Breath on Embers by Anne Calhoun Page A

near the corners. She noted the fire hydrant nearly buried in a drift as she opened the side door and took the stairs to the basement kitchen.
    The rest of Cooper Bensonhurst’s volunteers, wearing matching red aprons, were already gathered. Some chopped vegetables for a salad while others monitored commercial-sized pots of water needed to boil macaroni for goulash. Two men supervised large pans where hamburger sizzled and in the fellowship hall still more people opened tables and removed chairs from rolling storage units. The tables where they’d serve the meal were already set up and covered with festive red-and-green plaid cloths. The dessert table was filled to overflowing with a massive variety of cookies and bars. Thea hung up her coat, then pushed a plate of chocolate brownies decorated with red-and-white-iced candy canes forward to set her shortbread into a spot at the back of the table, then returned to the kitchen.
    Nancy Watkins, the volunteer coordinator, was a short, stout woman who ran the agriculture commodities division. “Hi, Thea. Have any trouble getting here?”
    “No,” she said. “I live one stop uptown, so it was an easy trip.”
    “Where are the presents?”
    “A friend with a van is bringing them in a little while,” she said. “Where can I help?”
    “Feel like washing dishes again this month?” Nancy asked ruefully.
    The kitchen, like many in Manhattan, didn’t have a dishwasher. They used biodegradable plates and silverware to feed the guests, but all the pots, pans and utensils had to be washed by hand. It was a dirty, messy job lifting heavy pots and pans into hot water in sinks too low to be comfortable.
    “I’m happy to do it,” she said. No one else ventured back there, and she could listen to music while doing a job that had to be done.
    “It’s all yours, then,” Nancy said. “Grab an apron. We need to wash apples and butter bread slices before we start the dishes, though.”
    She joined a group of volunteers discussing last-minute shopping as they slathered butter on whole wheat bread, but took a quick break to hurry up the steps leading to the back door and check for Ronan. The cold air bit through her fleece pullover as she peered up and down Eighty-Fifth Street in search of Ronan or a rented van. No sign of him where the guests gathered, taking numbers in order of their arrival to determine who went through the line first. The line extended down the long block between Park and Madison, homeless men and women, families on reduced incomes waiting for a free meal. The volunteers asked no questions about income or assets, just assumed that if you were willing to stand in line in temps in the teens for food, you probably needed it. A herd of kids burned off energy transforming a snow mound into a fort. Two dads stood by, keeping the play fairly contained so traffic continued to move on the sidewalk. The line was quiet, orderly, exuding the hard-won patience of people without the money to demand immediate service.
    As she walked back down the steps, into the basement fellowship room, Thea pulled her phone from her apron pocket and sent him a text.
    Are you on your way?
    His reply came before she pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
    Yes. Short delay, but we’re on it. I’ll be there.
    In the kitchen the food was ready to serve. The volunteer coordinator spoke to the clustered volunteers, going through the routine for the benefit of newcomers.
    “We gave them numbers based on when they arrived, so the door person just needs to make sure no one’s jumping the line. Each person gets one helping of everything, seconds when everyone’s been served. Help the elderly folks and parents with kids to the tables. Thea, are the presents on their way?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Good. We’ll hand them out after everyone’s eaten. An anonymous donor bought vouchers for turkey dinners at the Common Pantry. We’ll hand those out to family units while the kids get