“She seems very fond of you.”
“Well, we’ve been friends most of our lives.”
“And she seems quite taken with your profession.”
“It’s natural. She’s thought a lot about jobs lately, since she has to decide what she wants to do.”
“Would you recommend the life of a private eye?”
“No, not for anyone with a family. The hours are too long and the rewards too uncertain.”
“Still, she seems fascinated. You talk to her about your cases?”
Clemente’s probing made me uncomfortable. “No. Working for a law firm, most of what I do is confidential. How about that tour now?”
He stood up and, with a deep bow, motioned me toward the door.
“Let me tell you a little about the Center and what we’re trying to do here,” he said as we walked toward the former convent. “And forgive me if I start to sound like a Gray Line guide. I take friends and relatives of the residents through here several times a week, to say nothing of all sorts of government officials, so my speech can get a little dry and pat.” Even as he made his apologies there was a weariness in his tone that told me he’d made this excuse many times before.
“Go ahead. I enjoy a good lecture.”
“Great. We’ve got a philosophy here at the Center that blind people can do almost anything sighted people can, given the proper training. And that’s our goal for each resident: to help him become as independent as possible, learn a trade, and eventually move back into the community. All the people here have been blinded recently, so they have a lot of adjustments to make. We attempt to ease them, without coddling or being overprotective.”
“How does that approach seem to work?”
“So far, we’ve had remarkable luck. Of course, we never have more than forty-five residents at a given time, and with a staff of ten counselors, we’re able to give each very personalized attention.” He stopped at the door of the convent. Bottle-brush bloomed thickly on either side.
“Let me tell you what made me revamp the Center’s program in the first place,” he went on. “When I first came on board as director, the Center was housed in an old hospital in the Haight-Ashbury. The program was about as innovative as your old-time grammar school. There were rigid rules, limited vocational training, and even a system of bells to tell the residents when to get up, when to eat, when to go to bed.”
“And it’s not that way now?”
“Damn right it’s not.”
“When did you change it?”
“Two years ago, after what you might call an electrifying experience.” Clemente chuckled, but even that sounded part of a routine. “You see, there was a power failure one night that put the electronically operated bells out. And when the staff came on the next morning, they discovered some of the residents had sat up all night in their chairs because the bells hadn’t told them to go to bed.”
“Good Lord!”
“You can imagine my shock: We’d squashed all the initiative out of the very people we were supposed to help. I set to redesigning the program immediately. Part of it was to get the hell out of that hospital environment. Fortunately for us, Saint Luke’s had caught fire, and given the dwindling number of sisters in the order and the poor shape of the facilities, they decided not to rebuild. So here we are.”
It was a fascinating anecdote, but Clemente’s flat delivery took the shine from it. I sensed the director was much less than enthusiastic about his work.
“What was your background before you came here?” I asked.
“I worked with ex-cons.”
“Doing what?”
“First as director of a halfway house. That closed. Budget cuts. Most of my charges are now back in prison. Next I ran a counseling program for parolees.” His lips twisted bitterly. “When they scrapped that, one of my most promising men shot himself, his wife and two kids.”
“I’m sorry.” I’d seen social-service personnel like Clemente before — former liberals turned cynics by the system.
“You do what you can.” He opened the door of the convent and we went into an entry similar to that of the rectory. Archways led to large rooms on either side, with a wide staircase straight ahead.
Clemente gestured to the left. “This is the dining hall. It’s the focal point of social life at the Center.”
The room was filled with square tables covered with white cloths, already laid for dinner with sparkling glass and silverware.
“We’ve tried to create a homey atmosphere, with small tables and family-style service,” Clemente explained. “Our people need to learn to relate to others normally again. The feeling of being an outcast or, in some cases, abhorrence of one’s condition, can be diminished by developing friendships with others in the same boat.”
He turned to the other archway. “This room will be a lounge when we fix the roof in the church. Right now, it’s our workshop, where we make the brushes. We’ll move the workshop to the church when it’s ready.”
The room contained benches — sheets of plywood on saw-horses. On stools around them sat men and women of all ages and races. They cut, twisted, and tied brushes in various stages of completion. Had I not known they were blind, I would have been fooled by the accuracy of their movements.
“Blind people are very well suited to this kind of work,” Clemente said. “Their sense of touch is highly developed. We get the materials wholesale, on a procurement contract arranged by the state. Each resident spends three hours a day in the workshop, and the rest of his time is devoted to vocational training.”
“What about the other stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“Like the shoelaces and dishwashing gloves Sebastian peddles. Did the state arrange for those too?”
Clemente stared thoughtfully at the worker nearest the door, then stepped forward and peered over his shoulder. “That’s good work, Paul.” He patted the man’s arm and turned back to me. “So Sebastian’s been peddling things on the side again, has he?”
“Isn’t he supposed to? I’m sorry. I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
“Oh, it’s perfectly okay. He knows his first duty is to keep those racks stocked. And, frankly, I don’t care how he sells the stuff as long as it’s sold. The revenues help keep this place afloat, since our grants never quite cover expenses.” Still, Clemente looked disturbed.
“Will the new merchandise be on the racks soon?” I asked.
“When we get ones that can hold it properly. Sebastian just can’t wait — the man’s a born entrepreneur.”
“I’m interested in Sebastian. What’s his background?”
Clemente started toward the staircase. “That’s for him to tell you, if he sees fit. I will say that he’s been with us since I became director and that he’s one of our most able and enthusiastic workers.”
“Can you tell me how he was blinded? An explosion, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t remember every case history,” Clemente replied curtly. “We have forty-five people through here every year. I believe it was an explosion at an oil refinery, but I can’t be sure.”
“Seems I heard something like that too.” I followed Clemente upstairs and along the hall, past vocational training and counseling rooms, and then to the third floor where cell-like rooms seemed little changed since the days nuns knelt at their devotions. The convent was stuffy in the afternoon heat, and I was glad when we went back outside after a final tour of the stainless-steel kitchen.
The director accompanied me to the gate on Twenty-fourth Street, chattering about his program’s potential and telling me to say hello to Linnea. “I’ll call her about that Mexican food. Maybe you and a friend would like to join us?”
“Maybe.” I thought briefly about Greg and wondered how he and Clemente would get along. Thanking Herb for the tour, I started off toward my car. When the director had disappeared down the path, however, I slipped back through the gate. He had omitted the former church from his itinerary, and I wanted to look it over in daylight.