Growing into the Job, Post 609: Outreach: Thanksgiving (Hope House) (Patreon)

By eleven-thirty on Thanksgiving morning, the dining hall at Hope House no longer smelled like an emergency shelter. It smelled like a home. Roasted turkey drifted through the building in warm, savory waves, mingling with fresh rolls, cinnamon, sweet potatoes, coffee, and the unmistakable scent of pumpkin pie cooling somewhere in the kitchen. Folding tables had been arranged end to end beneath strings of paper leaves and hand-colored construction-paper turkeys made by children from the shelter's daycare. Nothing matched particularly well. Some of the decorations had clearly been reused for years. Others had been made only yesterday. Together, though, they transformed the room into something comforting - proof that effort, sometimes, often mattered more than elegance.

Outside, a cold November rain had settled over New Corinth, well before dawn, and was now tapping gently against the windows while volunteers hurried between parked cars carrying aluminum catering trays wrapped in towels against the weather. Inside, the mood was noticeably lighter. Women who had arrived carrying the weight of difficult months found themselves laughing over coffee. Children darted between tables under the watchful eyes of volunteers who pretended not to notice until somebody inevitably giggled too loudly or threw a dinner roll at their sister.

Hope House had seen Thanksgivings before, but it had never seen one quite like this.

Lakshmi Vallurupalli adjusted the serving gloves on her hands and surveyed the buffet line with quiet satisfaction. Everything appeared to be in place. The trays remained full, the serving utensils were where they belonged, and one of the newer women from Far Horizons - a member of the recently arrived Coronado group whose name Lakshmi had regrettably not yet learned - was already helping the shelter staff refill drinks before anyone had asked.

"It appears we may have overestimated on the mashed potatoes," Lakshmi observed.

Beside her, Josie Jensen looked down the seemingly endless stretch of buffet tables and grinned. "I dunno," she said, "You can never have too many mashed potatoes. At least that’s what Melissa says.”

Lakshmi's lips hinted at a smile as their eyes met. Both knew that was sort of a weird thing to say. But these were weird times - good ones, but weird. Josie, though, carried the buoyant energy of someone who had been awake since before sunrise and this what not nearly enough weirdness to throw this day off track. A bright Far Horizons volunteer shirt stretched across the dramatic bulges of her otherwise trim frame - bigger today than even last week - beneath an apron that already bore two suspicious-looking red stains. She had insisted on helping unload the catering vans, decorating the dining hall, and test every type of pie “for quality control”- she obviously liked the cherry.

"You know," Josie said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I think this is my favorite thing we've ever done." As if just now noticing the stains - or maybe noticing her friend notice them - she undid her apron, tossed it aside.

Lakshmi glanced toward the growing line forming near the entrance. A young mother balanced a toddler on one hip while another child clung sleepily to her coat. An older woman accepted a cup of coffee from a shelter volunteer with both hands, smiling as though it were something precious.

"It is a good idea," Lakshmi agreed.

"I mean..." Josie rested both hands on the edge of the serving table, watching another family - no father to be seen - come through the doors. "Everybody deserves Thanksgiving, right?"

"They do."

"And if we can help these women…”

Lakshmi nodded once.

"...then we should."

The answer seemed almost too simple. Maybe it was. Maybe the world - and the future - wasn’t really all that complicated.

Across the room, another pair of Far Horizons volunteers worked quietly alongside shelter staff, carrying trays from the kitchen with efficiency. They were also part of the Coronado contingent that had shown up in the parking lot, de-boarding from the buses a couple weeks earlier. Tall, poised, and remarkably coordinated despite never having worked this sort of thing before, they blended into the rhythm of the morning almost seamlessly. One knelt to help a little girl retrieve a dropped mitten without interrupting the conversation she was having with an elderly resident; another disappeared into the pantry and returned moments later pushing an extra cart of donated canned goods after noticing supplies running lower than expected.

Watching them, Lakshmi felt a small flicker of satisfaction. Far Horizons had grown so quickly that some days it still felt unreal. Yet here they all were - medical assistants like herself and Josie, receptionists, lab techs - women who ordinarily spent their mornings scheduling appointments, drawing blood, calibrating equipment, billing insurance companies or answering phones were now serving Thanksgiving dinner in shelters, church basements, food pantries, and community centers all across New Corinth. Marisela was here too, somewhere. Probably in back, in the kitchen, doing something.

It all felt...right.

