As she finished her meal, chatty Jazz turned quiet. The initial excitement of recruiting a partner for her web-based sex business seemed to wane. “We still need to do some serious talking,” Jazz whispered.
“Sure,” Zoie answered, still playing along.
“We can talk later. Want a cigarette?” Jazz asked, producing a flat pink enamel cigarette case. It was half-full.
Zoie hesitated. She’d smoked a few times during the exam week of her last year of law school. Smoking calmed her nerves but later produced a headache. Now she detested smoky places, but she resisted the urge to pooh-pooh Jazz’s offer. “So there’s a place where we can smoke?”
“Sure. This place is strict, but even in jail you get to smoke.” Jazz seemed to speak with authority about incarceration. She opened her cigarette case. “Go ahead; take one. There’s a place to smoke we call the Pen. It’s out on the loading dock. Come on—I’ll show you.”
Bingo. This is the way out—the way to the courtyard. “Yeah, I’ll take one,” Zoie said, taking a cigarette.
Jazz was about to close the case when Zoie put her hand over it. “Wait. May I have another one? One for now and another one for later.”
“Hey, girl! You must think I’m the store or somethin’.”
“Sorry. When I ran from the park, I had to leave all my stuff behind.”
“So as my grandmother used to say, ‘You ain’t got a pot to piss in.’”
Zoie shrugged and smiled. Her grandmother used to say the same thing.
Jazz smiled back with a bit of a wince from her bruise. “No more parks or street corners for us. Right?”
Zoie nodded in agreement.
“Okay, then. Take two cigarettes. Take three. Just remember you owe me. And when you get your emergency check, remember it’s Salem Ultra Lights.”
Zoie took another cigarette. A plan had percolated in her head. Once she knew how to get to the outside smoking area, the second cigarette would serve as her excuse to go outside later that night. She rolled her extra cigarette in a napkin and put it in her pocket and held the other in her hand.
While disposing the remains of their dinner, someone caught Jazz’s eye. “See that woman?” she said, directing Zoie’s attention to a thin brown-skinned woman with a stately air, who’d just entered the room. “That’s Sister Te. She runs the place.”
Ugh! Just my luck. It was the woman from Zoie’s earlier ugly encounter in the Shelter’s lobby. It was Jahi’s ex and Tarik’s mother. In the distance Zoie could see Sister Te’s chiseled cheeks. She was a haughty beauty with an air of the exotic and an air of all business. So this is Jahi’s type. Zoie felt no jealousy. Like a week-old bouquet of flowers, her feelings for Jahi were dying at the rate of a bloom an hour. Now all she felt was anger and disgust. As Sister Te moved in their direction, Zoie looked away.
“Do you have food left?” Sister Te asked the volunteer who had placed a final pan onto a stainless-steel cart.
“Sure, and peach cobbler,” answered the volunteer. “The ladies aren’t that hungry today.”
Sister Te took a Styrofoam plate from the stack and crouched effortlessly in her tight jeans to peek under the aluminum lids.
“Come on. I’m gonna introduce you,” Jazz said, grabbing Zoie’s arm.
“That’s okay,” Zoie said, holding back. “I’ll meet her later…maybe after we have a smoke.”
“We got to do it now. She ain’t gonna be around later. Come on. She’s a good one to know. She’ll help you get your emergency cash.”
“Oh,” said Zoie, taking a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
They went to stand near Sister Te, who had found a piece of chicken and was now chatting with two of the residents. She turned to Jazz. “Hello, Jazz,” Sister Te said. “Who’s your friend?”
“This here is Anna.”
“Welcome to the women’s section of the Shelter, Anna. I’m Makeda Tesfaneshe, one of the Shelter’s directors, but everyone calls me Sister Te.” Her accent was faint. Strangely, she didn’t offer a hand, though only one hand held her plate. Perhaps her free hand had touched the greasy chicken. “You’re the one who arrived today, aren’t you?”
