When she looked at the clock, it was past three. Robin must’ve gotten her job. Maybe it was a waitress job and they’d hired her on the spot. Elise imagined Robin changing into a soiled, ill-fitting waitress uniform in a dressing closet filled with odd furniture, forgotten sweaters, and a bucket with a dry mop in it. Her small limbs would be bristling with tension and determination. She would smooth the uniform in the depressing mirror and remind herself to smile. She would work frenetically, trying to do too much at once. The manager would yell. She would work through the break, sneaking olives and maraschino cherries from the condiment tray.
Or maybe she hadn’t gotten the job. Maybe she had just decided to go for a long walk in the park, eating cheap candy out of a bag. Elise liked to do that. Sometimes when she was finished panhandling, she would take the long walk around Stanley Park, even though she’d been walking all day. It would probably be a treat for Robin to do something like that, after being cooped up in the apartment for days.
But six o’clock came and then six-thirty, and Robin didn’t come back. Elise wondered how, if she’d gotten a job, she could know exactly when she’d get home anyway. What if the job had started at three? What if it was a long shift? What if she’d applied for a waitress job and didn’t get it, and then looked at the paper and saw one of those “escort” ads? She pictured Robin in her little summer dress, talking to an escort service man. She pictured Robin sitting and holding her purse with both hands, her knees together and her calves splayed out, one foot tucked behind the leg of her chair.
One night when Elise was begging in San Francisco, a man asked her if she would blow him for twenty dollars. He must’ve heard her asking other people for money, because she hadn’t asked him. She hesitated. She had never blown anybody before. “Okay,” he said. “Thirty.” “Okay,” she said. They had to walk a few blocks to get to his car. She saw that he wore nice pants and shoes. She asked him what he did. “Never mind,” he said. He had a sour, contracted little face that reminded her of a cat spraying pee on something to mark it. Elise didn’t mind the mean expression; there was even something intriguing about it. It looked like it came out of a small, deep spot that was always the same.
When they got in the car he started to drive. “Are we going back to your place?” asked Elise.
“No,” he said. “The park.”
For the first time it occurred to her that something bad might happen. She had read in a magazine that according to experts, rapists and killers are less likely to attack people they can identify with on a human level. So she began talking to him about her boyfriend, even though she didn’t have a boyfriend. She thought it might remind him of being in love.
“He doesn’t like me to do this,” she said. “But we need the money so much. He’s trying to get a band together.”
The man didn’t say anything. Light played on his face. He looked like he was alone in the car, thinking about something he didn’t like. He drove deep into the park, where there wasn’t any light. He stopped the car and took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the dashboard.
“If it’s good, you’ll get the rest of it,” he said. Then he unzipped his pants and said, “Go for it.”
Elise hesitated. She felt insulted, and she wasn’t sure what to do. She considered telling him that she’d never blown anybody before; it didn’t seem like a good idea. She curled her legs up under her, bent, and tucked her hair back. It couldn’t be that difficult.
But it was. Her jaw hurt, hairs kept getting down her throat, and it went on and on. Finally he said, “Oh, Jesus Christ, just hold still and open your mouth.” He grabbed her hair in his fist and furiously worked his hand. There was a horrible taste, and she reflexively spat. He yanked her head up and jerked her over to the other side of the car. Pain tingled across her scalp. She reached for the bill on the dash-board. He swung wildly; he meant to slap her face, but she moved too fast and he just clipped her chin with her fingers. He snatched the bill on the backstroke and crushed it in his hand.
“No,” he said. “That was shit.” Outraged, he groped between the seats and extracted a packet of Kleenex. He yanked one out with such force that the packet flew into the back seat. He wiped himself furiously. “You were shit,” he said.
“That’s not fair,” she said. Her voice was light and shaky, and her heart patted fast and high in her chest. “I mean, you got off.” Her voice was still light, but now it was stubborn too.
He paused in his wiping and half turned. The air between them went into a slow, palpable twist. “You little cunt,” he said. His voice was very quiet. “I should beat the shit out of you.”
If he grabbed her, she would poke out his eye. She would kick and bite and scratch. Her mind sped up and ran too quickly for her to hear it. She waited.
He threw the bill at her. “Get out,” he said.
As she walked, her mind stopped racing and she began to think. She didn’t know where she was going, but she felt heady and feverish with clarity. She would not be frightened. She would be all right. It was so cold her teeth chattered, but that was all right. She walked a long time. Sometimes she heard voices, and she knew she was passing near groups of people who couldn’t hear her. She felt safe and private in the dark.
She emerged on Haight Street. A caravan of street people were arrayed across the edge of the park. She could see them huddled in ragged groups, their belongings on the ground in bundles. Some people walked between groups with a feisty, rakish air. Dogs trotted about, wagging their tails and sniffing people. The scene had a muddy, pushed-down feeling, but inside that was something raw, volatile, and potent as electricity; it could go in any direction, and it was hard to tell which it would be. She walked by a bright-yellow shirt that had been used to wipe somebody’s butt. She realized she was trembling.
“Hi.” A woman wearing a purple jacket walked up to her. “Do you need anything?”
“What?”
“Like condoms or . . . anything?” The woman had a nervous little face and funny looking glasses. Her jacket had “Youth Outreach” written on it. “Um, alcohol pads, bleach, a toothbrush? A cookie?”
“No, thank you,” Elise had said.
It was getting dark. Through the screen, Elise could feel that the air had cooled, but the apartment was still very hot. It was seven-thirty. Andy and Eric were yelling at each other. In a minute, they would start hitting. Elise felt anger come up in her and then go back down.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s time for dinner.”
Andy threw his toy truck on the floor so hard it dented the wood. “When is Mommy coming?”
“Soon,” she snapped. Except that she didn’t realize she had snapped.
Andy and Eric kept fighting at the table, until Andy kicked his brother and Elise yelled “Stop it!” as loud as she could. Then they sulked. This time, they didn’t eat as if they wanted to like the food. They seemed disappointed in it. Elise was sorry she didn’t have anything better to feed them, and she was also irritated at having to eat peanut butter again herself. She would rather have had pie or candy bars, and if she had gone out panhandling, she would’ve been able to. She hoped Robin was working for an escort service, because then she’d bring home enough cash to give Elise some.
After dinner, she heated the formula and fed Penny. The baby was sleepy and docile. She was very wet again, but she wasn’t complaining, so Elise didn’t change her. She had agreed to stay only until six anyway; Robin could change her when she got home. Penny released the nipple of her bottle with a guttural chirp; a sparkling thread of spit spanned nipple and lip, then broke and fell down Penny’s chin. Elise patted it dry with a Kleenex. She put her hand on the baby’s stomach and rocked her.