“Beg pardon?” The woman wheeled around at once. Her head was lowered and she wore the truculent expression of a lady who has frequently been called fatty-fatty-two-by-four from across the street or perhaps from passing cars.
“Whatchoo want?”
“I’m looking for 251 Durham Avenue,” Rosie said.
“It’s a place called Daughters and Sisters. I had directions, but I guess-”
“What, the welfare lesbians? You ast the wrong chicken, baby girl. I got no use for crack-snackers. Get lost. The fuck outta here.” With that she turned back to her dolly and began to push the rattling cans up the driveway in the same slow, ceremonial manner, holding them on with one plump white hand. Her buttocks jiggled freely beneath her faded housedress. When she reached the steps she turned and looked back at the sidewalk.
“Didn’t you hear me? Get the fuck outta here.”
“Fore I call the cops.” That last word felt like a sharp pinch in a sensitive place. Rosie put her sunglasses back on and walked quickly away. Cops? No thank you. She wanted nothing to do with the cops. Any cops. But after she had put a little distance between herself and the fat lady, Rosie realized she actually felt a little better. She had at least made sure that Daughters and Sisters (known in some quarters as the welfare lesbians) actually existed, and that was a step in the right direction. Two blocks farther down, she came to a mom-and-pop store with a bike rack in front and a sign reading OVEN-FRESH ROLLS in the window. She went in, bought a roll-it was still warm and made Rosie think of her mother-and asked the old man behind the counter if he could direct her to Durham Avenue.
“You come a little out of your way,” he said.
“Oh? How much?”
“Two mile or so. C'mere.” He settled a bony hand on her shoulder, led her back to the door, and pointed to a busy intersection only a block away.
“That there’s Dearborn Avenue.”
“Oh God, is it?” Rosie wasn’t sure if she needed to laugh or cry.
“Yessum. Only trouble with findin things by way of Big D is that she run mostway across the city. You see that shutdown movie tee-ayter?”
“Yes.”
“You want to turn right onto Dearborn there. You have to go sixteen-eighteen blocks. It’s a bit of a heel n toe. You’d best take the bus.”
“I suppose,” Rosie said, knowing she wouldn’t. Her quarters were gone, and if a bus driver gave her a hard time about breaking a dollar bill, she would burst into tears. (The thought that the man she was talking to would have happily given her change for a buck never crossed her tired, confused mind.)
“Eventually you’ll come to-”
“-Elk Street.” He gave her a look of exasperation.
“Lady! If you knew how to go, why’d you ask?”
“I didn’t know how to go,” she said, and although there had been nothing particularly unkind in the old man’s voice, she could feel the tears threatening.
“I don’t know anything! I’ve been wandering around for hours, I’m tired, and-”
“Okay, okay,” he said, “that’s all right, don’t get your water hot, you’ll be just fine. Get off the bus at Elk. Durham is just two or three blocks up. Easy as pie. You got a street address?” She nodded her head.
“All right, there you go,” he said. “should be no problem.”
“Thank you.” He pulled a wrinkled but clean handkerchief from his back pocket. He held it out to her with one gnarled hand.
“Wipe you face a li’l bit, dear,” he said.
“You leakin.”
She walked slowly up Dearborn Avenue, barely noticing the buses that snored past her, resting every block or two on bus stop benches. Her headache, which had come mostly from the stress of being lost, was gone, but her feet and back hurt worse than ever. It took her an hour to get to Elk Street. She turned right on it and asked the first person she saw-a pregnant young woman-if she was headed toward Durham Avenue.
“Buzz off,” the pregnant young woman said, her face so instantly wrathful that Rosie took two quick steps backward.
“I’m sorry,” Rosie said. “sorry, schmorry. Who ast you to speak to me in the first place, that’s what I’d like to know! Get outta my way!” And she pushed by Rosie so violently she almost knocked her into the gutter. Rosie watched her go with a kind of stupefied amazement, then turned and went on her way.
She walked more slowly than ever up Elk, a street of small shops-dry-cleaning establishments, florists, delis with fruit displays out front on the sidewalk, stationers. She was now so tired she didn’t know how long she would be able to remain on her feet, let alone keep walking. She felt a lift when she came to Durham Avenue, but it was only temporary. Had Mr Slowik told her to turn right or left on Durham? She couldn’t remember. She tried right and found the numbers going up from the mid-four hundreds.
“Par for the course,” she muttered, and turned around again. Ten minutes later she was standing in front of a very large white frame house (which was indeed in serious need of paint), three stories high and set back behind a big, well-kept lawn. The shades were pulled. There were wicker chairs on the porch, almost a dozen of them, but none was currently occupied. There was no sign reading Daughters and Sisters, but the street-number on the column to the left of the steps leading to the porch was 251. She made her way slowly up the flagged walk and then the steps, her bag now hanging at her side. They’re going to send you away, a voice whispered. They’ll send you away, then you can head on back to the bus station. You’ll want to get there early, so you can stake out a nice piece of floor. The doorbell had been covered over with layers of electrician’s tape, and the keyhole had been plugged with metal. To the left of the door was a keycard slot that looked brand-new, and an intercom box above it. Below the box was a small sign which read VISITORS PRESS AND SPEAK. Rosie pressed. In the course of her long morning’s tramp she had rehearsed several things she might say, several ways she might introduce herself, but now that she was actually here, even the least clever and most straightforward of her possible opening gambits had gone out of her head. Her mind was a total blank. She simply let go of the button and waited. The seconds passed, each one like a little chunk of lead. She was reaching for the button again when a woman’s voice came out of the speaker. It sounded tinny and emotionless.
“Can I help you?” Although the man with the moustache outside The Wee Nip had frightened her and the pregnant woman had amazed her, neither had made her cry. Now, at the sound of this voice, the tears came-there was nothing at all she could do to stop them.
“I hope someone can,” Rosie said, wiping at her cheeks with her free hand.
“I’m sorry, but I’m in the city all by myself, I don’t know anyone, and I need a place to stay. If you’re all full I understand, but could I at least come in and sit for awhile and maybe have a glass of water?” There was more silence. Rosie was reaching for the button again when the tinny voice asked who had sent her.
“The man in the Travelers Aid booth at the bus station. David Slowik.” She thought that over, then shook her head.