by Bella Grant
Jobs weren’t easy to come by. I had checked with every diner, hotel, motel, travel agency, and even garbage collection facilities in a five-mile radius. No one was hiring. And I only had—I paused to check my small purse—a few dollars short of a thousand. That wouldn’t last long.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I flattened my palms against the rumbling and squirmed as the cold concrete pressed hard into my skin and rendered me temporarily incapable of standing. I shuffled on the seating, working the kinks and cramps out of my ass, and stood slowly. I was in such a sorry state, my mind drifting to imagined better places that made this present moment a little more bearable, that I hadn’t realized I had forgotten to eat. My stomach rumbled again, and the lady next to me looked over and smiled.
“Got quite a mouth on it, don’t it?” she asked in an unfamiliar accent.
“Yeah, I need to fill her up,” I replied, trying to make light of a dismal situation.
I moved away quickly and walked in the direction of the diner. I couldn’t afford another dinner today—I had one yesterday, so I had to settle for a hotdog sold by a mobile vendor. My stomach was appreciative and the growling subsided, but my overall situation had worsened, because for each dollar I spent, I was a dollar poorer.
I wheeled my carryon along the street, searching for help anywhere I could get it. I definitely wouldn’t go to the shelter. I couldn’t face my mother. She had warned me, and how was I supposed to tell her I was pregnant too?
The thought of the baby made me weaker. My heart pounded as adrenalin coursed through my veins. I felt flushed, and I needed to lie down before I fainted. The day was still hot, even though the sun was making its slow descent across the western sky. I walked, not knowing where I was going, until I rounded a bend and ran into a line that curved around the block.
“What’s…” I started to ask, and it hit me. It was a homeless shelter. I remained at the end of the line, hoping I could get a spot inside. Luckily, when I reached the door, a few more beds were available. I walked into the packed room, the buzzing of voices punctuated every now and again by shouting and banging.
“Hey!” a robust woman barked as she materialized before me. “Knock it off or go somewhere else!”
The banging ceased, and she grunted and turned to walk off before she saw me. She looked me up and down and raised her brow quizzically. “You’re staying here tonight?”
“Yes,” I replied hastily. “Where…is there a bed?”
She looked like she felt sorry for me, like she could see my story in my dress or my appearance. Or in my face. “Just find one,” she said and walked off, though twice she looked back before she disappeared.
I looked down and wondered what about me looked so different. I wore khaki capris, a green tank, and black loafers—all clothes I had bought while with Raymond. I looked around at the other women and children in the shelter, their faces long, tear-stained, and drained of life. The clothes were of a uniform color and texture—mostly brown, black, or grey—and the shoes consisted of flip-flops or what you might expect to find in Goodwill. I certainly looked different, and I drew the attention of some of the other women.
Just my luck, I got a bed in what looked like the center of the room. The place was deadly quiet as all eyes followed me to the bed, my carryon making the only detectable sound as it rolled along the ground. The way everyone stared at me, I was afraid to take my eyes off my luggage, so I placed it on the bed and sat with it against my back. One woman smirked, another snickered, but they went back to what they were doing before.
I barely slept that night. I was cold and alone, and I worried for my mother and Teresa. Maybe I would go by there the next day and check on them. Mom didn’t need to know that my situation had changed. I was happy when I woke and still had all my clothes on and the carryon was still there. A panic surged inside when I thought about the little cash I had, and my fingers trembled as I rummaged inside the bag. I breathed a sigh of relief when I counted and found all my money there. I’d heard rumors about shelters before—that some of the people who stayed there woke up without pieces of their clothing, or they were beaten. Sometimes, depending on the home, some people had even been molested. As I gathered my things together, I breathed a sigh of relief. But that was just for the moment. I might be back again later in the night.
I hadn’t spoken to Henrietta since I left, for the same reason I avoided my mother—shame. What would I say? The phone rang as I lifted the carryon awkwardly down the four stairs that stopped at the pavement. I tried to stand the carryon while I reached into my pocket for the phone and accidentally bumped into someone.
I jumped up and reached out, ready t0 apologize, when I recognized Davina. She had whipped around, wearing a scowl, and was obviously annoyed. “Watch it!” she spat.
I ducked and turned away quickly. “Sorry.” I remained with my back to her until I was sure she had gone. Slowly, I turned to check if she had gone and was pleased to see that, not only had she moved on, she hadn’t recognized me. I forgot about the ringing telephone until it started vibrating again. Sure enough, it was Henrietta. I had hoped it would be one of the places I’d applied to, calling me to let me know they had a vacancy.
My heart sank when I couldn’t even be happy that the only friend I had in the world was concerned about me. I had to find a way to make money, and an idea formed in my mind when I passed a row of whom I assumed to be homeless people sitting along a section of a street, holding pans and aluminum containers, their arms outstretched, with toothless smiles and heads wrapped in filthy rags, and their feet bare of shoes. I realized I was no different than they were. Some of the containers held coins, with a few holding dollar bills and scraps of food the more fortunate had to spare.
