by Joy Copeland
When Bea returned, she gave the forms a quick review and then groaned. What in the fictional Anna’s life could be so egregious to cause the negative reaction?
“Ms. Anna Jackson, huh,” Bea said, “may I see some ID?”
“Sorry, my ID was stolen with the rest of my stuff in the park…when I had to run.”
“Hmm…” Bea said, looking skeptical.
Zoie had expected a different kind of reply, something like “sorry to hear that” or “what a shame you lost your stuff.” There was no sympathy coming from this woman.
“You say here that your last address was in Baltimore. This could be a problem. Here we serve DC residents. And we refer Maryland residents back to the Maryland shelters.”
Zoie had to think fast. In her attempt to provide an authentic address, she’d miscalculated. “Nah, I’m a DC girl,” she answered quickly. “I’ve been living here for a long time. Lately I don’t have a DC address. I’ve been going from place to place around Adams Morgan and Petworth. I live with friends until they throw me out. That Baltimore address is where I lived with my father for a couple of months until he died. But I went to school here—Anacostia High School—until I dropped out.”
“Hmm.” Bea didn’t look convinced. “Well, I’ll let the social worker handle this. In the meantime we’ve made special arrangements to accommodate you for tonight and tomorrow,” Bea continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard we’re at capacity. You’re really not supposed to be here.”
If only this woman knew how true that is.
“I don’t know why this Karen Upshaw,” Bea said, reading the social worker’s name on the form, “couldn’t get you into Naylor Mission House or the McCaffrey Dorms.” She ended her mini-tirade with an accepting sigh. “Well, you’re here now, so we’ll make the best of it.”
By Bea’s reaction it seemed as if Zoie had already broken one of the Shelter’s rules. A part of her wanted to thank the woman for making the special accommodations. A thank-you might smooth things over and limit further friction. The last thing Zoie needed was additional scrutiny. Part of her wanted to address the woman’s condescending attitude. After all, this was no way to treat a person who was supposed to be a needy soul from the street—the operative words being supposed to be. So Zoie kept her mouth shut.
Having let off some steam, Bea let her features soften. She gave Zoie a yellow sheet outlining the rules for the women’s section—twenty dos and don’ts in all.
Zoie skimmed the sheet. There were expected things: rules forbidding alcohol or drug use and restricting smoking to a designated area. Other rules governed residents’ comings and goings, imposing a 9:00 p.m. curfew. If a female resident didn’t return to the women’s section by the curfew, she’d be locked out for the night. And then there was the rule requiring an escort when passing through the men’s section. One rule addressed starting a job search within forty-eight hours, and another one required that residents meet regularly with designated social workers. Zoie planned to skirt most of the rules. With Maynard’s help she planned to be gone in less than twenty-four hours.
“You have a designated locker in the hall,” Bea said, handing Zoie a key on a hot-pink plastic key chain. “Our in-house social worker is here every day—from nine to one in the afternoon and from seven to nine in the evening. I know you have a contact at DC’s Social Services, but we’d like to help as well. For now, perhaps you’d like to shower and change into some fresh clothes and then get a bite to eat.”
“But what I’m wearing is all I have,” Zoie said, looking down at the worn sweat suit. “I had to run for my life. This is it.” Zoie raised her small white bag to punctuate her point.
“Guess you don’t have much…poor thing. Let’s see if we can find you something clean to wear.” It seemed that Bea finally got it: Anna was destitute.
Zoie followed Bea down the hall, passing a few ladies on the way. Zoie figured that these women were residents because they lacked name tags. They bore no resemblance to stereotypical homeless people. But they all looked drained.
Bea guided Zoie into a room arranged as a giant clothes closet, one complete with double racks of clothing sorted by size. Zoie wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to look through the stuff or what. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped inside the door and began flipping through items on the rack labeled Petite. The clothes were secondhand, clean, and in good condition. The rack labeled Petite had the fewest selections. When Bea moved over to the racks, Zoie stepped aside.
