Ironweed (1984 Pulitzer Prize) - William Kennedy [14]
The preacher then took the beatitudes for his theme. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
“Oh yes, you men of skid row, brethren on the poor streets of the one eternal city we all dwell in, do not grieve that your spirit is low. Do not fear the world because you are of a meek and gentle nature. Do not feel that your mournful tears are in vain, for these things are the keys to the kingdom of God.”
The men went swiftly back to sleep and Francis resolved he would wash the stink of the dead off his face and hands and hit Chester up for a new pair of socks. Chester was happiest when he was passing out socks to dried-out drunks. Feed the hungry, clothe the sober.
“Are you ready for peace of mind and heart?” the preacher asked. “Is there a man here tonight who wants a different life? God says: Come unto me. Will you take him at his word? Will you stand up now? Come to the front, kneel, and we will talk. Do this now and be saved. Now. Now. Now!”
No one moved.
“Then amen, brothers,” said the preacher testily, and he left the lectern.
“Hot goddamn,” Francis said to Rudy. “Now we get at that soup.”
Then began the rush of men to table, the pouring of coffee, ladling of soup, cutting of bread by the mission’s zealous volunteers. Francis sought out Pee Wee, a good old soul who managed the mission for Chester, and he asked him for a cup of soup for Sandra.
“She oughta be let in,” Francis said. “She’s gonna freeze out there.”
“She was in before,” Pee Wee said. “He wouldn’t let her stay. She was really shot, and you know him on that. He won’t mind on the soup, but just for the hell of it, don’t say where it’s going.”
“Secret soup,” Francis said.
He took the soup out the back door, pulling Rudy along with him, and crossed the vacant lot to where Sandra lay as before. Rudy rolled her onto her back and sat her up, and Francis put the soup under her nose.
“Soup,” he said.
“Gazoop,” Sandra said.
“Have it.” Francis put the cup to her lips and tipped the soup at her mouth. It dribbled down her chin. She swallowed none.
“She don’t want it,” Rudy said.
“She wants it,” Francis said. “She’s just pissed it ain’t wine.”
He tried again and Sandra swallowed a little.
“When I was sleepin’ inside just now,” Rudy said, “I remembered Sandra wanted to be a nurse. Or used to be a nurse. That right, Sandra?”
“No,” Sandra said.
“No, what? Wanted to be a nurse or was a nurse?”
“Doctor,” Sandra said.
“She wanted to be a doctor,” Francis said, tipping in more soup.
“No,” Sandra said, pushing the soup away. Francis put the cup down and slipped her ratty shoe onto her left foot. He lifted her, a feather, carried her to the wall of the mission, and propped her into a sitting position, her back against the building, somewhat out of the wind. With his bare hand he wiped the masking dust from her face. He raised the soup and gave her another swallow.
“Doctor wanted me to be a nursie,” she said.
“But you didn’t want it,” Francis said.
“Did. But he died.”
“Ah,” said Francis. “Love?”
“Love,” said Sandra.
Inside the mission, Francis handed the cup back to Pee Wee, who emptied it into the sink.
“She all right?” Pee Wee asked.
“Terrific,” Francis said.
“The ambulance won’t even pick her up anymore,” Pee Wee said. “Not unless she’s bleedin’ to death.”
Francis nodded and went to the bathroom, where he washed Sandra’s dust and his own stink off his hands. Then he washed his face and his neck and his ears; and when he was finished he washed them all again. He sloshed water around in his mouth and brushed his teeth with his left index finger. He wet his hair and combed it with nine fingers and dried himself with a damp towel that was tied to the wall. Some men were already