“But then the college I worked for changed. Every program had to not only pay its own way, but also make money for the university. Our adult learning program closed, leaving the students in a more desperate situation than they were in before, no credential, no way to pay back their loans.” It’s as far as I get before my eyes fill again.

  “From what Althea said, I’m guessing one killed herself?”

  I can’t speak, and after a moment, Bara says, “I’m sorry, Lucy.”

  We empty our plates in silence, and Bara goes to fetch two hot cups of tea.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good time, but Lucy, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  I raise my eyebrows and wait.

  “You know how a couple of times Fresh Start had private rooms come up, but you said no because I couldn’t stay there too?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You know what’s her name, on the main floor, got a unit in a housing co-op? She’s leaving.”

  “I still won’t take a room without you.”

  “Well, now that I’m going to school, Althea says I can get a shelter allowance.”

  “You know I’m on the waiting list for the housing co-op. What if I were to apply for a two-bedroom unit? We could share.”

  That little frown appears between her brows. “Actually, Lucy, I was thinking of an apartment of my own.”

  “You’re going to move out?” I hear my voice begin to rise.

  “Your probation will be over very soon, and you’re doing really well. You don’t need me.”

  “But you’ll be on your own. Who’ll look out for you?”

  “Cat.”

  I stop, pieces falling into place.

  “You’re moving in with Cat?”

  She nods, watching me closely.

  Damn. Well, maybe it’s time for me to think about an apartment again, if the co-op housing unit is going to take much longer. There’s something to talk to Judith about.

  “You’re both so young.”

  Bara grins. “We’ll be all right, Lucy. I’ll, like, visit you really often.”

  ***

  That evening I walk into the Fresh Start lounge, determined to start translating the file of Guatemalan adoption records I carry under my arm. Bara and Cat are there, their homework spread out on either side of a corner of the table, but they aren’t doing homework. They are, as we used to say, “billing and cooing.”

  I clear my throat, and they leap apart.

  Bara’s features settle quickly from shock to annoyance. “It’s you.”

  “Hi, Bara; Hi, Cat.”

  Cat nods, looking as annoyed as Bara does.

  I seat myself at the other end of the table. “So, I guess I see why you need a place of your own.”

  “Good.” Bara says, and sighs as the two of them settle back into their books.

  I should leave, but I am looking at Cat side-on and find myself studying her profile. It’s a large nose, curved slightly. Could you say it’s Mayan? Maybe. Crossed with something else. A Mayan nose is so distinctive.

  “Lucy.” Bara snaps at me.

  “Okay, okay.” I get up to go. Just before I leave the lounge, I add, “I know it’s hard to believe, but I was young once too.”

  Bet they go right back at it the moment I’m out of sight.

  ***

  There’s no one in the kitchen. I take a deep breath, pull out the files. I turn under the stapled corner of the top page, hiding the thin, sad baby in the little photo. I forgot the pad, but I’m determined to start. Working in pencil, I begin to jot English words between the lines.

  Why do I think of my baby as “she”? Because all babies start out female, and she didn’t have time to turn into a boy? I sometimes even think of her as Nicola.

  We were so young, and so in love. I used to wonder why moths fly into open flame. Why would God create such a powerful urge when it can lead to nothing but destruction? After Nicolás came into my life, I still didn’t know why, but I knew exactly what the moths were feeling.

  It hurt so much, aching to be near him when I was away from him, and then trying to behave as if nothing was going on when he was there, except when we were alone, which was so rare. Tiny things would make me melt: his long eyelashes, dirt in the creases of his knuckles. Surely, everyone could see me eating up my own heart. Surely, they could see it in his eyes too.

  We resisted for a long time. We should have parted never having touched, would have, I’m sure, if life hadn’t become so fragile and precious in that place and time.

  My chest hurts. Something swelling, trying to get out. A sob. I grab it, hold on. Won’t let it escape.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Judith and I have an appointment to talk about what I’m going to do after probation. Now that Bara is moving out of Fresh Start, I want to know where I am on the housing co-op waiting list and ask her for a letter for Project Witness. I sit in the waiting area, bracing myself to see Judith, and not an ever-shifting dance of books and papers in an upstairs study. A law student comes instead, hands me a message in Judith’s neat, fountain-pen cursive, asking me to come to Althea’s office.

  ***

  I falter when I see her there. She looks distracted and deadly serious, as does Althea. Is this about Judith’s basement? Have they found out?

  Then I see Patty, red-eyed and ashen.

  Judith sees me. “Lucy, there you are. Have you heard?”

  “Heard?” I step through the door.

  “Cindy’s in Burnside,” Althea tells me.

  “What?” My memories of the place shudder through me. “Picked up for communicating?”

  Tears spill down Patty’s cheeks, obviously just wiped dry from a previous flood. “She’s been off the street since we got the apartment and the kids back.”

  “Then what?”

  Althea answers. “She tried to steal a chicken from Sobeys.”