“These will probably fit you,” Bea said, handing Zoie a pair of size 6-P jeans and a rose-pink sleeveless blouse. A moment later she added some baggy black pajamas and a package of new panties to the garments cradled in Zoie’s arms.
Bea then gave Zoie some toiletries wrapped in lilac cellophane, the whole package looking like an Easter basket. There was soap, a toothbrush, travel-size toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, and tissues. A label identified the basket as a gift from the ladies of St. Luke’s Parish. Zoie’s arms were full, but that didn’t stop Bea from adding a fluffy white towel to the pile.
“There!” said Bea with a sense of satisfaction. “You can launder that thing you’re wearing or just ditch it. These clothes should get you through the next twenty-four hours. After that we’ll have to see if we can find more things that fit you.”
Zoie managed a thank-you. Yes, twenty-four hours was all she needed.
Chapter 40
Peek-a-Boo
Zoie waited at the door of her assigned dorm room while Bea talked to a volunteer in the hall. Whether she would actually spend the entire night in the room remained to be seen. The sooner she discovered the “thing” she’d come to find, the better off she would be. The truth was that she didn’t know what exactly she was looking for, other than evidence about who killed Ray and the Shelter’s financial fraud. And if what she uncovered brought down Jahi, then so be it.
As she waited on Bea, her heart thumped. She was operating out of her comfort zone, in which she typically applied left-brain analyses using facts and the law. Now she had to rely on her gut and the counsel of two homeless men—one who spoke in parables and one who was easily offended and often succumbed to enigmatic rambling. She took a deep breath.
While Bea continued to chat, Zoie surveyed her new quarters. The room had been set up like the ones she’d seen while touring the men’s section. The basic sleeping arrangements for four consisted of two metal bunk beds. Unlike the men’s rooms, this room had a softer feel. The walls were beige instead of institutional green. And there were other small personal touches. A magnet affixed to one of the bed frames read Praise God, and a string of paper butterflies was wrapped around one of the other posts. There were stuffed animals and magazines, both of which gave the room the feel of a college dorm. Because the place was an interim-stay facility, personal touches were permitted.
Her chat finished, Bea pushed past Zoie and into the room, heading to a narrow cot placed horizontally against the far wall. “Anna, this is yours for now,” Bea said, patting the cot’s thin mattress. It was made up with fresh white sheets, a peach-colored blanket, and a pillow so flat that it looked as if it could’ve been a Sunday issue of The Washington Post covered by a pillowcase.
The powers that be had placed Anna’s special cot against the room’s only free wall, under the window. It was a fifth sleeping place in a room meant for four. Zoie viewed the cot’s placement with some apprehension. Whoever occupied the lower bunk nearest to Zoie’s pillow could actually kick her in the head.
“It’s a squeeze, but for now it’s the best we can do,” Bea said, sighing, seemingly understanding Zoie’s unspoken concern. “This is very temporary. In two days you’ll end up in Martha’s top bunk.” She patted the tight cover of the upper bunk. “That is, unless your roommates agree to switch around.”
“Thanks,” said Zoie, placing her clothing and toiletries on her assigned cot.
“The showers are down the hall and to the right. There’s an
Internet corner with three computers in the dayroom and a payphone in the booth next to it. Well, that’s all I can think of right now,” Bea said, checking off things on an imaginary list in the palm of her hand. “The rest about the laundry and rules for watching TV are on that paper I gave you. I’ll see if I can find one of your roommates to show you around. I’ll leave you to get settled.”
“Thank you,” Zoie said. As Bea made her exit, Zoie followed her to the door and watched her disappear back down the hall.
Alone in the room, Zoie looked to the window above her cot. Her heart slowed with Bea’s exit. Great, she thought, moving quickly to check the view from the window. She pushed back the window’s translucent curtain to discover a layered arrangement: blinds and then grimy glass and then a formidable set of iron bars on the outside. The bars had probably been installed to protect the women. Considering the sordid- and seedy-looking characters dwelling right next door, the extra precautions were warranted. But while keeping the criminals out, the bars easily trapped the women inside. Note to self: if you need to exit this place quickly, don’t plan to use this window.
