Shelter Us: A Novel (11 page)

Her son wakes up and rubs his eyes. Noticing, she leans over and lifts him out of the stroller and onto her lap. His T-shirt and shorts are too baggy for his skinny frame. His smooth skin is a couple of shades darker than hers, and his head is covered with tight black curls. “Hi, baby. You hungry?” Seeing the food, he begins to reach for it. She breaks off small pieces of his egg sandwich and feeds it to him until it is gone. “More,” he says.

She opens the yogurt, putting the lid on the tray yogurt-side up. She takes a white plastic spoon out of its plastic wrap, scoops yogurt onto it, and brings it close to her son’s mouth. He opens it as wide as he can.

“You like it? Want more?”

His gaping mouth makes plain that he likes it. Spoonful by spoonful, he finishes the yogurt. She puts the spoon down and shrinks into her chair. There is an awkward moment of waiting, not knowing what to do or say.

“I’m Sarah,” I offer.

“I’m Josie. This is Tyler.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I smile.
It is unbelievable to meet you
. “How old is Tyler?” I’m guessing she’ll say eighteen months.

“Almost two and a half,” she answers.

“Oh.” I try to hide my surprise. He’s older than Izzy, but smaller. I consider malnutrition, and it whacks me back to helplessness: one meal changes nothing.

“Do you have kids?” she asks. We are just two ladies making small talk.

My answer emerges from my mouth more easily than it has since Ella died, as though being in this unlikely place has neutralized the damage, at least for right now. “I have two boys. Oliver is almost five, and Izzy is two.” I say in my head,
And I have a daughter, Ella
.

“That sounds like a handful.”

“Yeah.”

“Their dad around?” she asks, then cuts herself off. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

“No, that’s okay. Yes, their dad is around. I mean, I’m married to him.”

“That’s good. That must help.”

“Yes, he’s great with them.” I wish I hadn’t said that—it sounds like bragging.

“What about Tyler’s dad?” I ask. I figure she opened the door.

“He’s not around,” she says. Her voice closes the door to more questions.

“Uh-huh.”

She straightens her back, as if to emphasize that she is strong enough, she can handle it. My mind fills with questions. How could this baby be two and a half? How old is she? Where is the baby’s father? Where is her own mother? (I could almost
be
her mother.) Where and when will they get their next meal? I don’t want to hammer her with an interrogation, so I bite my tongue, sit in the silence and try not to worry about whatever happens next.

Outside on the sidewalk, our breakfast over, we say our good-byes. It’s beyond awkward, like the end of a first date on Mars. What is the protocol for this parting?

“Okay, well, bye.” She begins to walk away. Is this it? Will I ever see them again?

“Josie,” I call out, wanting to prolong our relationship by another minute. She stops and turns. “I just wondered, where are you headed?” I’m not sure I want to know.

“There’s a playground on Olive. It’s actually just a swing set. But it’s something to do. We have to be out of the shelter until five.”

I think I know it. I used to pass it on my way to the courthouse. It’s centered in a square cement lot, iron bars painted gunmetal gray,
black plastic seat connected to two metal chains. It always looked abandoned. I assumed the lot was used mostly for drug deals and assorted creepy stuff. I never pictured an actual child there. “Where is the shelter?” I want to know where to picture them, replace the image I have of them in the depressing swing set.

She takes her time deciding whether to answer. She should tell me it’s none of my business. “It’s the Los Angeles Women’s Shelter. Do you know it?”

I shake my head no.

“It’s fine. I mean, it beats the street, I can tell you that from experience. But we can’t stay there forever. They don’t let you.” Her hands clench the stroller. “Not that I’d want to. Anyhow, I’ll figure it out.” She leans down to adjust Tyler’s blanket. I watch, trying and failing to come up with a solution, drawing a blank. I lack imagination. I see this world I can’t change. I picture them sleeping in the shelter, and then I replace that with a picture of them sleeping in my living room on our sofa bed. That image falls apart when I consider Robert’s reaction. My head spins—is it a ridiculous idea to take them in, or is it ridiculous not to?

“What do you think you’ll do next? I mean, will they help you get a job and get settled somewhere?”

“There are a few places that do that. It takes time. I’m working on it.” She smiles an enigmatic smile, either hopeful or resigned, leaving me wondering what that means. “Thanks again for breakfast, Sarah,” she says. She reaches out to shake my hand, and walks away toward the rest of her day.

I
shuffle back
toward the bus stop like I am coming out of a dream. Did that really happen? Did we sit and talk and share a meal? Did I let her walk away? Where is the Los Angeles Women’s Shelter? Will they really help her? Is it safe? Would they need volunteers?

I wake to mundane reality and I realize I’ve lost track of time. I check my phone. Eleven forty-five. I’m going to be late picking up Oliver. I don’t even know what time the next bus leaves. I call the school to let them know, and start running to the bus stop. A taxi drives past me and I give chase. I catch up to it at a red light and bang on the door to let him know I’m coming in.

It smells like old cigarettes in the backseat. I ask the driver to take me to Pacific Palisades, and he smiles. It’s a long ride, a good fare. He lurches into traffic, and for the entire ride my stomach clenches as I replay the morning. I am astounded that I found them, and confounded about what I should do next.

