I had started helping out at the kitchen years before on account of my wife, Maria. She was doing casework as a social worker at St. Anthony’s when we first met. Maria was the uncrowned princess of St. Anthony’s; everybody loved her, and she loved me. She had been shot, murdered in a drive-by incident not far from the soup kitchen. We’d been married four years and had two small children. The case has never been solved, and that still tortures me. Maybe that’s what drives me to solve every case I can, no matter how bad the odds.

At St. Anthony’s soup kitchen, I help make sure nobody gets too riled up or causes undue trouble during meals. I’m six-three, around two hundred pounds, and built for peacekeeping, if and when it’s necessary. I can usually ward off trouble with a few quiet words and nonthreatening gestures. Most of these people are here to eat, though, not fight or cause trouble.

I also dish out peanut butter and jelly to anyone who wants seconds or even thirds, of the stuff. Jimmy Moore, the Irish American who runs the soup kitchen with much love and just the right amount of discipline, has always believed in the healing power of p.b. and j. Some of the regulars at the kitchen call me “Peanut Butter Man.” They’ve been doing it for years.

“You don’t look so good today,” said a short ample woman who’s been coming to the kitchen for the past year or two. I know her name is Laura, and that she was born in Detroit and has two grown sons. She used to work as a housekeeper on M Street in Georgetown, but the family felt she’d gotten too old for the job and let her go with only a couple weeks’ severance and warm words of appreciation.

“You deserve better. You deserve me,” Laura said, and laughed mischievously. “What do you say?”

“Laura, you’re too kind with your compliments,” I said, serving up her usual extra dish. “Anyway, you’ve met Christine. You know I’m already spoken for.”

Laura giggled as she hugged herself with both arms. She had a fine, healthy laugh, even under the circumstances. “A young girl has to dream, you know. Nice to see you, as always.”

“Same to you, Laura. As always, nice to see you. Enjoy the meal.”

“Oh, I do. You can see I do.”

As I said my cheery hellos and dished out heaped portions of peanut butter, I allowed myself to think about Christine. Laura was probably right; maybe I didn’t look so good today. I probably hadn’t looked too terrific for a few days.