Through the hazed glass and bars, she saw Mahali’s inner courtyard. The courtyard was a large expanse marked by two loading docks. It was the opposite view of what she’d seen from Jahi’s office. It meant that Jahi’s office had to be one of the windows directly across the yard.
This was the courtyard where Maynard planned to signal her with the flashlight, where they planned to meet so that Maynard could show her the “secret place.” Deep down she had to believe that she was being led to the evidence she needed.
The courtyard was quiet. The Shelter’s white van was parked next to two other nondescript vehicles. She let the curtain swing back, and it blocked out the early evening light. Her rendezvous with Maynard was hours away; she hoped that everyone would be asleep. She’d have to stage a vigil to watch for his signal. There would be no dozing for her weary eyes.
Zoie wanted to get out of her musty sweat suit and into the clean clothes. She also needed food. Until now fear and the adrenalin it produced had sustained her. Food smells were coming from somewhere in the Shelter. Her stomach reacted with an involuntary groan. Perhaps she could get a meal before embarking on her quest.
She was about to close the dorm room’s door, wanting some privacy while she undressed, when she remembered one of the rules from her quick scan of the rules sheet—“Closed dorm doors not allowed.” Compromising, she left the door ajar.
Zoie fumbled through the gift basket, but all the while her mind wandered to her night challenge. Her rendezvous spot with Maynard was right outside her window—an impenetrable window. How would she get outside?
She pulled back the curtain for another look at the courtyard, her eyes searching for a door. There had to be one on the loading dock. The building was large, so there should be multiple exits. The building enclosed the courtyard, except for one driveway leading out. From that window her view of the courtyard was limited, so she couldn’t be sure. Many windows faced the courtyard, but all were shielded with bars. To the right she saw steps leading from the courtyard’s concrete ground to the loading dock on her side of the building. The steps ended at a chain-link cage of sorts. The arrangement didn’t make sense, at least from her partial view. On the loading dock, her eyes scanned past stacked crates, a load of new lumber, and bright-blue tarps in a bunch. Next to the van, two dumpsters overflowed with garbage bags.
“Bingo,” Zoie said as her eyes landed on a set of double doors off the second loading dock. She’d almost missed the doors because their mahogany color blended with the building’s rustic brick. Unfortunately, the doors were likely accessed from the men’s side. “There must be a way to get out there from this part of the building,” she said. “I’ve got to find a way to get back there. Maynard, you better deliver.”
“You got a boyfriend over there?” said a voice behind her.
Startled, Zoie quickly turned to find a willowy young woman standing in the completely open door. Zoie had been so focused on finding a way into the courtyard that she’d let the girl sneak up on her. How long had the girl been standing there and watching her? Had she heard Zoie’s commentary on the courtyard?
The young woman looked as if she’d just come from a throwback dress rehearsal for I Dream of Jeanie. Her red shorts hung low on her narrow hips. A shiny white halter exposed her long, lean midriff and a navel ring. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun on her head, and her ears bore enormous gold hoops that seemed painful to bear. It was difficult to gauge her age. She was a woman yet a girl who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-two. The fist-sized bruise on her left cheek gave her a hard edge, dampening her genie magic.
“What’s up? You seem pretty interested in what’s across the way,” the young woman said with a sarcastic DC drawl. With her arms folded, she leaned into the doorframe. Zoie wondered how long she’d been standing there. “The men’s dorms are over there. Don’t worry. They stay on their side, and we stay on ours.”
“Yeah. And that’s a good thing,” Zoie finally responded. She was glad that the young woman had dropped the boyfriend theme.
“Have you seen some of those creeps?” the young woman asked, squinting for emphasis.
Zoie’s eyes widened. “Uh-huh. Last night in the park…a couple of creeps chased me.” She wondered whether the young woman had heard her mention Maynard. Thank goodness that the line of conversation continued to drift elsewhere.