I would never have planned to panhandle, but what other option did I have? I couldn’t beg dressed as I was. Some of the other beggars held their hands out to me as I hurried by, swatting flies from the growing herd settling before them. My nose burned as the smell of urine wafted to my nostrils, and when I reached the other side of the building, I rested against it and cried. I cried for the life I almost had but would never have again. I cried for my mother, who felt shame in not being able to provide better for us. I cried for my sister, the real victim in all this madness.
My back scraped against the cold brick building as I slid downwards into a squatting position. My eyes burned as the hot liquid cascaded down my cheeks and landed on the capris I wore.
“Here, miss,” a little girl passing said as she held out her hand. She had a candy bar.
“Come along,” her mother urged and pulled her away like I was contagious.
They walked a little way, and I watched as the little girl looked back with concern etched over her cheery face. She wriggled from her mother’s hand and ran back to me.
“Don’t cry.” She cocked her head and smiled. “You can have this.” Again, she held out the candy.
I smiled and took it from her, just as her mother reached her and glowered at me like I was a pervert. “Thank you.”
“How many times must I tell you to stay away from strangers?” her mother scolded as she hurried away.
“But she was crying,” the little girl defended.
I didn’t hear their conversation as they hurried across the street, but I sat looking at the red-and-white-striped candy in my hand. I didn’t even feel the need to eat it. Instead, I held onto it like it was some life-saving force that would change the course of my life.
I remembered the child I carried, and I looked down at my abdomen. What would I do? I couldn’t keep this baby. Maybe I should tell Raymond about it. He could keep it if he wanted. It would be better than raising it on the streets when I could barely afford to buy dinner. At the very least, it was the best thing I could do for the baby. It no longer mattered how I felt about him. The love that burned inside me, that ate away at the fabric of my existence, was my burden to bear. And it weighed heavily on me, whippin
g my heart daily for being a fool.
Without really intending to, I became an accidental beggar. Several people offered me money or water. I sat on the carryon, and I guess looked as hopeless as I felt. By nightfall, I had gathered the courage to do what I had to for the sake of my baby. He would know his father, and I would never know him.
With the pain pressing against my chest and legs too weak to stand, I got up and walked across the street. I needed to get to him, if it was the last thing I did. He wouldn’t dare turn me away, not when I carried his child.
Raymond
Falling in love had never been a part of my plan. Yet, there I was, screwed! How could I love her? She was poor! That didn’t make much sense, but she had gotten under my skin. I had gone on the site again, hoping I’d find another woman who would make her face go away. None had succeeded, and it didn’t help that I kept returning to Anna’s picture.
“Sir!” Marissa all but shouted, breaking me out of my self-induced trance.
“Yes, Marissa,” I replied through gritted my teeth.
“Mr. Bloomfield is here,” she announced.
“Send him in.” I straightened my tie and sat upright in the chair. I stood when the door opened. “Jon!” I exclaimed and grabbed his large hands.
“All set?” he asked and slammed his briefcase down on the table and clicked it open. He pulled out a file and slid some sheets of paper towards me. That was Jon—straight to business.
I scanned the sheets he placed before me, picking up a line here and there that stipulated what I wanted from this divorce. When he had returned, I’d told him I wanted to cut her off and not will anything to her since we hadn’t been married for six months. Now, I stared at the documents with no interest in signing them.
“What’s the problem?” Jon asked, perplexed. “Did I leave something out?”
“No.” I sighed. “It seems you have it all here.”
He waited for me to sign, but I had never felt so pressured in all my life, even after all the conferences I’d attended, all the meetings I’d hosted, and all the boards I’d chaired. This one thing—to sign a bill of divorce from a woman I had every reason to be separated from—was the hardest thing I had ever faced.
“Raymond, what’s wrong? I thought this was what you wanted,” Jon said eventually when I made no movement.
I stared into his expressive eyes, round with wonder, and pushed my chair back. “I thought so too.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and went to the window. The traffic below seemed to crawl as slowly as my thoughts. The thick-paned glass prevented me from hearing any of the constant honking of horns or from smelling the smog emitted by the manufacturing plant close to the harbor. I pressed my forehead against the glass and closed my eyes as I hoped for an epiphany.
“You know,” Jon said from close behind me, and my eyes popped open. “You really don’t have to do this. Obviously, you have some reservations about signing, so maybe you should…think about it some more?”
It sounded like a question, but it was really a suggestion. And I fought with my conscience. “There is—should—be nothing to think about,” I snapped. “I only met her three months ago.”
Jon chuckled. “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”
My head snapped up, and I yanked my head around to fire back a feisty retort. Jon saw right through me and was laughing harder now, which only irritated me more. But I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say.
“I’ll give you some time. Call me if you do decide to sign, and I’ll take it from there.” He returned to the chair and removed his case from the table. He snapped it shut and walked to the door, where he turned. “I have a feeling I won’t hear from you. But take my advice—go find her and stop beating yourself up. It’s obvious you love her.”
The longer I remained in the office with the sheets of paper scattered on the desk in front of me, the harder it became for me to sign the damned things, and the truer Jon’s words rang. I didn’t think I was capable of loving anyone. And what did it matter anyway? I chased her out of my house with barely anything other than the clothes on her back. Why would she take me back?