Somewhere near the front entrance, someone turned on the old television mounted high in one corner of the dining hall. Local news flickered to life beneath a closed-caption banner announcing Thanksgiving coverage from around the city. Currently, the Thanksgiving Day parade was just finishing up. For the moment, nobody paid it much attention. There were too many meals to plate, too many conversations to have, too many people still filtering through the doors. 

Josie glanced up briefly at the TV before returning her attention to the buffet line. "I wonder how Missy's doing," she said, helping a young girl with her plate, “at the fundraising thing.”

The little girl dipped her finger into the cranberry sauce. “Your boobs are big,” she said.

“Yes, thank you, they are,” Josie replied, dryly.

Lakshmi chuckled, and followed Josie’s gaze to the television for only a second before smiling softly. Both she and Josie had noticed that at the end of the parade, Mrs Claus was taller than Santa. "I imagine," she said, reaching for another tray of stuffing as the first guests stepped forward with empty plates, "that we will find out how Melissa is doing soon enough.”

“This is yucky…” the young girl complained.

Missy made it, thought both Lakshmi and Josie. They eyed one another, shared a commiserating glance. Their beautiful friend - though she’d grown past seven feet tall, could lift small vehicles over her head, and was currently developing new superpowers daily - was still pretty hopeless in the kitchen. Still, she’d insisted on cooking all through the night, and made batches of cranberry sauce for all twenty of the locations at which Far Horizons girls would be volunteering today. Also some pies.

“...it’s salty.” the girl whined.

Josie snorted. “I’ll let the chef know.”

The line never really stopped moving. One family finished filling their plates, another woman stepped forward, and another after that. Hope House had expected maybe sixty women and children for Thanksgiving lunch. By noon they had already served nearly twice that number, with shelter staff quietly pulling more folding chairs out of storage.

Josie scooped another helping of mashed potatoes onto a plate and smiled at the woman holding it. She looked like she’d had some hard days. "There you go."

"Thank you, sweetheart,” the elderly lady said.

"You’re very welcome,” Josie replied.

The woman hesitated before moving on. "I...I haven't had anybody cook Thanksgiving dinner for me in..." She stopped, searching for the number. "...a long time."

Josie's smile softened. "Well," she said gently, "today somebody did."

The woman blinked rapidly, nodded once, and continued down the buffet.

Lakshmi had watched the entire exchange from the stuffing tray. "You miss your family."

It wasn’t phrased as a question. Josie looked over, surprised for only a second before laughing quietly. "Am I that obvious? I guess I kinda do."

Another plate appeared. Lakshmi served stuffing. Josie served potatoes. The rhythm continued.

"My mom always hosted," Josie said after the next family moved along. "Grandparents, cousins, neighbors sometimes.."

"It sounds lovely,” Lakshmi offered.

"It was," Josie smiled, "Loud. Everybody talks over everybody else. My dad used to carve the turkey like it was an Olympic event. Then my mom, actually, did it last year." She laughed at the memory, her father’s impotent complaints. "I’m going to guess she’ll make him do the dishes this year, clean pots, pick up after her. I kinda wanted to be there."

Lakshmi nodded thoughtfully. "But instead you are here."

"Yeah."

"Do you regret it?"

Josie looked around the room, seeing the children laughing, young mothers smiling, coffee brewing, volunteers weaving between tables carrying fresh trays of food. One of the Coronado women was kneeling to help an elderly resident button her winter coat. 

"No," she answered without hesitation, "I...I just miss them, I guess."

Lakshmi smiled. "I believe both things can be true. You can be thankful for both your old family and your new family"

Josie looked at her for a long moment before grinning. "You're really good at this whole wisdom thing, Kiki."

"My mother says I have always sounded forty years older than I am,” Lakshmi said.

"I kinda love your mom," Josie admitted.

"So do I."

They shared a laugh before another group of women stepped forward, with empty plates.

"What about you?" Josie asked as Lakshmi handed over another spoonful of stuffing. "What are you thankful for?"

Lakshmi considered the question carefully. "I am thankful," she began slowly, "that I no longer wake up wondering if I belong."

Josie stopped serving for half a second.

Lakshmi continued serving as though she'd merely commented on the weather. "I belong here," she said,  glancing around the crowded shelter, at the women helping others, "With all of you. Making the world a better place."

A female voice drifted in from the kitchen:

"Good news..."

Marisela emerged through the swinging doors carrying an aluminum tray against one tattooed forearm. A loose strand of ebony hair had escaped from beneath her silly kitchen cap. There was a streak of flour across one cheek she either hadn't noticed or didn't care about.

"...I didn’t burn the rolls," she announced dryly as, with a puff, she blew the hair from her face.