“Well, you’re safe here. I’ve had my own run in with freaks,” said the young woman, her tone matter of fact. She gingerly touched her bruised cheek and winced.
“Ooh, that looks nasty. Are you okay?” asked Zoie
“Yeah. It happened a few days ago. It was a lot worse.”
Zoie noticed more bruises on the young woman’s arms. “Who did that to you?”
The young woman hesitated. “Rico, my pimp. Humph. I should be saying that the muthafucka was my pimp.” She snorted. “Those days are over. He don’t own me no more.”
“Oh,” said Zoie.
The woman’s tight bun and chiseled cheekbones accentuated her hard look, not to mention that she’d just identified herself as a hooker. Or was it as a former hooker?
“So you’re the one they’re squeezing in,” said the young woman, straightening up to her full height and finally entering the room. She flopped on a lower bunk.
Zoie was going to respond to the “squeezing” comment but didn’t get a chance.
“Hey, don’t get all defensive. It’s not a problem with me. Ain’t like we pay rent here.”
“You like it here?” asked Zoie, no longer wanting to stare at the woman. She went back to sorting the things on her cot, looking for the thin cloth robe she’d been given.
“It’s not the Hilton, but it beats the streets. Anyway, I’m Jasmine. Folks call me Jazz, like the music. This is my bunk.” She patted the sleeping place where she was sitting. There were a pile of magazines and a small stuffed bear, brown with a pink ribbon that read Hot Mama. “Cruz sleeps on the top here. She’s still at work,” Jazz continued. “And Martha and Tanisha are over there,” she said, pointing.
“I’m Anna,” said Zoie, extending her hand with businesslike etiquette.
At first the offer of a hand seemed to rattle the girl. She stared at Zoie’s outstretched hand, seemingly clueless about how to respond. It was an awkward moment. But then she sat straight up and moved closer, reciprocating with a firm handshake. “Bea sent me to show you around.”
“Thanks,” said Zoie, “but do you mind if I change and shower first? I’ve been in these same clothes for several hot, sweaty days.” The lie rolled smoothly from Zoie’s tongue. It had only been a few hours since Zoie’s transformation into Anna, the homeless girl, but somehow it seemed much longer.
“No problem,” Jazz replied. “Peeuuuw! Yeah, girl, go ahead and wash. Don’t you hate it when you can smell your own crotch?”
“Yeah,” replied Zo
ie with a cringe. Disgusted by the last comment, she now more than ever wanted the shower. She could only imagine what other horrific and uncomfortable things Jazz liked to talk about.
Zoie thought her request for time to change and shower had been a not-too-subtle request for privacy. She expected Jazz to go away and come back. But Jazz had other ideas. The young woman settled on her bunk, her legs crossed. She pulled a magazine from her pile and thumbed through it with her eyes alternating between the magazine pages and Zoie.
No time for modesty today. Moving quickly, Zoie proceeded to undress.
“Hey, nice undies you got there. Ooh, it’s a matching set.” Jazz’s eyes were now firmly fixed on Zoie.
Ooops!
“They look expensive. You bought those undies living on the street?”
Immediately Zoie was aware of the faux pas in her undercover get-up. Her deep rose-pink satin bra and matching lace boy-short panties were none other than Calvin Klein. Her weakness for high-quality underwear, the designer stuff, was only second to her weakness for expensive shoes.
“Yeah, I like nice things…when I get the money,” Zoie responded, trying to find her own hard edge, as she quickly slipped into the thin robe to cover up her faux pas and head to the showers with her new soap and towel. “I haven’t always been on the street.”
It took only an instant. Jazz spotted Zoie’s Blackberry. The device had wormed its way out of the jacket pocket on Zoie’s sweat suit. Now it lay on the cot in plain sight. Jazz sprang from her cross-legged position and grabbed it.
“Hey! Look at this! An expensive phone too. Bet you need to keep in touch with customers,” Jazz said, inspecting it. “I need one of these.”