  Patty grabs another tissue from the box on Althea’s desk and blows her nose. Her voice, usually so deep and clear, has been reduced to a shaky whisper. “She had to get a prescription for Leo. We’ve been out of food money for over a week. Cindy talked about maybe going out on the street. ‘Just once,’ she said. That’s what happened last time she lost the kids. She went out ‘just once.’ ‘Just once’ for sneakers. ‘Just once’ to get them into hockey. ‘Just once’ for school books. I talked her out of it. There’s no ‘just once,’ and she knows it. We had some pasta and stuff set aside and got a bag from the food bank, but the boys were hungry.”

  “So she tried to take a chicken?” I say.

  Patty nods, miserable. “She didn’t think ahead or anything. She saw it and thought about the kids and how long it’s been since they’ve had meat.”

  “Was a store detective watching?” Althea asks. It was she who taught me, a long time ago, about how store detectives follow Black people.

  Patty shook her head no. “Didn’t need a store detective. She had her wool skirt on. It’s full, you know? She put the chicken between her thighs.”

  “Ooooo,” Althea winces.

  “Yeah. It froze her thighs. They were all red and swollen. Couldn’t feel if she was hanging on to the chicken or not. As she tried to walk out the door, it fell on the floor.”

  “And they put her in jail for that?” Althea’s eyebrows shoot up. “What’s a skinny Sobeys chicken worth? Twelve dollars?” Patty reaches for another tissue. Althea pushes the box closer.

  “I think Sobeys wants to make an example of her,” Judith says. “Stores sometimes do that, and in this case it’s a bit easier for them because of her record.”

  “Bail?” I ask.

  “The judge set it high. She hasn’t turned up in court a few times when she should have.”

  “Are you going to defend her?” I ask.

  “Of course, though there is no real defence. They caught her red handed.”

  I catch a glint in Althea’s eyes, and guess she’s thinking what I just thought: red-thighed.

  “Cindy wants to make a moral point. We will to go to court and the media and argue that the chicken is a little thing to Sobeys, but a huge thing to her boys. The scales of justice are being asked to weigh the lives, health and future of two young human beings against a couple of dollars of profit for a national grocery chain. We are thinking we could calculate the profit on the chicken as a proportion of Sobeys annual income and Cindy’s, get Cindy on the stand to talk about what they can afford to eat, what happens when there is a special expense like winter boots or a prescription, ask the boys to testify about how tired they are at school, how often they’re home because they’re sick. What do you think, Lucy?”

  Althea is nodding in agreement and Patty’s big moist eyes are on me. “What a brave woman she is,” I say, and Patty’s eyes start to flow again.

  “We’ll plead guilty and get her out. There will be a fine, but I’ll keep it as low as possible. I’ll make all the points I can about poverty. There are good ‘whereas’ points about the mandate of the Employment Support and Income Assistance Act and the Human Rights Act.”

  “And her kids?” says Patty. “Will she get them back?”

  I close my eyes a moment. Those kids are the most important thing in Cindy’s life.

  “As soon as we get her out,” Judith says, “we’ll go to work on that.”

  ***

  Althea offers to care for Patty’s boys, so she can go with Judith out to the jail. Patty turns to me. “Come with us.”

  “You need your time with her.” My heart is beating too fast.

  “Cindy thinks the world of you, Lucy. She’ll want to see you, and she’ll be happy you’re helping with this.”

  Judith is watching with those clear, direct eyes of hers. She knows how I feel about Burnside. I give her a little nod.

  Althea folds Patty into the nest of her strong arms and holds her like a small child. Patty breaks into tears again. I get a giant Althea hug too. Her soft bosom always seems to say, “I’m the Mother of the World and everything will come out fine.”

  ***

  On the way out to the industrial park where the jail is, Patty rides in the front seat. From my spot in the back of the tiny car, I can see Judith’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. They seem larger. Has she lost weight? I try to remember. I think she has. Maybe she should be eating something more than yoghurt. Or maybe someone else is eating her yoghurt.

  ***

  Judith presses the button on the intercom, says who she is. We stand in front of the big glass doors waiting for a guard to let us in. I’m shivering, and it’s not the wind blowing across the desert of the industrial park. “I’ve changed my mind,” I tell them. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Judith’s eyes fill with sympathy. She’ll release me, but Patty speaks first. “Please, Lucy. For Cindy’s sake.”

  My heart and my lungs are both making noise, like someone drumming in a big, hollow cave. I picture a big hand pushing down my panic. It looks like roiling black water, or sludge maybe, sewage. I take a deep breath, stay with them.

  Click of the guard’s key in the lock. Excuse me, “correctional officer.” We step into a small lobby almost filled by a metal detector. More locked doors. A receptionist behind what looks like bulletproof glass, a little slot to pass things through, Judith’s ID, Patty’s driver’s licence. I don’t have anything. Judith has to vouch for me, sign me in.

  Another officer comes to get Judith. He unlocks the door under the sign that says, “Professional Visitors.” “Wait here,” he says to Patty and me.

  Judith disappears. There is a click as the guard locks the door behind her. Hearing my deliberately slow, deep breathing, Patty looks at me with concern, takes my arm as I lower myself onto the cold plastic. That proud eagle feather tattoo on her wrist. I touch it, smile. She smiles back. Both smiles brief.

