What Free Cannot Promise

The Panhandle was crowded enough to feel like another sidewalk.

People stood beneath the trees with bowls, paper bags, and dented cups. Others watched the folding table as if looking hard might make the food multiply. A young man played the same three harmonica notes until an older woman told him to stop.

Marcus set down his canvas sack. Two women unpacked bread, apples, and a metal pot. They spread Mnasidika’s red scraps across the table to keep the bread off the damp wood.

— Stay back from the pot, Marcus called. One bowl each until we know what’s left.

A girl with flowers in her hair raised her voice. “It’s free, man. Free means everybody.”

— It means nobody pays, Marcus said. It does not mean the pot is a miracle.

The girl rolled her eyes but stepped back.

Celia stood beside June. Wet grass had soaked through June’s thin shoes.

— I thought California was warm, June said.

— California is large.

— That is not useful.

— It is accurate.

Marcus filled bowls without asking names. A man with a bandaged hand got stew. A woman with a baby took bread and an apple. A boy reached for a second bowl.

— Not yet, Marcus said. Neither have the people behind you.

When June reached the table, the pot was nearly empty. One woman scraped up broth, beans, and carrot. She gave June half a bowl and bread.

— That’s it? June asked.

— That’s what is here.

— I waited.

— So did everybody.

Marcus guided her away before the people behind her could hear more.

— You said there was food.

— There was.

— You said stew.

— There is stew. Marcus looked into her bowl.

June did too. “This is water with a memory.”

Despite himself, Marcus smiled. “Still honest.”

She ate the bread too fast, then slowed down. Celia watched her swallow. June was angry at the bowl, angry at Celia for seeing her hunger, and angry at herself for needing help.

Near the trees, a man in a velvet vest stood on a low wall, shouting about remaking society while a tourist raised a camera.

Marcus looked over. “Don’t they have a zoo?”

— We are creating a new world! the man called.

— Create it where people aren’t waiting for lunch.

A few people laughed. The tourists laughed louder. The man climbed down, offended.

June looked from the cameras to the empty pot. “Is this what people came to see?”

— Some did. Marcus handed her a folded paper. Church pantry two streets over. They may have something later.

— I need a bed.

— I know.

— Not a paper. A bed.

Marcus’s impatience faded. “I can give you names and places to ask. I cannot make a room appear.”

— People said this place took care of its own.

— People say plenty when they want you to come.

The last bowls went out. June put the paper in her bag, her eyes bright though she did not cry.

A young man approached. Celia recognized him from the line, carrying cups from a cardboard box. Dark curls escaped his knitted cap. His clean fringe vest looked almost like a costume.

— You all right? he asked June.

— She’s had lunch, Celia said.

June gave Celia a sharp look. “I can answer.”

— I only asked, he said, raising both hands.

— I’m fine, June said too quickly.

— A few of us are heading toward Haight later. Music, people. You could come.

June glanced at Celia. “Do you know somewhere to sleep?”

He hesitated. “Maybe. Friends are always finding room.”

Celia felt June stiffen at maybe.

— That is not an answer, Celia said.

— It’s more of one than you have, June replied.

The young man took a small square of paper from a matchbook. “This might help you loosen up. Feel less like everybody’s staring.”

Celia stepped closer. “What is it?”

— A little trip.

— Which means?

He smiled. “You don’t need a committee meeting for every experience.”

June looked at the paper, then at the groups drifting past. She had half a bowl of thin stew, two nickels and a penny, and nowhere to go when Celia’s break ended. He was offering more than paper. He was offering a place beside other people.

— You don’t know him, Celia said quietly.

— I know that.

— You don’t know what he gave you.

— I know that too.

— Then don’t take it.

June’s face reddened. “You’ve been telling me what not to do all day.”

— I’ve been trying to keep you from getting hurt.

— And I’m tired of looking like someone who needs keeping.

The young man did not push the paper into her hand. He only held it out.

June took it. “Are you coming with us?”

— Soon, he said. I’ve got friends around.

Celia saw June understand that this was not an answer. Still, June put the paper on her tongue and swallowed.

— June.

— I decided.

The young man smiled, relieved of responsibility. Marcus caught his wrist.

— What was it?

— I don’t know. Somebody gave it to me.

Marcus released him. “Then you’re a fool twice over.”

The young man disappeared toward Haight Street.

For several minutes, June stood with folded arms, trying to look unchanged. Then she turned slowly.

— The trees moved.

— They didn’t, Celia said.

— They’re too far away.

The sounds around them broke apart: a laugh, a harmonica note, paper tearing. June pressed her hands over her ears.

— I don’t like this.

Celia reached for her hand. June jerked away.

— Don’t touch me.

— All right.

June stared at her fingers. “They look wrong.”

Marcus stepped into her view. “Look at me. You’re in the Panhandle. We’re going to sit down.”

— I need to go.

— Where?

— I don’t know.

— That’s why we sit.

A uniformed officer stood near a parked car. He was not watching them, but June saw him.

— They’ll take me, she whispered.

— No one is taking you, Marcus said. We are not calling them.

The officer turned his head. June backed into Celia.

Celia held her hands where June could see them. “Your shoes are on the ground. The grass is wet. You’re cold, not falling.”

— I am falling.

— You’re leaning. There’s a difference.

Marcus crouched. “Breathe in when I lift my hand. Out when I lower it.”

June missed the first breath, then followed him.

— We need the clinic, Celia said.

Marcus nodded. “Clayton Street. Smith’s place.”

— No hospital, June said.

— It’s a clinic, Celia told her. They help people through this.

They walked slowly, Marcus on June’s left and Celia on her right.

At 558 Clayton, a hand-painted sign read HAIGHT-ASHBURY FREE MEDICAL CLINIC. The steps were crowded. A girl coughed into a handkerchief beside a man holding his shirt against a cut arm. Someone opened the door, and three more people pressed forward.

Inside, wet wool, disinfectant, and too many bodies filled the waiting room. A woman curled around her stomach. A volunteer guided a shaking man toward a quieter corner. Another called for clean bandages.

A nurse came to June. “What did you take?”

— I don’t know.

— That’s all right. Alcohol?

— No.

— Any injuries?

June shook her head.

— Good. Sit here. Keep your eyes open if you can.

June looked at Celia. “Are you staying?”

Celia thought of Mnasidika, Mrs. Bell’s jeans, Peggy’s clock, and the wages that paid for her room.

— For a while, she said.

The nurse crouched beside June. “Breathe slowly. You’re frightened, but frightened is not the same as dying.”

— I wanted to belong.

— Right now, your job is to breathe.

Celia sat beside her. June caught the edge of Celia’s work coat.

Across the room, a tired man told another patient, “Smith opened this place June seventh. Feels like half the city found it by June eighth.”

— Not half, the other man said. Just everybody who needs something.

Celia looked at the line by the door. The clinic was still new enough that the paint on its sign looked fresh. It was already carrying more fear, illness, and bad luck than its rooms could hold.

People waited with cuts, coughs, stomach trouble, cold bodies, and private worries. A volunteer passed June water, then hurried to a woman calling near the desk.

After a while, June said, “I thought everybody here knew what they were doing.”

Marcus leaned against the wall, tired enough to stop performing certainty.

— No, he said. Most of us are improvising.

June’s breathing settled, though she still held Celia’s coat.

— Don’t leave yet, she whispered.

Celia covered June’s hand with her own.

— I’m here, she said, though she knew she could not stay forever.