The Warming House

It didn’t bother him to have them over; he was happy to do it. He smiled generously and told them to lay their coats, hats, and gloves on a table in the corner of the garage. When one of them, a much older man whose lower lip trembled like that of a whimpering child, balked, Warren Lott nodded and let him wear them inside. There were four of them, all crusty-eyed and skin the texture of dry modeling clay. They were embarrassed to be there, though they needn’t be. Warren and his wife, Jenna, were happy to help.

Jenna escorted them into the back room. They walked single file, heads bowed, as if to peer up and about would indicate an intent to steal an easily concealable trinket. Warren retired to his study.

“It does my heart good,” Jenna said when she came into his study and stood beside him.

Warren smiled. “Mine, too.” He reached up from the chair behind the large cherry desk and wrapped his hand lightly around her forearm.

“Makes me wish we could have done it years ago.”

“As I’ve told you, that just wasn’t possible,” Warren said. “What I always said, ‘you can’t give what you don’t got.’”

Jenna nodded. “It would have been nice, to do it while the children were home.”

“We’ve been well blessed, no matter how late it came to us,” Warren said as he turned back to his work.

His work and perseverance had made him and Jenna very comfortable. He had labored for years to develop Top of the Morning, a breakfast and lunch cafe, into the county’s most acclaimed low-cost dining establishment. Realizing his good fortunes were not simply the fruits of human endeavor, he aspired to help in God’s work through his parish and share his blessings faithfully all the days of his life.

For the past three years, he and his wife participated in the warming house program sponsored by St. Andrews Catholic Church, a program that provided temporary food and shelter for the indigent and homeless in the area during the month of February.

The Lotts signed up for Mondays and Thursdays because Tuesdays and Fridays were slow mornings at the Top of the Morning, and if the nights became hectic, he could afford to go in a little late.

They had a comfortable set-up for the guests: two white resin tables with four chairs each in the drop room off the side door by the garage. It was designed as the informal entrance where the kids dropped their belongings. It was convenient, too, being out-of-the-way, beside the laundry room and two doors down from the guest half-bath.

With the kids gone, Warren decided it was a perfect place for his February guests. And the wide hallway leading down to it from the kitchen was often used for their guests to stretch out for a short nap. The Lotts supplied the sleeping bags and pillows. Also the food, much of it day-old baked goods from the Top of the Morning. But still plenty fresh, never had a complaint.

Jenna set fresh flowers on each table each Monday and Thursday afternoon. Daffodils, petunias, daisies, carnations, sometimes a mix with baby’s breath. They never knew if the guests noticed but it was a nice touch, they thought, as a show of spring’s promise of rebirth.

Most guests were transported by parishioners volunteering their time and vehicles. The Lotts usually got called an hour or so in advance. But sometimes they had no warning. Sometimes guests made it to the house on their own, possibly second or third timers, finding themselves back in the area.

They had as many as eleven guests at a time, male and female, some so inebriated and sick they had to stay the night in the hallway. No one was ever turned away. No one ever left hungry. Jenna would set them up with a day’s worth of Top of the Morning goods when they left.

Tonight, Warren was bothered. It was not a huge deal. It was only the second week of February and already they had had twenty-three guests. Last year, too, he had an inordinate number, never turned away a one, mind you, but he was on pace to break last year’s mark.

He knew of only two other warming houses, neither as impressive as his, and he was beginning to wonder if the word wasn’t out; go to the Lotts, they had tables and chairs, and flowers, and a spacious hallway, and clean linens, and day-old bake goods from Top of the Morning.

He asked Jenna if maybe he was exaggerating, maybe the numbers were in keeping with the demographics of the parish. “What do you think,” he asked, “think I should say something?”

“Does it bother you?” she asked.

“It doesn’t bother me, this isn’t about being bothered. I just want to make sure we’re not being taken advantage of.”

“By the homeless?” she asked.

“No. Not them, the other warming houses. There are people out there who’ll sign up and not do their part, you know, just to get in good.”

