I can’t stay here, she said.
I had not expected this level of chaos. I had presumed we’d make it to the desk and the receptionist would turn us away. Sorry, we’re full. I would have pushed back, said that I was the benefits advocate for Fresh Start, that I had called and been promised a bed for my client. I would have put up a good fight all for show, of course, and then walked out with her. But this was better. Fewer theatrics. On my end, anyway.
She followed me to my car and got in. I looked at my watch. Her husband had probably been assigned a cot by now. I turned the ignition key and flipped on my headlights and drove through the fog to Lincoln Way. The trees in Golden Gate Park loomed in the mist. I turned onto Twelfth Avenue, drove three blocks and parked. She did not ask where we were going.
I live there, I said and pointed.
She looked out her window at the peeling yellow paint of my apartment building and then turned to me, and I stared back at her and kissed her on the mouth, my eyes open. She didn’t move, didn’t close her eyes either. I looked hard at her, pulled away, and continued looking at her. She shook her head, opened her mouth. Her hands fluttered on either side of her face and words caught in her throat as if she was trying to say something that was beyond her abilities of speech. She glanced up and down the empty street, at the quiet houses. She didn’t move. She looked at me once more, eyes red. I worried she might ask for her husband, but she didn’t. Her husband was equally helpless, equally alone and desperate and far away. Lost and tired, I thought. Lost and tired.
The thinking necessary to bring her to this point had entertained me, kept my mind in motion, every second belonging to itself and whatever occurred within it either informed the next or did not, but now she was broken, defeated. I had only to finish a game that had already ended. I felt bored. I watched her open her door, get out, and wait. I felt for the red marker in my pocket. I opened my door. Neither of us spoke as we walked up the steps, our silence a pact so solitary in its understanding of her limited options that we both knew there was nothing more to be said.
Now I am involved with another woman, another game. I anticipate a similar ending. I call Randolph House and get the same recording.
If you’re . . .
Hello, yes, I called earlier from Fresh Start about a bed for my client. You have a bed?
. . . press three.
That’s great, thank you. I’ll send her over.
I hang up. I expect that Randolph House will be calmer this time. That’s fine. I know what to say.
Randolph has a bed, I tell her. Took a while but it was worth the wait.
I flash her a quick reassuring smile. I expect her to look relieved. Instead, she crosses her arms and stares at the floor.
What’s wrong? I ask.
May I see the woman who was just here?
Katie?
Is that her name?
Yes. Why?
I just want to. I liked her. Can’t I?
Of course. Sure, you can, but it would be a mistake. You need to go to Randolph House now or you’ll lose your bed.
I’ll go, but I want to see Katie first.
Her voice rises, cracks. Nervous but insistent. Almost annoyed. At me. My mind goes blank. I don’t know what to say.
Just go to the shelter, I insist. I try not to sound angry, control the tone of my voice.
She stands.
Where’re you going?
To see her. Katie.
She walks out the door.
Wait.
She turns to me. A determined stare. I drum my fingers against my desk. She doesn’t move. She’s already gone. I’ve lost her.
The other woman, the man’s wife, she did as I told her. Tears inside my apartment but no questions. I wonder where she went after she left the next morning. Did she meet her husband? I assume she did, assume she told him nothing. I didn’t expect to see them again and I didn’t. Where did they go? Maybe it worked out for them; maybe it didn’t.
Just a minute, I say again. Wait here.
I stand, walk past her and into the drop-in. A missed opportunity. It happens. I imagine her staring after me and regretting her decision. Too late. I reject her. That’s how I roll.
I stop at Katie’s desk. A woman sits beside her. Circles of pink rouge make the woman’s pale, tense face look even paler.
My client wants to speak with you, I say.
Oh?
I’ll send her over.
I’m doing an intake.
I look at her client. She stares straight ahead. Thirtyish. She smells of cigarettes. But the way her straw-colored hair trails down to the small of her back interlaced in one long braid appeals to me. She spent a little time on herself making that braid.
Take my client, I say. I’ll finish here for you.