“Yes, “Zoie replied, keeping her voice low. She didn’t look directly at the woman, but she could feel Sister Te give her a once-over. Zoie knew that if she locked eyes with those evil eyes, she’d be recognized.
“Yes, Bea told me about your situation,” Sister Te said. “I guess you know we’re at capacity. Under these circumstances you’re fortunate to be here.”
“I know,” Zoie replied flatly. “Thanks for making a place for me.”
“Have you stayed here before? I never forget a face. Hmm. There’s something familiar about you.”
“No. I’ve never been homeless.”
“Well, don’t despair, dear. Homelessness can happen to anyone. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what you do with the opportunities to improve your situation that counts. Let’s see how we can help you.” Then Sister Te directed her attention back to Jazz. “And how many times have you stayed here?”
“Three,” replied Jazz soberly.
“Hmm. I think it’s more like four. And this will be the last time, right?”
Jazz shrugged.
“We’ve got to find you a permanent, safe situation. Right?”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Jazz answered.
“Anna, we’ll talk some more tomorrow. I’m glad Jazz is helping you get settled.”
Sister Te walked away, stopping briefly to speak with a few residents as she exited the Great Room. When she disappeared down the hall, Zoie was relieved. Though Sister Te had failed to recognize her, the woman was clearly suspicious. Soon this woman would recall their prior meeting. Surely Tarik had told his mother that the woman she’d collided with near the reception desk was the brash lawyer from the Crayton Foundation, who was in search of Jahi.
But the infamous Sister Te didn’t seem like the monster Zoie had imagined. Those eyes that had met hers earlier in the day were intimidating. A monster? Sister Te had an air of authority, even dominance. But making her a monster was a stretch. Still, she couldn’t envision Jahi romantically connected to this woman. But then she couldn’t envision a lot about Jahi. How could she have been so wrong about him?
Jazz guided Zoie through a door next to the computer center. Zoie spotted the door when her eyes originally scanned the Great Room. But since there was no exit sign, she believed the door to be a closet. Jazz led her down a short poorly lit hall and past a crowded storage area complete with windows. The final door to the outside did have an exit sign. When she passed through that door, the hot evening air hit Zoie in the face in the form of a puff of smoke. The sun had just dipped behind the tall trees leading out of the courtyard, but there was still plenty of daylight. Two women finishing their smokes leaned on the brick wall. They introduced themselves as Beverly and Janet. Jazz seemed to know them but was strangely quiet until they left.
The Pen, as it was called, was an approximate thirty-by-twelve-foot chain-link enclosure situated on the loading dock. It was built like a cage; one side consisted of the Shelter’s brick wall, and the other sides, including the high ceiling, were formed by heavy chain link. At one time, perhaps, it had served as secure outdoor storage. Now it served the women of the Shelter as their protected smoking area.
Surely no one could get in or out of the Pen without either going back through the Shelter or leaving through its chain-link door. That door, which led to the steps and the courtyard floor, was shut and probably locked. One could always cut through chain links with special tools, but that would require a local hardware store and a man with muscle. Zoie wondered how, when the time came, she would make it out to meet Maynard. Jazz offered her a light.
Zoie took a drag but avoided inhaling. Somehow she managed not to choke. Leaning against the brick wall, Jazz gazed at the sky as if she were dreaming. Then she just began to talk. She’d been thinking a lot about this online
sex business. Her ideas flowed like a stream of consciousness: the use of PayPal, Craigslist, and cameras that allowed for interaction with the customers. Naughty video chats. Jazz knew about all this from her techie customer, the one who would set up the operation and maintain it. Zoie wanted to ask what percentage of the business this tech guy wanted. Then she thought better of bringing up the money end.
Jazz kept rapping to the sky about the whole deal. Zoie grunted a few agreements but listened with half an ear. Her mind was focused on her most immediate problem: how to get out of the Pen and down to the courtyard.
In the courtyard the two older-make cars were still parked, along with the Shelter’s van. In the latest annual report of the Shelter, the van was supposed to be a recently purchased and “gently used” model. In contrast, this van had indeed endured a hard life, riddled with dings and tires that looked rounded by road wear. In the courtyard off the far end of the Pen, an insect swarm hovered in the last beam of sunlight, above the overflowing garbage dumpster. Zoie was glad that the insects seemed content on their side of the chain link.