“I think God knows who’s doing their part,” she said.

“Not him, the church.”

“Whatever for?”

“Clout from the archdiocese. You don’t understand business like I do, Jenna, you get good reviews from the archdiocese, you‘ve just bought yourself some valuable press. Charity shouldn’t be used for such things.”

The next morning he made an appointment with Father Morris. “Could I ask what this is about?” the secretary asked.

“I’ve signed up as one of the warming houses for the parish. I’m Warren Lott, and I own Top of the Morning.”

“Oh, I eat there quite often,” the secretary said. “It’s very nice.”

The secretary squeezed him in, moving a nine o’clock appointment up a half hour. Warren was there promptly at ten the next day. Promptly, because it was how he conducted business, and he was hoping to be in and out as soon as possible.

Father Morris’s office was cramped but tidy. The bookshelves were full and folders covered the credenza, and so stacks of files and loose papers lined the floor under the window. It looked more like a junior accountant’s office than that of a parish priest, though Warren wasn’t sure what he expected, maybe two high backed leather chairs separated by a square coffee table set with two brandy glasses, something to make Patrick O’Brien and Bing Crosby feel at home.

Father Morris whisked in at ten-twenty, panting but with a broad smile. They had never met except in a group when the Lotts signed up for the warming house ministry, and then each spring, when they and the others were recognized at a dinner. Father Morris was congenial though rushed to keep his scheduled appointments. “Sorry I’m running behind,” he said. “Nancy threw me for a loop when she bumped me up this morning, only got through my second cup of coffee.”

Warren nodded. Father Morris sat behind his desk and swiveled his chair sideways, shuffling through some papers on his lap. “Let’s see, Warren Lott. Oh yes, of course, the warming house ministry.” He looked up, folding his hands on the stack on his lap. “The church thanks you; we’ve had particularly nasty weather this February.”

“Yes, I’m happy to do it.” Warren said. “Father, I’m not here to create any trouble, God knows we’re all volunteers here with this warming house thing. Matter of fact, I own Top of the Morning. . . .” He paused, waiting for certification. Father Morris simply nodded, waiting patiently for more. Warren continued. “So I vowed that when I made the restaurant a success I’d give back to the community, to God and the church, actually.”

“I see, that’s very nice.”

“Yes, and well, now, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to do the warming house ministry, but I feel that maybe some homes are not doing all they can.”

“I see.”

“Yes, I’m on the schedule for Mondays and Thursdays, and I’ve received what I feel is an inordinate number of people.”

“Inordinate number?”

“Twenty-three so far in three nights.”

“That is a lot,” Father Morris said.

“I think so, I was wondering about the others on my nights. Maybe if someone can pay them a visit, or just make a polite call, to see if ... if maybe there isn’t a problem. Now I’m not here to make trouble for anyone, Father, I’m happy to be doing this, and I won’t turn anyone away. Could be someone just got in over their heads, you know, signed up and couldn’t deliver. I would certainly understand that.”

Father Morris leaned back towards the door and pulled it open. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Nancy,” he called though the doorway, “Can you get the warming house ministry book and bring it in. Thank you. I’m not sure who’s on first without a scorecard, Mister Lott, so we’ll take a look-see who else is listed on Mondays and Thursdays. You know, many people have been doing this ministry for years.”

“Maybe a little burned out,” Warren offered.

“Could be.”

Nancy brought in a red, loose leaf binder. Father Morris flipped through several pages. “Okay, let’s see,” he muttered. “Ah, yes, there it is.” He closed the book and looked at Warren.

“Someone you’re familiar with?” Warren said.

“Ah-huh. Oh, yes.”

“Well, I’m not going to pry into it, but maybe you can call him, or her, and see what the trouble is. If he wants, maybe we can work out something equitable.”

“I think what would be good,” Father Morris said, “is for you to get with him.”

“Me?”

“Only two and a half weeks left in February. You know what happens when you get the bureaucracy involved, be August before you even have an initial opinion. I’ll write down his address, you go see him. He’s retired, really nice guy. I’ll know he’ll be home.”

