Greedy Givers

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6A few days after he had sparred with Professor Wally Burton on the phone, Cuddy left his office and headed to the Dilworth Park to catch the subway/elevated Market-Frankford Line. As he stood on the underground platform at City Hall station, with the commuters checking their watches and rubbernecking down the track to see if the next train was coming, his mind raced with worry. Soon, Professor Burton would bring the foundation crashing down, but until that happened, Cuddy still had time to continue his work. He had decided to take care of his favorite charities first. When the train arrived, he squeezed past the crush of bodies off-loading from the train car and lowered himself onto one of the blue, plastic, molded seats. By the time the motorman had steered through the underground tunnel, stopping at several stations along the way, and out onto the elevated tracks heading east, Cuddy had switched concerns and was deep in thought about his and CeCe’s troubled childhoods. Returning to Kensington always triggered sad memories of struggle and loss.

He took out his Bible and opened it to the dog-eared page where he had left off reading that morning. He had no way of knowing how many times he had read that little, vinyl, green book from cover to cover but was sure it was well past one hundred. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he could visualize every single page, every psalm and proverb. He owed his gift to the most harrowing event in his life, the incident where he had found his purpose. Since the attack, he had been aiding others in finding theirs by sharing the word of God. That’s all he had wanted to do—help people by raising funds for important causes.

He disembarked at Somerset Station and took the stairs down to the street level where he encountered a man with a dog lying out in front of the station exit. He believed homelessness in the United States was a sign that something was terribly wrong with society. The disheveled man with matted, blond hair and sunken cheeks spoke in a rush, urgently begging for money. The homeless guy could have been Cuddy’s brother, Patrick, or CeCe’s mother, Sherry, desperately pleading for strangers to give them cash so they could buy drugs. He scanned the handwritten cardboard sign the propped against the wall. Dog is hungry. So am I. Need money for food.

Cuddy knelt and asked permission to pet the German shepherd mix who, in spite of the circumstances, looked well cared for. He suspected the pup was kept for protection on the mean streets of Kensington as well as to pry sympathy and pocket change from those who were more concerned for animals than humans.

“I got to run an errand. When I come back, if you’re still here, I’ll take you to get something to eat.”

“Man, I need money now.” The homeless guy stuck out his hand.

“I can’t do that.” Cuddy shook his head. “I’m headed to Salida del Sol, to the recovery center. I would be happy to escort you there. I know the guy who runs the clinic—”

The man scowled, threw up his hands, and turned away. “s**t. Man, I need money.”

In this area, food was never the problem. When Cuddy had worked as a d**g counselor at a clinic on the corner of Kensington and Cambria, there were plenty of groups that came around to feed the d**g addicts who populated the area. That clinic had closed, but there were plenty of clinics and food banks in the area to serve the community. Salida del Sol was five blocks north of the el stop, conveniently located on East Indiana across from McPherson Square. Help was not the issue. It was available if and when those in the grip of their addiction were ready.

***

The receptionist spotted him as soon as he walked through the door and gave him an enthusiastic smile.

“Mr. Cuddy, we didn’t expect you so soon,” said the lovely young woman with a thick Spanish accent sitting at the front desk. “Please, if you could take a seat for a moment and I will let Reverend Tejada know you are here. He’s in his office.”

Instead of buzzing him on the phone, she sprang from her seat behind the counter and jogged to the back. Cuddy chuckled to himself. When the rehab clinic applied for additional funding, the staff had been advised about the possibility of New Visions’ making an impromptu site visit. It appeared to him that a plan had been put in place for when he showed. While he waited for her to return and escort him to Reverend Tejada’s office, he looked around at the improvements the rehab clinic had made with the initial funding they had received from the New Visions. They had certainly made good use of the money. The first thing he had noticed when he approached the center as he walked over from Somerset Station was the new entrance sign. The name Salida del Sol Recovery Center was highlighted by the painted image of a bright and beautiful sun. The interior improvements were dramatic too; what used to be mismatched and soiled furniture were now comfortable and colorful pieces in a welcoming reception area. He couldn’t wait to hear all about the enhanced services to clients, so much more important than cosmetic fixes that the clients nevertheless also deserved.

As he strolled around the room, smiling and nodding at the young father waiting patiently with his infant son resting in his arms, Cuddy detected that news of his unannounced visit had quickly spread and created a stampede of activity—he could see across the partial dividing wall separating the front room from the rest of the office that employees were scurrying about, tidying their workspaces by moving files and clearing off desktops.