I tormented myself all the way to my front door, where I was greeted by Grace wearing a broad smile.
“Good evening, sir.” She beamed. Even her cherubic face annoyed me because everyone was happier than me.
I nodded and walked past her, but she followed me like a cocker spaniel that was ecstatic its master had returned home. I stopped abruptly and she ran into my back.
“Ooh, sorry, Mr. Jameson,” she apologized and bowed.
“What is it, Grace?” I asked through clenched jaws.
“I don’t want to be rude, but some of the Mrs.’ things are still in the bedroom and I don’t know what to do with them. Should I throw them out? Or maybe you could donate them to the local church.”
It was hard for me to listen to her talking about getting rid of the last of Anna from the house, even though she asked a perfectly logical question. “No. Leave them be,” I replied and moved away.
She still hustled after me. “Does that mean she is coming back?” I could hear the hopefulness in her voice.
“No! I don’t know. Just leave them there.”
“For what it’s worth, if I may say so, sir,” she began. She didn’t wait for my permission before to speak, but she did now.
“Just say it. I’ve had a long day.”
“I miss Mrs. Jameson, and some of the others do too. It would be really nice if she came back. I mean, she is different from the other…”
I sighed. “Grace, it’s okay to express yourself. I won’t fire you for it.” I looked at her matronly face, and the happiness in her face created wrinkles at her eyes.
“She…Mrs. Jameson treated us nice, sir. I like her.”
I had no idea why Grace saying that impacted me so much. I had warmed, and I could easily understand why she would be liked by the house staff. She had worked her way into a cold and broken heart I didn’t think would beat normally again. And now I was pining after her and wishing I hadn’t thrown her out.
“That’s good,” I said and half smiled at Grace.
She bowed and walked away, and I went to the room Anna used to occupy. I hadn’t been inside since she left, and I immediately felt her presence. I walked over to the easel with the half-finished drawing, and I flipped through the pages. I was blown away when I saw the designs she’d created. She had talent, untapped talent, but it drove it home that she had lied about her entire life. She wasn’t involved in any real estate business, nor did she own a fashion line. It had all been a pretense, an act to pull me in. And it had worked.
I was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, and I couldn’t even talk to anyone about it. They would think I was crazy for considering asking her to come home. What would everyone think if they knew I got married to a woman who used to live in a poor house? Who might still live in a poor house.
I remembered the image Bruce had sent, and I couldn’t imagine anyone living in that place. The building looked like it was on the verge of collapse, and when I lay in my California king-sized bed that night with the billowy throw caressing my skin, I had the most uncomfortable feeling. I couldn’t fall asleep as the images of her lying on a hard, wooden bed plagued me, of her soft skin covered with rags, and her silky red strands matted and dirty.
I remembered her laugh and how her body had hugged mine in the late of the night when I needed to feel my cock deep inside her. I couldn’t escape the thoughts of her soft lips as they glided over mine, and how perfectly she fit in my arms. I had run from those feelings from the moment I felt their effect, and with her gone, I felt them even more. It became painfully clear that what I needed was not a mail-order bride to satisfy some primal procreational need. I needed a woman to come home to at night, to feel the love I had never felt before and that I tasted a sample of and craved like a drug. But I didn’t need simply any woman. After having been without Anna for
a month, I knew it was her I needed.
The thought followed me into the following day, and I got no work done. By noon, I was a wreck. I grabbed my jacket and stormed from the office. I didn’t tell Marissa where I was going. I felt like if I said the words, this would feel real and I’d change my mind. I was going to find Anna, and I knew exactly where to go.
I bounded through the glass doors of the building and spotted a cab parked alongside the curb. The driver leaned lazily against the side of the vehicle, and he jumped to attention when he saw me approaching.
“Taxi?” he called.
“I need to get downtown,” I told him and hopped inside.
We were halfway there when he glanced at me through the mirror. “Mister? Where downtown?”
He had a thick accent that resembled an East Indian’s, like he was a recent immigrant and the local dialect had not yet woven its way into the fabric of his tone.
“Do you know where I can find the homeless shelter?” I asked. I didn’t even remember which street it was on.
“Which one?” he asked. “There are quite a few of them.”
There were a few? It hadn’t occurred to me before that there were so many people living on the streets. “Where’s the closest one?” I asked gingerly.
The man sighed and stared at me through the mirror. “Okay, it would be easier if you told me what you are looking for. Or who.”
I looked out the window and bit my lower lip as my chest tightened at the thought of her. “A woman,” I replied softly. I looked him dead in the eye through the mirror. “I’m looking for a woman.”
His eyes smiled back at me. “That makes it easier. There are about three of those.”
“Take me to each one,” I commanded.
“No problemo,” the man replied and affixed his gaze to the lunch hour traffic that made my world come to a standstill.
I tapped my knees impatiently as time dragged on, and I constantly checked my wrist watch. It seemed as if every couple of minutes I checked, the minute hand had moved backwards.