EFFIE GOES ON, getting worked up. She sounds just the way she used to sound twenty years ago, when at some point in any discussion she was sure to begin talking about injustice of whatever kind she currently found most outrageous. Outrage was always there, the way a grudge is always there for some people, an undercurrent to every other emotion, even happiness, even lust. Matthew has missed part of what she said, but now he hears her saying, “You know, don’t you, that any bread we leave in this basket will go to the Pine Street Inn?”
“What’s that?” asks Jack.
“A shelter for homeless men.”
“Are those the guys my mother used to call bums?” asks Jack, wearing a look of mock naïveté. Matthew wonders whether he has any idea how dangerous is the ground he’s treading.
“Probably so, Jack,” says Effie. “Probably so.” There’s a bitter, stiff smile on her face.
“I’m sorry,” says Jack, and he means it. “Go on.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Effie says. “It’s just that it’s, well, it’s just so queer. I mean, the poor eat our leftovers. I mean it. Really. Not what’s actually left on our plates — though I did read a letter to Dear Abby from some old woman who said she and her husband could never finish the meals they got in restaurants and she wanted some group or other to send their leavings to the poor. God! Scrapings! But, you know, it’s not such a big step from what really happens. I represent this outfit called Boston Gleaners? They collect food — leftovers, literally — and distribute it to soup kitchens, rehab centers, shelters. You’d be amazed at what they get. Anything that isn’t actually put onto a plate, that kind of leftover. Fancy bakeries will not sell day-old goods, you know. Heaven forbid. At the end of the day they take away trash bags full of rolls, bread, croissants, for God’s sake. This is our social welfare system! The poor eat the crumbs from under our table. Hey, I’m part of it, you know? I’m helping to make this ass-backwards system work. I’m a fucking sucker. We all are. I have this fantasy — of a little cocktail-party conversation?” She juts her chin out, locks her jaw, and burlesques the voice of a moneyed matron. “‘You know, Bradley and I have found the most wonderful way to help feed these people one sees on the street.’”
Jack takes the cue at once; he responds as the matron’s moneyed friend. “‘Oh, really? What is that, dear?’”
“‘Well, Bradley found out that if one doesn’t eat all the rolls that are served to one, they go to the poor. So now, whenever we’re served a basket of rolls, we make a point of leaving one or two uneaten.’”
“‘Is that so?’”
“‘Oh, without fail. It seems such a small sacrifice. But that’s not all. You know Bradley is so clever. Once he caught the spirit, there was just no stopping him, and now he’s come up with something else. Every morning, on his way to the office, he drops our empty cans and bottles into the trash can on the corner so that these people can root them out and cash them in.’”
“‘What a clever idea!’”
“‘Isn’t it though? These people can gather up those cans and feel almost as if they were actually working for their money instead of just begging on the street. I’m sure it gives them a sense of personal dignity.’”
“‘Oh, so am I, dear. So am I.’”
They raise their glasses to Effie’s performance, and she allows herself to laugh.
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