Patsy Wanachs’s attitude troubled Mara, “They have to have rules. I know it seems dehumanizing, but in any group of people there are always a handful who would grab everything if we didn’t have some restraints.”
“Yeah, like your clients.” Mara didn’t look at Harriet, but she did stop fumbling with the keys. “They didn’t get to own banks without stealing from other people.”
Harriet refused to fight. “That’s why they need me. Someone has to explain the rules to them and keep them out of jail if they’ve gotten too grabby. Well, Patsy is just explaining the rules to these women, so they don’t have to spend the night on the street. It’s a pretty rough job, you know, running an overnight shelter, The church is lucky she’s willing to do it.”
Mara twisted around on the piano bench to look at her sister. “But it’s the look on her face when she makes a note in that log of hers. Like she’s happy she gets to chew someone out.”
“I think you’re imagining that, Mara, because you always want to fight anyone with authority.” Harriet spoke gently.
“And I suppose I’m just imagining that Rafe Lowrie is a sanctimonious hypocrite, too? Well, he’s over there preaching at the women every Wednesday night. Showing them their evil ways. He makes Cynthia go with him and hand out Bibles. He has more money than God, his son Jared is like the biggest most hideous rapist on the Gold Coast—”
“Mara!” Harriet spoke in her Do-you-have-proof-for-that-allegation? voice.
“Talk to Tamara Jacoby!” Mara’s skin flushed to a muddy red. “Okay, so she’s sleeping with him, but Cynthia says she’s terrified of him. It’s like the classic battered wife syndrome: Tamara’s paralyzed by him, so she keeps coming back to him. But meanwhile, Cynthia has to live like a nun, and Rafe talks to her in that rasping voice about what her duty to God is. That’s his phony way of saying ‘Do everything exactly like I say.’ It’s the same way he talks to the homeless women. That’s why I hate to go over to Hagar’s House.”
“He only agreed to run Bible study because of the dissension in the congregation about whether to keep the shelter going at all. You know, when Mrs. Thirkell found out that we had pimps hanging around outside the church gates …”
Harriet sat on the bench next to her sister and imitated the outraged Mrs. Thirkell. Mara had to giggle.
The Orleans Street Church had been built in 1893, on land donated by a speculator who thought the wealth that moved across the Chicago River after the famous 1871 fire would spread west as well as north. Right after the fire, Geoffrey Lenore bought up useless chunks of land in what became Irish and German slums, and when he finally admitted his mistake gave three acres of it for the church. Lenore also endowed the massive stone complex, built around an atrium so that his only daughter could have a garden wedding the year the building and grounds were completed. Besidesa nave to rival Notre Dame’s, the building included twelve Sunday school classrooms and a giant hall where people could have danced if church rules allowed.
When parishioners met a century later during the coffee hour, filled with shock and titillation at the sight of women sleeping on the subway grates at Chicago Avenue, they looked over their vast plant. The cellars where coal used to be stored weren’t really used for anything. They could be cleaned out, turned into sleeping quarters, the church could install a kitchen so that women could get a hot meal before leaving in the morning. God clearly intended for them to do this great work. It would be like the early eighties, when they opened the building to El Salvadoran refugees—a very successful program, repaid with becoming gratitude by the various families when they’d been established in permanent homes.
Of course, without putting it in so many words, the parish council knew the shelter would be kept separate from the
“Yeah, like your clients.” Mara didn’t look at Harriet, but she did stop fumbling with the keys. “They didn’t get to own banks without stealing from other people.”
Harriet refused to fight. “That’s why they need me. Someone has to explain the rules to them and keep them out of jail if they’ve gotten too grabby. Well, Patsy is just explaining the rules to these women, so they don’t have to spend the night on the street. It’s a pretty rough job, you know, running an overnight shelter, The church is lucky she’s willing to do it.”
Mara twisted around on the piano bench to look at her sister. “But it’s the look on her face when she makes a note in that log of hers. Like she’s happy she gets to chew someone out.”
“I think you’re imagining that, Mara, because you always want to fight anyone with authority.” Harriet spoke gently.
“And I suppose I’m just imagining that Rafe Lowrie is a sanctimonious hypocrite, too? Well, he’s over there preaching at the women every Wednesday night. Showing them their evil ways. He makes Cynthia go with him and hand out Bibles. He has more money than God, his son Jared is like the biggest most hideous rapist on the Gold Coast—”
“Mara!” Harriet spoke in her Do-you-have-proof-for-that-allegation? voice.
“Talk to Tamara Jacoby!” Mara’s skin flushed to a muddy red. “Okay, so she’s sleeping with him, but Cynthia says she’s terrified of him. It’s like the classic battered wife syndrome: Tamara’s paralyzed by him, so she keeps coming back to him. But meanwhile, Cynthia has to live like a nun, and Rafe talks to her in that rasping voice about what her duty to God is. That’s his phony way of saying ‘Do everything exactly like I say.’ It’s the same way he talks to the homeless women. That’s why I hate to go over to Hagar’s House.”
“He only agreed to run Bible study because of the dissension in the congregation about whether to keep the shelter going at all. You know, when Mrs. Thirkell found out that we had pimps hanging around outside the church gates …”
Harriet sat on the bench next to her sister and imitated the outraged Mrs. Thirkell. Mara had to giggle.
The Orleans Street Church had been built in 1893, on land donated by a speculator who thought the wealth that moved across the Chicago River after the famous 1871 fire would spread west as well as north. Right after the fire, Geoffrey Lenore bought up useless chunks of land in what became Irish and German slums, and when he finally admitted his mistake gave three acres of it for the church. Lenore also endowed the massive stone complex, built around an atrium so that his only daughter could have a garden wedding the year the building and grounds were completed. Besidesa nave to rival Notre Dame’s, the building included twelve Sunday school classrooms and a giant hall where people could have danced if church rules allowed.
When parishioners met a century later during the coffee hour, filled with shock and titillation at the sight of women sleeping on the subway grates at Chicago Avenue, they looked over their vast plant. The cellars where coal used to be stored weren’t really used for anything. They could be cleaned out, turned into sleeping quarters, the church could install a kitchen so that women could get a hot meal before leaving in the morning. God clearly intended for them to do this great work. It would be like the early eighties, when they opened the building to El Salvadoran refugees—a very successful program, repaid with becoming gratitude by the various families when they’d been established in permanent homes.
Of course, without putting it in so many words, the parish council knew the shelter would be kept separate from the
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