The young man greeted her with a nice smile when her turn came.
“You have a room?”
“Yes, smoking or non?”
They went through the routine, with her growing more weary by the second. When he asked for her address, she gave the one at The Frederick, for she had no other.
When he asked for a card, she handed him her Visa and shifted from one foot to the other. Why had she insisted on wearing heels on a trip like this? Even though they were only two inches, right now they felt like four. Her legs ached, her shoulders felt like she’d been pulling that suitcase for a week, and some demon was stabbing pins in her feet. Hatpins.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but your card was declined.”
“Declined! Why, that cannot be. Run it through again.” She pursed her lips. “Please.”
He shook his head but did as she asked. When her third and last card was declined, she sagged against the counter.
“But I don’t understand.”
“Would you like to call your bank and see what’s wrong?”
Was he being sarcastic? She looked back at him, but he seemed sincere.
“There are phones right over there.”
“Th-thank you.” The space across the lobby looked like a mile.
She carefully called each card. The answer was the same. “I’m sorry, but that card is over the limit and cannot be used.”
She set the receiver in the cradle and leaned back against the wall. What could she do?
Blessed Virgin, if I ever needed help, I need it now. Where can I go? I can’t sit here in the lobby. Another call to Gregor’s phone yielded only the same answer.
Do not cry, you old fool! Something terrible has happened to him.Had there been a plane crash? That wouldn’t be in the papers on the rack today. She needed to see a television. Watch the news? Could one call to see if a plane had crashed?
The war in her head and heart drained all her energy as she staggered to a chair and sat down. What can I do? Where can I go? Like a gerbil on an exercise wheel, her thoughts went nowhere. Her stomach knotted; heartburn gnawed at her esophagus. Surely I’m having a heart attack. If I have a heart attack, they’ll call an ambulance. I’ll have a place to sleep. You silly old fool. No, something has happened to him. Gregor loves me.
“Ma’am … ma’am … ma’am.” Someone was tapping her shoulder.
Gregor, no, he wouldn’t call her … ma’am. She tried to open her eyes, but the weights holding them closed were so heavy.
“Ma’am … ma’am, are you all right?”
She nodded and won the battle with her eyelids. Straightening, she swallowed and looked around. The young man from behind the desk stood in front of her.
“Please, is there someone I can call for you? You cannot stay here. I’m so sorry.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid someone was coming for him.
“I—May I use the rest room?”
“Yes, of course. It’s down that hall.”
“Thank you.” Clarice walked as though she were in a fog, unable to see more than one step at a time. Two steps too fast, and she might pitch over the cliff.
After using the facilities, she washed her hands and peered into the mirror.
Her eye makeup was smeared, her powder looking like a distressed finish on antique furniture. She applied lipstick, more by feel than sight, took two steps, and remembered how her feet hurt. Sitting on a padded bench, she removed her heels, stuck them in her suitcase, and pulled out a pair of walking shoes. If she had to walk all night, at least her feet would not hurt so terribly.
She trundled her cases out the door and into real fog, the San Francisco kind that seeped into the bones and broke the will. She fastened the closures on her coat and struck out for the street. With her shoulder bag banging against her side, she stopped again and unbuttoned her fur coat. Taking her arm out of one sleeve, she put the strap over her head, and with the bag under her arm, she shoved her arm back in the sleeve and closed the coat. With the collar turned up, she felt warmer than a moment ago. At least she was doing something.
Was everything in this blasted city on a hill? She paused in a doorway, out of the wind.
“Keep movin’, lady, this here’s mine.” The voice came from down by her feet.
“What?” Something bumped her ankle. She started, stifled a scream, and leaped out onto the sidewalk again. She dragged her suitcase, bumping over curbs, stepping around sleeping forms covered by papers, blankets, rags. A dog growled at her.
Hearing footsteps behind her, she tried to pick up her pace. Was she being followed? Were there no police?
“Hey, lady, ya’ got a dollar, change, anything to help a … ”
She staggered off without responding. Keep going, keep going.Going uphill set her to panting and puffing. Her shoulder ached from dragging the weight. Let it go. She clenched the handle with all her might. From streetlight to streetlight, she staggered as if drunk, finally to lean against a wall, unable to go any farther.
“Hey, get that old broad.” The voice almost penetrated her inner fog that drifted like the silver mist around her.
“Git outta here. You git!” The voice roared out of nowhere, followed by the sound of hard objects striking something softer, screaming profanities, and shoe soles slapping against concrete.
Clarice huddled into her coat, making herself as small as possible.
“You all right, there?” The voice of a thousand cigarettes and an ocean of booze grated in her ears. When she failed to answer, the voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. “You keep movin’, or they’ll strip you nekkid.”
“I-I cannot.”
“You ain’t from these streets. What brung you here?”
“He didn’t come.”
“Ah, a man. More trouble than they’re worth.” Her cackle made Clarice shiver.
“I-I don’t know where to go.” She forced the words past a throat clogged with the moisture she’d been sucking in.
“Where you from?”
“Florida, Miami.”
“I alles wanted to see Florida.”
God, if only I were there. So heavy. Eyes, head, if only to melt down into the cold cement that was now eating into her posterior, even through a fur coat.