While Jazz was preoccupied puffing on her cigarette and chatting at the sky, Zoie decided to verify her assumptions about her escape options. Nonchalantly she moved to the chain-link door and applied downward pressure on the lever-style handle. As she suspected, the door was locked. It needed a key to open it.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Jazz asked, waking from her reverie.
“I just wanted to make sure it was locked,” Zoie replied, moving away from the door.
“Yeah, they better keep it locked. Sometimes you can see those creeps from the men’s side out here. One time one of those freaks came up and stuck his finger through this hole.” Jazz demonstrated by sticking her finger through the chain-link fence. “He said, ‘Give me a cigarette, sweet cheeks, and I’ll give you some of this.’ Then he shook his dick at me.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yeah! I was out here by myself. But don’t worry. They keep it locked. They can’t get in.”
“Good,” replied Zoie. And we can’t get out.
Chapter 42
I See the Light
With no more Sister Te encounters, the rest of the evening at the Shelter was without incident. And with Jazz glued to Zoie’s side, the other women at the Shelter kept their distance. It was as if Jazz was a Shelter enforcer who’d claimed Zoie as her personal charge. Theirs was certainly an odd relationship, one that Zoie found no reason to challenge.
The Great Room’s TV was tuned in to a marathon airing of the housewives of some city or another. Zoie settled down to watch the program from a second-tier chair behind the couch. The ever-present Jazz was beside her. Though Zoie’s eyes were directed at the screen, her mind was focused on her plans for later that night, when hopefully the other women would be asleep. She found it ironic that the Shelter residents enjoyed a show about self-absorbed women living in mini-mansions. No matter the situation, hope for a better life reigned eternal.
In a half-lucid moment, Zoie promised to let Jazz give her a makeup job and style her hair. She agreed to the makeover so that the young woman would cease pestering her about fixing the “mess” that was her hair. Little did Jazz know that Zoie was counting on not being around for the grand makeover.
Zoie was beginning to feel guilty about lying to Jazz. She truly liked the young woman, even though she considered her plans for a future career in online sex misguided, at best. Jazz was looking for a friend, and Zoie momentarily filled the need. Hence a one-sided bond was established, creating a relationship that far exceeded Zoie’s expectations. Earlier in the Pen, Jazz shared the intimate details of her previous life. Zoie listened in horror as the young woman revealed her abusive past: How she escaped an incestuous relationship with her father, which started when she was six. How her mother eventually rejected her, choosing to believe the husband rather than the daughter. How, after leaving home at thirteen, she ended up in the clutches of yet another abusive man. Now, many years later, Jazz had broken ties with her pimp. However, exactly who’d broken up with whom was a bit murky.
Most of the folks in Jazz’s life had betrayed and misused her. While the women in the picture were not without fault, the main culprits had been men. It was no wonder that Jazz feared men. Why Jazz seemed to trust this technical wiz, who promised to help with the porn site, Zoie couldn’t fathom. If Jazz had her way, no man would ever touch her again. In her vision for a new life, sex would still serve as her meal ticket, relegated to a contained fantasy, a virtual service to excite men from a protected distance—thanks to technology. After what Jazz had been through, who could blame her? Jazz’s miseries made Zoie’s own mishaps with men seem trivial. When Jazz finished her disturbing account of life, Zoie hugged her and promised a brighter future for both of them.
Now Zoie was about to be the next one to betray the young woman. Jazz was both brave and naïve to open up her painful life to a stranger. Zoie, however, had her own serious troubles. Her life and the lives of her loved ones were being threatened. Ending that threat was the reason she’d come to the Shelter. Unfortunately, the young woman had become emotionally attached to her. Learning that Zoie had used her would be another cut in Jazz’s already-scarred life. Zoie hugged Jazz and whispered promises of a better life, but all the while she was thinking of the coming betrayal.
