair. Then he sat, rolled up his sleeves, and opened the folder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Cal barked out.

Joseph looked up at him, biting back a small grin. "What you said, reading the information."

"I meant…"

"I know what you meant, but I'm not that easily gotten rid of. I came here to learn about your organization and perhaps, if I agree with what it's all about, to lend a hand."

"Meaning you'll toss a small donation our way," Cal growled, sitting down again looking sourly at Joseph.

"Partially," Joseph agreed with a nod, not taking his eyes off Cal. "However it takes more than money to help people who need help but might not want it or be willing to accept it."

Cal leaned back, hands behind his head as he stared at Joseph. "Somehow I don't see you as the hands-on type."

"Why?" Joseph asked, genuinely curious.

"For starters, you're wearing a suit which probably cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars. Secondly, your nails are well manicured. Third, I'd be willing to bet you visit your barber at least once a week to keep your beard and mustache so well trimmed. I'd also bet you live in, hmm, Lake Terrace or Lake Oaks. You're a wealthy man, Joe, and your kind doesn't do hands-on."

Joseph laughed. "Don't judge the book by the cover. If I were to do that with you, I'd say…" He tapped his fingers together. "You're ex-military, work out, dress for comfort no matter what, probably not married since you're not wearing a ring. You might have anger-management issues. If so, you've learned to control them but only if you aren't pushed too hard."

Cal frowned as Joseph talked. It had deepened by the time he was finished. Still, there was a small smile on his face when he said, "You pretty well nailed it, other than the working out. I don't have to. I spend at least part of every day at a site, working with the crews rebuilding houses here in the Lower Ninth to make them habitable again for families who need them." He chuckled low. "Now how close was I about you?"

"Pretty much on target, although I don't go to the barber that often. I do know how to wield scissors and clippers. And"—he smiled slightly—"I live in the Garden District."

"So like I said, wealthy."

Joseph shrugged. "I won't deny it but it doesn't mean I'm one of the idle rich. I've spent my whole life working…"

"Doing what?" Cal interrupted.

"You didn't do your homework when Jennifer set up this appointment?"

"Okay, yeah, I sort of slacked on that part. She mentioned you used to be her boss and I didn't take it any further." Again he studied Joseph. "Your whole life is what, thirty years, and at least twenty of them you had to be just growing up. So you've been working for ten years give or take. If you were her boss then you've been sitting on your butt running that news site. Hardly hard labor."

"True, but I still bet I could match you move for move, working on one the houses you're rebuilding." Joseph knew he probably shouldn't have sent out the challenge but Cal's attitude was getting to him. All he wanted was to do something positive to help the homeless and the man was acting as if he didn't have the right to care about them.

"You're on," Cal replied with a smirk. "Meet me here tomorrow morning, dressed in something other than a thousand dollar suit. And be prepared to lose that great manicure, Mr. Moncure."

"What time?" Joseph asked as he stood, picking up the folder and slinging his suit jacket over his shoulder.

"Seven, on the dot. I'm not waiting for you."

"Deal."

* * * *

"Open mouth, insert foot," Joseph muttered under his breath when he walked away from Rebuild NOLA and Cal Gilbert. On the other hand, I can keep up with whatever he wants me to do. That's no problem. I'll show him you don't have to be built like a heavyweight boxer to do hard labor. He laughed aloud, immediately wondering if the men sitting on the stoop of a partially rebuilt house he was passing thought he was crazy. He noted the familiar 'X', faded but still visible on the wall beside the front door. If anything, they probably think I'm just another do-gooder or a wandering tourist checking out the damage Katrina wrought.

He continued on his way, passing a small cluster of eco-friendly houses that he recalled had been paid for by some actor. Good, as far as it goes, he thought. But the area needs a hell of a lot more.

Nearing his car, he saw one house still in total disrepair. As he passed it, he saw the tall weeds move then two people inched their way along the side of the house toward the back. One had a large, very battered backpack. The other carried a bedroll slung over one shoulder. Both were dressed in layers of well-used clothing.

So what I read was right, the homeless are taking over at least some of the abandoned houses. Not that he'd doubted it, but now he had the visual proof.

