Me and Benny tried our hand at it for a couple nights, hefting everything we owned back and forth over the Lee Bridge, just looking for work. Got all of our belongings on our backs, like a couple of ragged privates marching with fifty pounds of provisions slung over our shoulders. Just praying for the mercury to sink below thirty-five. That one degree’s the difference between you and your own cot — even a cup of watered-down coffee — or freezing to death on some park bench.
Can’t call that home. Nobody should.
Richmond’s labeling all this shifting around revitalization — but I’m not buying it. Pushing us out to the periphery. Forcing us to find a new home every night. Their Downtown Plan has nothing to do with me. Never had Benny’s better interests in mind. When I first met her, couple years back, the boys-in-blue had just busted her lip for sleeping out in Monroe Park. She shuffled her way into Freedom House after curfew, an icicle of her own blood hanging off her chin. Weren’t that many cots left at that hour, so she took the one next to mine. Dropped her plastic bags, all her junk spilling over the floor. I leaned over, thinking I’d lend a hand, getting a slap on the wrist for my troubles.
Don’t touch my stuff.
Just trying to help.
Help yourself is more like it.
Asked her what her name was. Her jaw refused to move much because of the cold, just enough to keep her teeth chattering, so when she answered — Bethany — I didn’t hear the tha part. Her tongue missed the middle syllable, like the needle on a record player skipping over a groove.
Sounded like she said Benny.
No funny stuff now, she warned, brandishing her wrinkled finger like it was a blade. I’ll have you know I’m a respectable lady.
There have got to be thirty years between us! The hell are you expecting me to do?
Just better watch it, young man. I’ve got my eye on you.
Most folks made their way to Monroe Park after Freedom House closed its doors — but that was a trap, if you’re asking me. Used to be a training camp for Confederate soldiers. Military hospital after that. Lot of cadets ended up dying on that patch of land. Too many homeless ghosts out there now. People who spend the night there end up disappearing. Some say this city gives you a bus ticket to any town you want, one-way, no questions asked — just hop on board and bon voyage — but I’m betting that’s a rumor the boys-in-blue spread around town so you drop your guard and follow the brass right into the paddy wagon. Act like some mutt trusting the dogcatcher — transfixed by the biscuit in one hand, not even paying attention to the net in the other.
Benny’s vote was Monroe. Mouthing off about the handouts down there. College kids managed a meal plan in the heart of the park, serving up soup on Sundays or something.
Step in there, Benny, I said, and you won’t be walking out ever again.
You’re just being paranoid.
Sure shut down Freedom House fast enough — didn’t they? Sure don’t see the Salvation Army marching into Monroe to save the day. I’m telling you, Benny — the police own that park!
Then where the hell are we gonna go?
That left Belle Isle. You got the Lee Bridge reaching right over the James River. Just another memorial to another dead Confederate general. Connects the south side of the city to the rest, shore to shore, like a stitch suturing a wound. Got the James bleeding up from that gash, no matter how many bridges there are sewing up this city. But nestled in between the concrete legs of Robert E. Lee, there are about fifty-four acres of public park, all wrapped in water. The river splits, rushing down either side of the isle, its converging currents forming a sharp point at the tip. A real diamond of an island. Only way to reach land is to hoof it. Got this footbridge slung under the interstate, a little baby-bridge suspended from its father. You can hear the hum of automobiles passing along the highway just above your head — but down there, once you’ve set foot onto the island, it’s like the city doesn’t exist anymore. Sound of cars just melts away.
We’d be like — like our own Swiss Family Robinson down here.
More like Robinson Crusoe, Benny said, shaking her head.
No one’ll bother us, I promise. As long as we stay on the far side of the island, away from the footpaths, no one’ll even know we’re here.
You’re crazy, you know that?
No more missions, no more shelters, I said. We’ll never have to set foot on the mainland again.
Yeah, yeah — just lead the way, Friday.
There are ruins of an old hydroelectric plant tucked away on the far side of the island. Closed its doors in ’63, the electric company gutting out all the iron, leaving the concrete behind. Nothing but a husk now, all empty. Good for a roof over your head when it gets raining. We set up camp in one of the old water turbine rooms. Have to crawl through this hatch just to get in. The air’s damp down there. Soaks into your bones if you’re not bundled up enough. But the walls keep the cold wind from nipping your nose. Made that room a hell of a lot better than sleeping in some refrigerator box. The generator was long gone, the rotors removed, leaving behind this empty shaft as big as any room in those mansions you see lined up along Plantation Row. We’re talking ballroom here. Perfect fit for all of Benny’s stuff She hefted a whole landfill’s worth of accumulated junk along with her. A dozen plastic bags busting open at the seams, full of photographs. Toys. Anything she could get her hands on.
Home sweet home, Benny said. Started decorating the place right away, slipping her pictures inside a rusted wicket gate like it was some sort of mantelpiece. All the shorn cylinders were now full of photographs, every severed duct a shelf for her past.
Who’s that? I asked, pointing to this one black-and-white snapshot. Cute little brunette smiling for the camera. She looks familiar to me.
Who do you think?
You’re telling me that’s you?
Damn right I am.
Didn’t recognize you under all that baby fat.
Yeah, well — they fed me better back then.
The island’s supposed to be vacant once the sun sets. Every day, like clockwork, this ranger comes to lock up the footbridge. Not like that ever keeps the kids away. Teenagers always sneak in after dark, building bonfires. Spray-painting the walls.
We had a whole novel’s worth of graffiti wrapped around the place. Couldn’t really read what it said. The words were barely there anymore, losing their shape. Tattoos fading into your skin, reminding you of different times. Times when those tattoos would’ve meant something. An eagle, a globe, and an anchor. Semper Fi. Nothing but blue lines now, wrapping around your arms like ivy overtaking a statue.
First time Benny saw the ink on my forearm, we were trying to keep each other warm while those teenagers broke beer bottles against the other side of our living room wall. Had to keep quiet, holding each other. That’s when she noticed the lower fluke of the anchor, all fuzzy now, diving down deep into my skin. Gave her something to trace her finger along. Watched her run her pinkie over the lower hemisphere of the globe.
Bet it’s cold there right about now, she said, pointing to where Antarctica would’ve been.