Sorry, Jazz.
It was tight in Zoie’s assigned dorm room, with five women and the extra cot. After checking the situation, she and Jazz stayed in the Great Room until the others were in their bunks before returning to the room.
“Cruz found a shelter that takes families. Now she can be with her kids,” Jazz told Zoie. “She’ll be gone tomorrow.”
So will I, Zoie thought.
In the tight room, the women talked for a while about their day, the Shelter’s new social worker, and the oppressive heat outside. “Thank God this place is air conditioned,” said one of the women. None of the conversations were deep or soul searching. It was as if discussions of prospects for permanent housing were verboten. Usually inquisitive, Zoie kept quiet. The other women reciprocated by not asking their newest roommate any questions about how long she’d been on the streets or what had happened to put her there in the first place. No one even asked whether she had kids. Perhaps those questions were topics for the morning. Discussing life’s next steps required energy. Now they were all tired.
According to the Shelter’s rules, the dorm’s lights were to be out at 10:30 p.m. The women drifted off to sleep seemingly glad for the silence and the sense of solitude in the tight space. Only Jazz stayed awake, flipping through her celebrity magazines, aided by a clip-on book light. In the silence she mouthed the song being piped into her head through her earbuds.
An air-conditioner vent was right above Zoie’s cot. Still dressed in her latest street duds, Zoie pulled her covers up to her neck as a shield against the draft. At least the cold would help her stay awake. She didn’t know how long she’d have to wait for Maynard’s signal. If the signal came before she was free to look into the courtyard, she might miss it. After all, Jazz was still awake. Then again, Maynard’s signal might be hours away. She’d just have to remain vigilant through the night. For a moment Zoie thought that crazy Maynard might not come through. Dismissing the thought as defeatist, she hoped that Jazz would soon join the others in slumberland.
Zoie detected a soft snore coming from Jazz’s bunk.
Finally!
Jazz’s book light fell to the side. Both the light and the attached magazine hung precariously on the edge of the bunk, the light illuminating the floor. Jazz, unaware, rolled to her side and faced the wall. Zoie sat up in her cot and checked the status of each of her other dorm mates. She could only see lumps under blankets in the two top bunks, and the woman who occupied the lower bunk opposite to Jazz had been asleep for a couple of hours. Erratic sleep sounds were coming from the four bunks. Zoie played mind games with the snoring sounds. Each sound was differen
t in intensity and rhythm. Amazingly, the sounds didn’t collide. Concentrating on the snoring was enough to keep her awake.
Assured that her roommates were asleep, Zoie pulled back the curtain to peer through the blinds. With the dark room behind her and the courtyard lit by the moon and lights beyond, things looked clearer. A few lights shone in the men’s section. Directly across the yard, a light was on in what she thought to be Jahi’s office. In that window a large male figure paced back and forth with what looked to be a phone to his ear. The head of dreadlocks was unmistakable.
Jahi!
Zoie felt a new anxiety. Though she hadn’t completely removed Jahi from her mind, somehow she’d nullified him as a distraction and relegated him to neither good nor evil. A nothing. Unable to affect her. Or so she thought. She hadn’t expected to see him. Now, even with the distance of the courtyard and the cover of the dark separating them, she was chilled. His being at the Shelter could be a complication. His presence was more likely to hurt her than to help. She’d hoped he would be gone. Perhaps he’d returned her many calls. She’d find out when she retrieved her phone from the locker. Mesmerized, she watched as Jahi continued to pace unaware that she was watching from across the courtyard. He finally sat, putting his back to the window and his feet on his desk.
What now? She had to recalibrate.
Zoie drew back from the window, leaving Jahi and whatever he was up to for someone else to watch. She got up and turned off Jazz’s book light and then put it and the magazine at the foot of the young woman’s bunk. The room’s red night-light provided enough light to navigate the room. Back in her cot, Zoie buried her face in her blanket and let silent tears stream down her cheeks. How could she let herself be hurt again?
What Simon Didn’t Say Page 33