  I read the visitors’ rules, slowly: “Purses, knapsacks and bags must be placed in locker before entering visiting room, including keys, money and cell phones. If metal detector is triggered, the visitor will be subject to a manual search. Visits are limited to fifteen minutes. Do not try to touch the prisoner or pass anything to the prisoner. Conversations with prisoners will be monitored. Any visitor who does not co-operate with these rules will not be allowed to visit.” Visitor. I’m just a visitor. I can leave anytime I want. It helps, for a while.

  Judith returns with a guard at her elbow, a woman. I recognize her. Rhoda? Rhonda? She knows me too. She stares but doesn’t say anything.

  “They’ll give you each fifteen minutes with Cindy,” Judith says.

  “I’ll give my time to Patty,” I offer.

  “No, she wants to see you too.”

  “Five minutes, then. Can I give the rest to Patty?”

  The guard gives a single nod and watches with a stony, suspicious face as I struggle to my feet.

  ***

  Cindy just cries and cries, her nose running into the telephone on her side of the glass. “I know you know what it’s like in here,” she says. “Pray for me?”

  “I could get myself back in, keep you company.”

  That gets a smile, but then she says, “The boys are back in foster care” and starts weeping again.

  “Judith will help you get them back once you’re out.”

  Cindy nods.

  I reach out toward the thick glass. Rhoda or Rhonda snaps, “Do not try to touch the prisoner.” I put my hand in my lap.

  I keep repeating, “Judith will get you out and get the boys back.”

  ***

  It’s dark and raining when we come out. As we drive through Dartmouth, we’re quiet, except for Patty sniffing in the back seat. The streetlights, each in turn, toss their yellow glow across the front seat, broken by the slash of the windshield wipers. Each flickers for a second across the tired, sad lines in Judith’s face.

  Questions march through my head. Do you see your drinking as a problem? What were you doing all those years in Toronto and why didn’t you graduate from high school until you were twenty-one? What are you doing with the Levellers, the Ranters and the Diggers?

  Patty’s sniffles fade into loud, even breathing. “She’s fallen asleep,” I tell Judith.

  “Good. She’s exhausted.”

  “Judith, do you ever feel like giving up?”

  Streetlights pass. The windshield wipers flop back and forth. I think she’s not going to answer, but then she does. “Sometimes, I long for a place to go where no one can find me, where I could just sleep and read crime novels for a while. Is that the same thing?”

  “You read crime novels?”

  “When I can, which isn’t very often. I love the feeling of knowing the crime is going to be solved by the end of the book.” Is there a streak of grey in the hair pulled back from Judith’s temple, or is it just a trick of the passing lights? “But do I want to give up permanently? No. What else would I do?”

  “Become a regular lawyer, write wills, help people buy houses, stuff that wouldn’t regularly break your heart.”

  “It wouldn’t feel real. I’d still know all this is going on, but I wouldn’t be doing anything about it.” The next streetlight picks up the network of fine creases that appear around her eyes when she smiles, but in the next one, it’s gone again. “My heart does get broken, though, so often it doesn’t have time to mend in between.”

  I hold my hand out, hard, weathered palm up, where the next light can slide across it. She glances down. “You’re no stranger to a broken heart yourself,” she says. Then, a few moments later, lifts her hand off of the steering wheel, placing it in mine. The bones are fine and breakable, but the squeeze is firm. And she leaves it there, driving left-handed until we get to the bridge tollbooth, where she has to fumble in the ashtray for a token.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Cindy pleads guilty, and they let her out. Judith will make her arguments at the sentencing hearing. Robin writes an article for his homeless people’s paper, and the regular media pick it up. Bara starts coming home with papers full of letters to the editor about poverty and food. Judith is interviewed on Information Morning. More letters to the editor. Something’s going on. Sometimes, after years of work on an issue, it suddenly catches fire — or, perhaps a better image, reaches a tipping point. You take what seems like a small action, or something just happens, and you find out it’s that last grain of sand that causes a landslide, the proverbial last straw. I hope that’s what this is, but I won’t let myself count on it quite yet.

  Judith, at least, is on fire. She is spending hours on Cindy’s case and looks so much better, alive. I’ve seen this before, when a case really challenges her sense of purpose. Although, I wonder if she’s sleeping at all. Because somehow, she still finds time for the Levellers, Ranters and Diggers. I know because the papers and books in the study continue to move.

  ***

  More reporters show up for Althea and Judith’s press conference than they expected. The program room at the library is full, standing room only. I see Robin, Gord and Bara in the crowd. Reverend Peter sticks up above the people around him. Patty and Cindy sit in the front row, a respectable distance apart. Bet they’d like to be holding hands right now.

  John works his way through the crowd toward me, smiling. He holds out his hand to shake mine. “Congratulations, m’dear. You are a free woman.”

  I take in a breath, counting days in my head.

  “Today, Lucy. It’s your last on probation.” His grin is taking up most of his face. When I smile back, he pulls me forward and gives me what can only be called a bear hug. “I can give you back control of your money now, if you want.”