Josie and Lakshmi looked at the darkly gorgeous young woman, amusement glinting in their preternaturally sensitive eyes. Baby blue “Far Horizons” tee, kitchen cap? Flour on the cheek? Aside from the leather pants, dark lipstick and aggressive piercings, this was a new look, to say the least, for Marisela Vasques.

One of the shelter residents, one who had volunteered to chip in today, hurried over to take the tray from her. "Oh! Thanks," Marisela offered, noticing the bruise over the woman’s left eye. She was also missing part of a tooth.

"N-no problem," the woman said, looking up at the tall, pale, dark-haired beauty with the kohl-darkened eyes. The resident lowered her voice, and braved what sounded like a request. "I was talking with, uhm, my friend. She’d heard what you’d said to Janice, in back, how you might be able to help with her, uh…boyfriend situation.”

Marisela nodded. A ray of light glinted off a stainless-steel earring. “Yes,” Marisela nodded, “I took her name. And his. She gave me his address.”

“My friend wanted to know if…if she could talk to you too."

Marisela's expression became very still. She put her hand on the woman’s shoulder, stepped her to the side. Their voices dropped, but Lakshmi’s and Josie’s ears were now very sensitive. "What happened?" Marisela asked, a dark, chill breeze in her voice.

The volunteer hesitated. "M-my husband..." She touched her temple, over her left eye.

Nothing more said. Nothing needed to be.

Marisela nodded once, and then after a moment spoke again. "I'll go introduce myself." There was a sharp blade of steel in her words that shivered a chill into the bones of each girl. Marisela took some whispered information from the woman, and the woman left. 

Marisela turned back toward the dining room, then paused. "You know..." she said quietly enough that only Lakshmi and Josie could hear, "...every table in this room is filled with women who shouldn't have had to come here. Abused women."

Three sets of eyes swept across the hall. Women eating. Small children laughing. Someone helping an elderly resident cut her turkey. One of those sets of eyes narrowed.

"It's funny," Marisela began.

Neither Lakshmi nor Josie spoke.

Marisela's voice remained almost conversational. "I keep thinking the world has spent way too much time asking women to survive things," she continued, "It ought to spend a little more time making men afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Josie asked.

“Of us,” Marisela answered plainly, “and afraid of hurting women."

The three young women looked around the room. The other women here - residents, shelter workers, other volunteers, “normals” -  looked so small to them. The Coronado girls, on the other hand, along with Lakshmi, Josie and Marisela themselves, towered over the crowd. 

Lakshmi gave a crooked half-smile, one which surprised her friend Josie and reminded her of the news report - girls are outgrowing boys. "Maybe someday the world will figure that part out."

“I think I’ve got it figured out already,” Marisela concluded, and ran her tongue over her eye teeth. Then, before either of them could answer, she disappeared back through the kitchen doors with another empty tray.

Josie watched them swing shut. "Such a cheery girl."

Lakshmi chuckled. "She cares deeply."

"Yeah I know," Josie agreed, “to the bone.”

Suddenly Lakshmi’s eyes widened, looking down. “Josie..!!” she hissed. 

A thick tendril of Josie’s hair had, with its owner unaware, had picked up a serving ladle and was currently spooning stuffing onto the plate of the young girl from earlier. Her eyes were saucered, as wide as Lakshmi’s. Thankfully she was the only one in line at the moment. 

“Oh, haha, sorry, my bad,” Josie laughed, grabbing the ladle, scolding the errant lock - which had somehow escaped her hair tie and lengthened to nearly four feet long - and hurriedly snaking it back into her ponytail. “Don’t tell your mom,” she whispered, conspiratorially, to the young girl. 

Then she paused, a mischievous dimple to her cheek.

“Actually…”

More residents came to the line, looking for seconds. Or thirds. Women were hungry. The line continued to move. Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, rolls…another child wrinkled her nose at Melissa's cranberry sauce.

Across the room, one of the Coronado girls reached for the remote mounted beneath the old television and turned up the volume, just a tic. The Thanksgiving Day parade had faded away. The Channel 5 Noon news theme filled the dining hall and an anchor - not Alicia Ray, but one of her beauties - smiled into the camera.

"And now we go live to Northwood, where a holiday charity event has gotten a little out of hand..."

Several volunteers looked up. Josie, Lakshmi and the Coronado girls were already watching. Marisela, drying her hands on a dish towel, stepped out of the kitchen. 

“That’s where Melissa is…” she said. 

It wasn't Melissa, though, that the camera’s feed had first found. It was the crowd.

“Wow,” Josie remarked, “How many people are there..?”

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