He wondered if he should inform someone. But who? And what good would it do? They'd probably, at best, roust them out of there and they'd just move on to another place. God knows there are still enough derelict houses around here, despite the efforts of the government and the do-gooders. Of which I'm one, he thought with a soft chuckle.

As he drove away, he noted a beauty salon, repainted and open for business, although there didn't seem to be anyone inside other than two women he figured were the owners or employees since neither was working on the other's hair. At the corner of the same block he saw a bar with a few people sitting outside, chatting, smoking, and drinking. That seems to be it for neighborhood businesses, at least right around here. And how many of them—he glanced back at the men through his rearview mirror—are homeless too?

Never Again – 15

 

"Thought you were rid of me, didn't you," Joseph said with a smile when Beth looked up at him in surprise.

"I would certainly hope not." She waved the contract at him. "I didn't… I wasn't certain you really meant what you said." Jumping up, she crossed her office to hug him. "Thank you!"

"You're most welcome and you know it."

"So what brings you back already? Did you realize you can't live without us?"

"If I said yes would you believe me?" When she shook her head, he laughed. "You're right. I can on the day-to-day level. But I need to do some research and I thought I'd start by picking Jennifer's brain, if she's around."

"I think she's down the hall in the Features office. What are you looking for?"

"She did a story six months ago, if I'm remembering right, about the homeless problem in the city."

"She did." Beth smiled knowingly. "Are you taking my words to heart about finding some wrong to right?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps. Time will tell."

"Then go talk to her. I'm sure she's got all her research stashed somewhere."

Joseph found out a few minutes later 'somewhere' turned out to be a huge file stored on her computer. Once he explained why he wanted to see it, Jennifer offered to send it to him so he could read it at his leisure at home. He thanked her, asking for a copy of her article as well, which she immediately attached to the email.

"I think you're going to be shocked at the severity of the problem," she told him. "New Orleans has the second highest rate of homeless people in the nation."

"Seriously?"

She nodded. "Very seriously I'm afraid. You don't notice it here as much as in some cities because a great many of the people live in abandoned buildings, and there are still too many of those even with the rebuilding since Katrina."

"I honestly had no idea," he replied, shaking his head.

"Most people don't. They only see the problem when there's a possibility it could impact the tourist trade."

Joseph's mouth tightened. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Because you know how people are," she told him, her voice filled with disgust as she added, "If it hits them in the pocketbook, then they pay attention."

"Too true, and it's always been that way. Well, I should leave you to whatever you were doing. Thank you for your help."

"Anytime, Joe, and if you have any questions once you've read everything, call me. If I don't have the answers I probably can point you to someone who does."

* * * *

Two days later Joseph had read every bit of the information in Jennifer's files several times over. While the statistics appalled him, it was the interviews she'd done with the homeless that struck home—with men and women who had lost jobs and families because of the current economic situation—with kids who had been thrown away because they didn't conform to their parent's views on how they should act—with veterans returning home from their tours of duty to find the system had betrayed them, especially those who suffered from PTSD. That disorder was just barely beginning to be recognized as a real problem by the VA. Some of the men suffering from it had lost their families who couldn't cope with the men's symptoms, and their jobs. Those men ended up on the streets, resorting to alcohol and drugs to try to relieve their stress.

Some of the homeless had migrated down from the northern states, thinking at least in the warmer climate things might be easier because sleeping on the streets might not be as deadly come winter.

According to one group trying to help the homeless as best they could, sixty percent suffered from mental illness and twenty-five percent of those had some sort of developmental disability. On any given night, five thousand people slept unsheltered—and that was just in New Orleans.

There has to be something that can be done to help them. Joseph closed the file yet again, staring up at the ornate ceiling of his study. He shook his head in disgust. Look at me. One man, living in a home large enough to easily house a family of five, while hundreds, thousands, have only the roof of a derelict building to keep off the rain and sun. Something has to be done. I have to do something. No matter how small the effect, at least I can do something.

Opening his phone, he called Jennifer. When she answered he said, "Put me in contact with someone who knows about the needs of the homeless. Someone who cares."