This wasn’t what Warren had planned. He had a restaurant to run. This was no big deal, just a potential issue he was trying to head off. Next year it may be someone else taken advantage of, and that person may not be so understanding. He was contemplating forgetting the entire thing. The pastor was right, only five more nights left for him. But that wasn’t his way, to pass problems along to the next unsuspecting stiff. That was how problems became catastrophes, and good things, like the warming house ministry, were killed.

The Blochs lived in a working class section of town, compact ranches and 1950’s capes. Properties were small, and although the dead of winter, he could see the utilitarian design of unshapen arborvitae’s and sparse hedgerows. He held no dispersions, no preconceived opinions of Norman Bloch. He had lived like this himself for years, worse probably.

He sat at the curb and remembered his days living like this. He shuttered. But for the grace of God, he thought. Norman Bloch. Retired. Up in the world as far as he’d ever go. Warren wondered, as he often did about others, had his dreams been fulfilled? Had Norman Bloch given to his family all he had hoped? Father Morris called him a really nice guy,” as if that was all the good he could say about him. Sad, although that was life, wasn’t it? The haves and the have-nots. But for the grace of God.

A older model Ford Aerostar minivan slowed and turned up the driveway. An older man got out with two plastic grocery bags. Warren left the warmth of his Audi and addressed him. Norman turned and smiled and extended his hand. He was about to invite him in as a warming house guest until he noticed the car along the curb, but the smile never faded, and the handshake was just as hearty.

“Warren Lott,” Warren announced. “Did Father Morris advise you I was coming?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“No matter,” Warren said hastily, wanting to keep the momentum on his side. “I own Top of the Morning restaurant.”

“Yes, of course, I’ve seen you in church.” The smile, crooked and yellow, with back molars but a memory, grew around the gristle chin and long, thin nose.

“Yes, and I’m also in the warming house ministry.”

“I know. That’s wonderful.”

“Yes. I understand you open your house on Mondays and Thursdays, the same days I do.”

“Well, not exactly,” Norman said.

“No?”

“Please,” Norman interrupted, grabbing Warren’s upper arm, “It’s freezing out here. Come inside.”

Warren could hear music as he approached the door with Bloch. Stevie Wonder, You are the Sunshine of my Life. Bloch opened the door and let him enter first. In the small living room, no bigger than Warren’s drop room off his garage, were nearly a dozen men and women. They wore the clothing of street people, dirty and shabby, and mismatched gloves, tattered stocking caps, cheap fleece jackets, vinyl boots, and smiles as wide as Norman Bloch’s. They sat on chairs as unmatched as their clothing, eating pie. Mixed in with their street smell was the sweet aroma of hot cinnamon.

Norman motioned him into the kitchen. “Linda,” he said to a woman not more than thirty, “want that Coke now or rather have the cider?”

“Cider,” she stuttered.

“I thought you would.” He turned to Warren. “They always do once they smell it. My wife boils a batch of cinnamon alongside the apple cider, to get their juices flowing. It’s a cheap trick but it gets something warm and healthy into them. Course then she blows the healthy part by dropping a glob of whipped cream on top.”

He introduced Warren to his wife, Marcy, who was pulling two pies at once out of the oven. “Mister Lott’s in the ministry,” Norman said. Marcy put the pies on the table, wiped her hands on her apron, and took hold of Warren’s. “Busy, isn’t it,” she said. “They say it’s the coldest February on record.”

She excused herself and called to Lionel in the living room. An older black man came in. “You’re up,” she said.

“Cherry,” Lionel said as he sniffed the air.

“Try to get eight slices from each pie,” she told him. “Didn’t expect so many so early.”

As Norman pulled three jugs of apple cider from the bags, Warren leaned over and whispered, “You said you didn’t do the ministry.”

“I said we didn’t do it on Mondays and Thursdays. Lionel, ask Theresa to come in and serve the cider.”

“Can we talk?” Warren asked. “Somewhere private.”