“Ya heard of J House?”
“I’ve never heard of anything.”
“Run by woman named Hope. You go there. Shell find a place for you.”
“Why don’t you go there?”
“Ah, ain’t no hope for me. Can’t abide by the rules.”
“Rules?” A shudder racked her, clattering her teeth, knocking her knees.
“No drinking, gotta be sober. Life’s hard enough drunk, let alone sober.”
“I see.” Clarice sniffed but hadn’t enough energy to dig into her purse for a tissue.
“Na, you don’t see. You get to Hope, you hear?”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s AA, ain’t that a—?”
“AA?”
“You go on to see Hope.”
“Where?”
“Ask one of the coppers. One will come by soon. Be out on the curb. Wave. You don’t look like one of the ladies.”
“How do you know what I look like?”
“Don’t, but I can guess.”
Clarice leaned forward, looking both ways on the street. “There’s a white car coming.”
“Be ready.” AA gave Clarice a push. “Get you on out there.”
Clarice used the wall as a support to lever herself to her feet. Clutching the handle of her case, she staggered to the corner, right under the streetlight.
“Help, please help me!”
The car, with a light bar on top, pulled over to the curb. “What do you need, ma’am?”
“Please, sir, I’m from out of town and I’m lost and AA said I should go to see Hope at … at, oh, I don’t remember. Some place.”
One of the officers got out of the car and came to stand beside her. “Your name, ma’am?”
<
br /> “Clarice—er Mrs. Van Dam. It’s a long story and not a nice one.”
“Where you from?”
“Miami.”
“You want to go to J House?”
“I-I have no money for a hotel.”
“Get in.” He opened the rear door and handed her in, followed by her case. “How you got this far without being robbed is beyond me.”
“Grace of God, sir. Grace of God. And an angel named AA.”
“I’m sure … ah … Annie’s not been called an angel in this life.”
“She has now.” When I get help, I’ll help her any way I can.
“What? What?”
“Were here, ma’am. Let’s get you inside.” The policeman shook her arm gently.
“Here? Where?” Clarice blinked again, and the last few frightening hours came sneaking back like the fog that dimmed the streetlamps. “I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” She thought she remembered answering their questions.
“That you did. And you’ll have a bed here to do so again. You need a hand?”
“No, no, thank you. I can manage.” But when she put any weight on her feet, they screamed as if they’d been sliced. She swallowed and wiggled her toes, bending her ankles, anything to get the circulation going again. She felt for her purse, still under her arm where it belonged, and scooted sideways, now ignoring the pain in her feet. Holding out a hand, she allowed the officer to assist her out and clung to his arm to get her balance. “You’d think I’d been drinking.”
“Many do.” He pointed her up some broad stairs. “This here is Casa de Jesus, better known as J House. Run by a husband-and-wife team, Hope and Roger Benson. It’s a women’s shelter. They’ll get you some help.”
“How can I begin to thank you?”
The other officer came around, and they each took an arm and helped her up the steps, then pushed a lighted button by the door. “This used to be a church.”
“I see.” But really I don’t. Theres as much fog in my mind as is floating around out here.
They waited a bit, the walkie-talkies on the officers’ belts sounding more like static than any real messages, but at one point the man on her right spoke into the microphone on his shoulder.
The door finally opened, and a man who’d obviously just gotten out of bed ushered them into the entry hall.
“Sorry to wake you. Not your normal company, Benson. We got an older lady who’s been locked out of her new house and all her accounts frozen. She needs a bed.”
“Hi, I’m Roger Benson.” He held out his hand.
“Clarice Van Dam.” Somewhere she’d dropped the Mrs. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“We’ll be on our way, then. Thanks, Roger.” The policemen said good-bye to her, too, and headed back to their patrol car.
“You can tell me your story in the morning.” Roger took the handle of her suitcase and slung her carry-on over his shoulder. “Can you walk all right?”
“Easier since I’m not carrying anything. Thank you.”
“Nothing fancy here; the one bed we have is in the dorm. All our girls are far younger than you, and we reserve the private bedrooms for mothers with children. Breakfast will be from six thirty until eight, but if you sleep in, we’ll find you something to eat. There are showers and bathrooms through that door.” He paused at the top of the stairs for her to catch up. “Sorry, can’t turn on the lights, but I’ll keep the door open so you have light from the hall. Put your cases under the bed. Your eyes will adjust, and there’s light from the windows too.”
“This will be just fine. Sure beats sitting against the wall with AA.”
“Ah, Annie sent you.”
“You know her?”
“Of course. Long story that I’ll tell you in the morning.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. You are safe here. Good night.”
Never one for fussing, Clarice slid her cases under the bed, spread her coat across the bottom in the hopes that her feet might finally get warmed up again, and, laying her glasses on the small table beside the bed, tucked her purse under the pillow and crawled under the covers, too weary, too foggy to care about a nightgown or washing her makeup off. Surely, when she woke up, this would all prove to be a far too vivid nightmare.