She was silent for a moment and he wondered if she knew it was him. Then she said, "I know the perfect man, Joe. Let me get in touch with him and if he's willing, I'll set up an appointment."

Never Again – 14

 

Early the next day Joseph paid a visit to his lawyers to set up the transfer of his business to Brian and Beth. It took most of the morning to work out the details but in the end there was an ironclad contract that the lawyers would send to the Craigs for their signatures. With that accomplished, Joseph felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

I'm a man of leisure, probably for the first time in my life, he thought with a small smile as he stood outside the building, wondering what to do next. Lunch, I think. Somewhere special to celebrate my new-found freedom.

Using his phone, he discovered he was just three blocks from a place that BEN's restaurant critic had given a five-star rating. Taking off his suit coat for the moment, he slung it over his shoulder and started walking.

"They're even here," he murmured minutes later when he spied a pair of homeless men, one barely eighteen, if he didn't miss his guess, the other a few years older. They were squatting on a tattered blanket at an alley entrance, an upturned cap sitting in front of them. Joseph wondered if they chose that location so they could escape down the alley if the cops tried to roust them. As he passed, he dug into his pocket, coming up with a handful of change that he dropped into the cap.

A block later, as he neared the restaurant, he saw a woman pushing an over-flowing shopping cart. Even in the mid-day heat, she was bundled up in a ragged coat. In the cart, on top of what he was certain were all of her worldly possessions, sat a cat. When the woman saw him looking at her, she ducked her head and moved faster, heading, he thought, toward the riverfront. He quickened his pace, taking out his wallet as he did, extracting a couple of dollars. When he came up beside her, he handed them to her.

"Thank you, sir," she said in a gravelly voice, quickly stuffing the bills inside her coat.

Impulsively he asked, "Do you have somewhere safe to stay at night?"

He was surprised when she actually replied. "You're kidding, right? There's places, yeah, but they all fill up too quick, and they ain't all that safe, anyways."

"Surely they're still better than… than under a bridge or in an alley?"

She snorted derisively. "Check them out; you'll see." With that, she continued on her way. The cat looked back at him for an instant, snarled, and returned to what it had been doing, snoozing on top of a tattered blanket.

A few minutes later, while he waited by the restaurant's hostess-stand to be seated, Joseph thought about what the woman has said. He wondered if it was the truth. Were the shelters really so unsafe that a woman would prefer taking her chances on the streets at night. And what about the men who lived under the bridges, did they feel the same way?

Perhaps… He rapped a knuckle against his lip. Maybe I should at least check it out? Not that there's much I could do even if it was the truth, other than donate to one of the shelters, one where the people seem to care. And I'm being cynical. Why work at a shelter if you don't care?

His musings were interrupted by the hostess telling him his table was ready. Shelving his thoughts for the moment, he followed her.

 

Never Again – 13

 

Joseph ended up calling Beth to accompany him on his run. She'd sounded surprised but readily agreed. Once they were in the Bayou Sauvage Wildlife Refuge, he pulled the car off to the side of the road at a spot where he knew it wouldn't be bothered. Then, after crossing to Blind Lagoon, he and Beth stashed their clothes at the foot of an ancient cypress tree, shifted and ran.

Darkness covered them when they raced through the hardwood forest and splashed through the marshes. They were tempted by the deer and resisted, not wanting anyone to know there had been wolves in the area. An alligator took exception to their presence in his part of a small lagoon. They teased him and avoided his snapping jaws.

Eventually they tired and returned to where they'd begun, shifting and dressing. Joseph, unwilling to leave quite yet, settled down with his back against the tree trunk, staring off over the bayou.

"Feeling better now?" Beth asked, sitting down beside him.

"Yes, thank you." He turned to smile at her. "Can I take it you asked because I've been a bit snappish, as your mother used to call it?"

"Not horribly so, but sort of leaning in that direction. Between that and your sudden decision to turn BEN over to me and Brian then inviting me to come with you…" She patted his arm. "I know something's really bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?"

"If I knew what it was, I would." He stroked his short, well-trimmed beard pensively. "I'm… restless and feeling pretty useless right now. It's like I've just been treading water for the last year or so, wondering why my life seems, well, not empty but void of any real meaning."