There weren’t many private places to go in the cramped home. Norman brought him upstairs to a small bedroom outfitted with two sets of bunk beds. “It’s Friday afternoon, and you’ve got your home filled with a dozen homeless,” Warren said. “The schedule doesn’t start until six.”

Norman sat on the edge of a lower bunk, folded his hands between his legs and bobbed his head. “I don’t know why Father Morris told you to come here,” he said softly. “You say you’re in the ministry, and that’s wonderful, but ... me and Marcy, well ... we really aren’t part of it. Not the church’s anyway.”

“Course you are, I can see it.”

“No, our names are there because our home is open in February, and we’re part of the church.”

It was something Norman was very uncomfortable talking about, and Warren now understood why. “You don’t want people to know about this,’ he said.

Norman smiled and shook his head.

“And not because you don’t want the crowd but because it’s your own ministry.”

“Something like that.”

“For how long?”

Norman had to think. “Twenty-two years.”

“The church has only had the ministry for nine.” Warren stood and patted the pillow on the top bunk. It was cool and fresh. “This is a guest quarters for them.”

“Another down the hall. We can sleep eight to ten comfortably. My kids joke if there was a ski resort nearby we could rent ourselves out as a lodge.”

“And you have kids.” Warren said.

“Three. Not here, up and grown.”

“You were doing this when they lived here, in this same house.”

“Not to this extent. We didn’t have room. It started out being just Saturday night, two or three for a few hours.”

“How’d it start?”

“My youngest daughter,” he said. “She saw a news report or something. She was only seven. She asked why we couldn’t bring them to our home and help them. Marcy and I didn’t have an answer so we drove the areas where they were and brought them here for a cup of something hot and warm food, soups usually.”

“It grew from there when word got out?” Warren asked.

Norman pursed his lips in thought. “Nooo,” he said, pensively. “I think it was more that we grew. See, it’s been our experience, and this isn’t scientific, of course, that most homeless aren’t proud of it and don’t accept charity from individuals willingly. They’ll do the soup kitchens and shelters but feel vulnerable one-on-one.”

“Well, it’s dangerous picking up and going home with strangers,” Warren offered.

“Not as dangerous as sleeping in a gutter in winter. But my theory is it’s their personal pride. I’ve never met one who started out this way. Every one of them had a life full of potential. Perhaps not of great economical potential, but what exactly is that? That’s important for one aspect of living, but that failure isn’t what landed these people here, and they’ll tell you that.

“They lost faith in themselves and God. They actually believed that losing a dollar bill was more fatal than losing their faith. Isn’t that the saddest cut of all? You’ve opened your heart and home for a few years, I’m sure when you’ve talked to them you’ve heard the same stories.”

Talking to them. Warren hadn’t given that a thought. He made it a point that no one enter his restaurant without a personal greeting. He even chastised his wait staff for failure to smile and warmly greet each patron. And opening his heart. He wasn’t even sure what Norman Bloch meant by that. Perhaps it had something to do with not counting your blessings but simply witnessing them, and making charity a public event without the publicity.

“You’re right,” Warren said, “I have heard all the stories. And I don’t suppose I’ve listened to a single one, until now.”

Warren cooked up the next batch of apple cider and helped Theresa serve it. Since the time they were upstairs, two more people had been brought over.

“Coupla more and I’m going to have to ask the church to hold them until six o’clock when the scheduled warming houses open,” Norman said.

“No,” Warren said. “Waiting won’t be necessary. There’s always room somewhere.”

Warren escorted the two newcomers into his car and called Jenna on his cell phone. “You know,” he said quietly, “your comment about doing this when the kids were at home, well, I wonder how much I missed by waiting until I had enough.”

“That’s a nice turnabout but where’s it coming from?” she asked.

“Your old dog was taught some new tricks. So let’s say we expand the dining room table to accommodate our guests and toss out those leftovers. I’ll be stopping at the store to pick up some apple cider, and pie and cake mix.”

“Some what?”

“Pie and cake mix. But don’t worry, we’ll be having plenty of help.”