Soon, Reverend Tejada came barreling out from the back of the center with his hand extended. He grabbed Cuddy’s right hand and began pumping it at the same time his other hand patted Cuddy on his shoulder.

“What a surprise. Oh my.” The reverend continued to pump his hand and patted his back. “We are, of course, always ready for a site visit, but I assumed you would send out someone from your staff to visit us.”

“So, show me around.” Cuddy pointed to the area on the other side of the reception counter. “Let’s see what you’ve done with the place.”

“It will be my honor to show you how much we appreciate the funding we’ve received and the improvements that funding has allowed us to make.”

As they toured the facility, Cuddy thought back to his first job at a similar d**g recovery clinic. It was when that center had to close down due to lack of funding Cuddy had been inspired to begin working with nonprofits to train them how to fundraise and become less dependent on federal grants. His reputation as a skilled fundraiser grew once he was able to convince philanthropist Sir Middleton to personally finance his training sessions under the auspices of the Middleton Symposium. His classes on strategic planning and specialized training in managing operational budgets were invaluable to the do-gooders who wanted to help the community but who lacked the business expertise needed to run their grassroots organizations. He had provided this training as a paid consultant, and then, after convincing more donors to contribute, he had opened the Foundation for New Visions in Giving several years ago.

What he had grown was his life’s work. His commitment to helping those in need was genuine. And now he couldn’t believe that he was responsible for possibly destroying everything that he had so painstakingly built. He brushed away tears that were collecting in the corners of his eyes. Reverend Tejada and his staff, assuming that he was emotional due to their improvements, also shed tears, theirs tears of joy. Cuddy sat in on a group-therapy session and observed the reverend mentoring the young father he’d seen earlier. The father was getting advice on applying for his first on-the-books job. After a nearly two-hour visit, Cuddy let Reverend Tejada know it was time for him to go.

“What you’ve been able to do here is remarkable.” Cuddy’s eyes roamed across the room, stopping and connecting with individual staffers to show how much he appreciated the work they were doing. “As you know, my wife and I appreciate the remarkable work you’re doing here in the Kensington and old Swamp Poodle areas. I hope this recovery center will be able to continue to do good work for years and years to come.”

“And we appreciate the special attention, especially after learning of your personal connection.”

“This area has always been plagued by drugs—first c***k, then meth, now h****n. This community has continuously been hit pretty hard and has changed little over the years.”

“Not for lack of trying. Did you see McPherson Square?”

“Yeah, I noticed that they had cleaned it up. Now at least kids can play without fear that they’ll step on a used needle.”

The reverend sighed. “Or a used condom.”

“But, of course, that only means that the d**g traffic moved somewhere else.”

“Most of them are living under the bridge.”

“Our work is never done.” Cuddy and the Reverend both nodded in consensus.

“So true. Thank you. Let me walk you to your car,” said Tejada.

“I rode the Market-Frankford Line up here.”

“The subway? You?”

“You keep forgetting; I grew up in Kensington. I didn’t get a car or learn how to drive a car until I graduated from Temple U. I didn’t buy my first one until three years after that.”

“Mr. Mullins, you are a remarkable man.”

“No. I’m just Cuddy Mullins from Kensington. Every day, I make sure that I don’t ever forget that.”

“Many of our clients are Puerto Rican, but when you lived here, I guess this wasn’t the case.”

“Not as much, but this area has always been a melting pot of races and cultures brought together, unfortunately, by poverty and d**g addiction—even when I was a kid.”

“Well, I truly believe that Salida del Sol is making a difference here.”

“And I do too. And that’s why you are gonna get that second round of funding.”

Reverend Tejada grabbed Cuddy with both hands and held him close. “Thank you, thank you so much. We won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. But I want to sit down with you before the funding comes through to look over your operation and make sure that we do everything we can to invest in the future.” Cuddy felt a connection to Reverend Tejada that he could never put into words. He and Tejada shared a strong spiritual connection to God.

“You’re a good man, Cuddy Mullins.”

Cuddy stared into his eyes and said, “No matter what happens, I hope you will always believe that.” He shook Reverend Tejada’s hand and left the clinic, strolling back in the direction of the entrance for subway/elevated line.