Staggering through the fog, dodging hands that sought to drag her into lairs, rain, hills, dark, darker, streetlamps glowing amber in the dense mist, keep going, keep going. Fighting to catch her breath, Clarice battled her way out of the dream to find herself in a bed she’d never known, a room she’d never seen. Gregor, where are you? She flopped back on the flat pillow. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what has become of me?
“Shh, let her sleep.”
Clarice heard the whisper and the tiptoeing feet going away, but opening her eyes took more effort than she could marshal at the moment. Besides, floating in the fog seemed far more appropriate for now. But when her bladder insisted on attention, she forced her eyes open and let her gaze wander. Water spots, tan surreal art on the ceiling, a mural painted on the far wall, a window high above her bed, long room, two beds, and an aisle wide. Too many beds to count, and where was the bathroom?
Somewhere children were reciting, a small someone was crying, a dog was barking, a car horn was honking, a bus was shushing to a stop, then roaring to start again, a phone was ringing. The sign above the arch read Bathroom. Following signs showed she was at least cognizant again. Last night she’d not been. Who was the young man who’d shown her to the room? No name came to mind. There’d been a ride in a police car, two officers … names, surely they’d had names.
A woman who’d befriended her on the streets, in the creep of the fog, AA, that’s right, Angel Annie. Bits and pieces of the former day returned. The key not working, the manager saying no room, no room at the hotel, her credit cards being rejected. She made her way back to her bed and sank down on the edge. Her head felt too heavy for her hands, so she lay back down. What would become of her? Who could she turn to? How to find out what terrible thing had happened to her husband?
That brought her back upright. Get showered and dressed and go find a phone. That is the first thing you will do. Out of long years of habit, she made her bed and took her things to the bathroom to shower and dress. With her face in place some time later, she felt strong enough to follow the smell of coffee downstairs. The young man had said something about food available, although for the life of her, she couldn’t remember where she was staying. Fear tiptoed in on feline feet and wound itself around her ankles.
Clarice shuffled down the stairs and followed her nose to the kitchen. Empty. Did she dare help herself? Yes, to the coffee at least—with a heavy dollop of half-and-half and sugar, so that hopefully her brain would begin to function. What if it never worked right again? What if she’d had a small stroke wandering the streets and hills like that last night? Could the fog in her brain be from something like that? Leaning against the counter, sipping coffee, she eyed the institutional-sized refrigerator. Surely a piece of cheese or …
“Hello.” A front-heavy woman in stiletto heels blew in the door. “You must be Clarice.”
“Yes.” Although at the moment, I’m glad I don’t have to swear on a stack of Bibles as to the truth of that.
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I just came down.”
“I see.” The woman handed out slices of bread. “Theres the toaster over there.” She popped out of the refrigerator to point the way, then leaned back into its maw. “Butter and jam.” Pop out. “Would you rather have peanut butter? I love peanut butter.”
“No, butter and jam are fine.” Clarice crossed to the four-slice toaster and set the slices in the slots.
“There’s bacon and eggs if you want.”
“No, this is fine.”
“Lunch will be in an hour or so. Where’s Linn? It’s her day to do lunch.”
“Ah, Miss, Ms … ”
“Just call me Celia. Sorry I forgot to introduce myself. Hope’s always on my case ab
out my manners.”
“Hope?” The name rang a bell, only so faintly she could barely hear it.
“Hope Benson runs this place, along with her husband Roger. You met him last night.”
“Thanks.” At least now I have a name to go with the shadow. How truly embarrassing not to remember that.
“She said for you to come to her office soon as you can. But no rush.” Celia emerged from the refrigerator with two stalks of celery and a plastic carton of white something. “I’m trying to cut back, but somehow celery just don’t cut it. Salad dressing helps.”
Clarice spread butter, then jam, on her toast and put her meal on a plate she found in the cupboard before ambling back to the coffeepot for a refill. Already, she could tell her head was clearing, at least somewhat. Dare she confide in this rather unusual woman? She’d never had a conversation with someone wearing one slash of magenta and another of fluorescent blue in her hair.
“Ah, Celia, do you think my purse and things are safe on my bed?”
“Not if you got any money in there.” She dipped her celery in the dressing and munched. “We like to hope things is safe, but I personally don’t trust nobody. Other than Hope and Roger. Ask Hope when you meet with her. That some coat you got up there.”
“Thank you. It was a wedding present from my husband.”
“You’re one lucky woman.”
“How so?” At the moment, lucky was not a term she would ever think of using in regard to herself.
“That you still got it, wandering the streets like you were. Actually, that you got anything left, including your life.” She nodded to the rings on Clarice’s fingers. “People get killed for a lot less than what you’re wearin’.”
“I had them turned inside so they couldn’t be seen.” Clarice studied the rings. Gregor had put them there and kissed them in place. Such a romantic. She set the plate down with a clatter. “I’d better find a phone. I’m sure something terrible has happened to my husband.”
“Plates go in the dishwasher.” Celia pointed to that appliance. “Rinse first.”
“Ah yes, of course. How careless of me.” Clarice did as told, went upstairs for her purse, and then came back down, peering into rooms that had open doors until she came to one where a woman sat staring at a computer screen. “I’m looking for Hope?”
Saturday Morning Page 13