"I'll avoid the obvious since you don't want to hear it. Other than that, when you get right down to it, you've been doing the same type of work for over a hundred and fifty years—and doing it well. Now there's no challenge in it for you, which probably isn't too surprising. So my advice is, find something totally different."

Joseph nodded, chuckling softly. "I could try my hand at digging ditches."

Beth snorted. "That's not what I meant and you know it. There has to be something that excites you—some wrong you'd like to right, some place you've always wanted to explore. Find that thing or that place and you might also find what you're looking for."

"Sanity?" he replied with a small smile.

"Uncle Joe, you're the sanest man I know other than Brian. And him I'm not so sure about. After all, he married me, even knowing what I am."

"You were lucky to find him, Beth. It's the rare human who understands." He bowed his head, digging his nails into the palms of his hands in hopes the physical pain might alleviate the emotional agony he still felt to this day whenever he thought about what he'd lost.

Beth put her arm around his shoulders, hugging him. "If you would just give yourself another chance," she murmured.

"I can't. I won't. Never again. And if that makes me sound weak, so be it."

"Not weak, just human. Well," she amended with a smile, "human in your emotions. And there is nothing wrong with that."

Lifting his head, he kissed her cheek. "I think it's time we got back before Brian thinks some hunter's done his worst."

"He knows better than that but I agree. It's late and as usual I have to be up at the crack of dawn if we're going to put the most recent news up on the site in a timely fashion."

Getting to his feet, Joseph offered his hand to help her up. "Thank you, for coming with me and for listening."

"Always. You're my family—my only blood family—and I love you."

"And I love you, my dear." He smiled down at her. "You have no idea how much you remind me of your mother."

Beth laughed. "Yeah, I do and I know why, because I don't cut you any slack, just like her."

"Exactly."

Never Again – 12

 

Joseph hadn't been lying to Beth when he said he had no intention of finding someone to share his life. He'd had someone once—and lost him. Even after all these years, he had never forgotten the debilitating pain he'd felt when he learned of Rawleigh's death.

He had never allowed himself to love anyone before he met Rawleigh. Of course, when it came down to it, he hadn't had much choice. He was a rarity, a shifter, and there were few enough of those as it was. He was also gay, so perpetuating the family line was not an option. With Rawleigh, against all common sense, he had let his heart rule his mind and fallen deeply in love—with a human.

"Never again," he had vowed after Rawleigh's death. He'd kept the vow, locking his heart away and living his life alone.

Enough, he chastised himself as he left the BEN offices and headed out into the sweltering heat of mid-afternoon New Orleans. I have better things to do than relive the past.

As he walked the half block to where he'd parked his car he paused, looking across the street at a small group of homeless people huddled together in the shade under the Pontchartrain Expressway. They, or at least people like them, seemed to be there every day.

Trying to find somewhere at least minimally cooler than the sidewalks, I suppose. Better them than me. And that was a particularly self-indulgent thought.

He remembered it twenty minutes later as he pulled into the driveway of his Garden District home. For whatever reason, probably because he'd seen the first ones, it seemed as if there were homeless people everywhere, alone or together in groups of two or more.

"When did this become such a problem?" He murmured when he stepped into the cool confines of his marble entryway. "How have I not seen it before? Because," he answered himself dryly, "I wander around with blinders on if it doesn't have to do with work."

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, for the moment at least, he went into the kitchen to find something to fix for an early supper. He found what he needed, setting the makings on the marble counter in the center of the kitchen then putting together two large meat and cheese sandwiches with all the trimmings. Taking them and a cold bottle of beer, he headed out to the backyard where he sat down on the low, brick wall surrounding a small pond filled with koi, dropping bits of bread to them while he ate.

"So, my good fellows," he said, tossing the koi the last scraps of his meal, "just what do you think I should do next with my life?"

The fish, of course, didn't answer but then he hadn't expected them to. He had found, however, that using them as a sounding board sometimes helped him focus on what was bothering him. But unfortunately not this evening. So he went back inside, cleaned up his dishes, and debated what to do next. It wasn't really too much of a decision. He hadn't been out of the city for two weeks. He needed to go to his usual spot and run. He hoped it would clear his mind.