I direct the driver to Oliver’s school, counting each minute and cursing each traffic jam. When we arrive I hand the driver my credit card and wait for it to slowly process. I wish I had cash to give him so I could blaze out of this taxi into school, but I gave Josie my last twenty dollars. I wonder what that will buy them.

It is quiet when I burst into Oliver’s classroom. He is sitting next to Layla at the low table, with crayons and paper in front of him. Her hand is on his small shoulder, his head hangs low. “I’m here! I’m so
sorry I’m late.” I bend down to hug Oliver. “I’m really sorry, Layla.” Her face holds a stiff smile, and she says, “It’s fine” in a strained-sugary voice that tells me it isn’t.

“Why were you so late?” Oliver demands. “I’m the last one!” He lets me pick him up, and I hold and rock him. I feel terrible. He had just begun to like coming here, to let me leave without a scene. He announces, his face scrunched with fury, “This is the worst day of my life!”

I picture the little boy I just left, gulping down food. I imagine his mother pushing him listlessly on a cold metal swing while winos and addicts amble by. Something in me snaps. I put Oliver down, pick up his new lunch box (heavy with uneaten food). I notice two trash cans filled with barely touched food discarded by other full-bellied four- and five-year-olds. I bend over to meet his eyes, and say in a stern voice that surprises us both, “I hope this is the worst day of your life, Oliver. I truly hope this is as bad as it ever gets.” I straighten up, and Layla catches my eye, then looks away. Oliver pouts. I hear how I sounded.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. I didn’t mean to shout. I just meant to say you are a very lucky boy.”

His pout stays put.

“Are you all right, Sarah?” Layla asks in a gentle voice.

“I’m fine. I’m very sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay.”

I hold out a hand to Oliver and say, more patiently, “C’mon, let’s go home.”

He takes my hand and walks out the door. He looks around. “Where’s the car, Mommy?” I lean my head back and sigh. No car. The emotion of the morning almost catches up to me, but I push back at it, make it wait a little longer, until I’m home and it can crash over me safely. Forcing a smile, I turn to him and say, “We’re having an adventure today. We’re going to walk home.” He looks up at me, reads my face, and swallows any complaints. Step by step we go.

I
wait
until Robert is nearly asleep to tell him about this morning. We lie in the dark, where most of our conversations happen. He looks so peaceful, so close to nodding off, but I can’t go to sleep without telling him. I’m not sure how to begin. “Robert, something kind of weird happened today.”

“Really?” he mumbles into his pillow. He is intrigued, against his will. He lifts his head. “What happened?”

There’s so much to say. The darkness makes it feel like a confession, and I speak with a quiet nighttime voice. I keep my eyes closed. It’s easier than looking at him and allows me to half-pretend that I dreamed the whole thing.

“Remember that homeless woman with the baby? From the car show?”

“Mm-hmm.” He utters this without moving his lips.

“Well, I haven’t been able to get them out of my mind.” I wait for him to say something, but he’s quiet—listening or trying to sleep. I press on. “I’ve been feeling like I had to find them. Like I would go crazy if I didn’t try. It’s bizarre, actually, like I’m possessed or something. So this morning I went downtown to look for them.” I pause, surprised all over again by what happened. “I took the bus.”

“Go on.” I have his attention.

I continue, my voice getting louder and faster. “I still can’t believe it, but I saw them. I found them. Walking down the street. I almost
changed my mind. I was so nervous. But then I went up to her and we actually talked. We had breakfast. At McDonald’s, if you can believe it.” I stop, wait for a response. “Robert?”

“I’m listening.”

“That baby was so hungry, Robert.”

Why doesn’t he say anything? I want to know what he thinks. I shouldn’t have waited until so late to tell him. I wish we had more time to talk.

Finally he lifts his head, and I can tell he’s got something to say. I often count on him to help me figure things out or look at things from a different point of view. Maybe he has a suggestion I haven’t thought of as to how to help them. He says, “Please don’t do that again. Promise me.”

My stomach flips over. “Why? No, I will not promise you. I did nothing wrong.”

He sits up to make his point. “Sarah, I understand that you are a compassionate and caring person, but I don’t want to have to worry about you running around downtown, getting involved with—” He cuts himself off.

“With what?” I sit up and face him, pushing my fists into the mattress. “With
what
, Robert?”

“Calm down.”

“I’m calm. I just don’t understand what I did wrong.”

He sighs and plops back onto his pillow. His hands come to his face, as though he has to rub aggravation away. Using his I’m-trying-to-be-patient voice, something he’s been relying on more and more lately, he proclaims, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sarah. It’s just that it’s not your job to fix the world. I want you to take care of yourself.”

“I’m not fixing the world, Robert! It’s one woman and her baby.” I feel an urge to throw something. My lungs contract and I pat my chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to argue with you.” He reaches over to me, touches my arm. I want to shrug him off, but I let his hand rest there. I concentrate instead on breathing until I feel my lungs expand again. He resumes when he sees that I’m back in control of myself. “I don’t
understand why you feel so strongly that you have to help them, these two in particular.”

“Well, no one else is.”

“But,” he offers in a quieter tone, “there are other people in need. What is it about them in particular?”

I lean back into my pillow, and answers flood my head:
Because that baby is so vulnerable. Because we have a roof and food. Because she’s so alone. Because I’m so lonely. Because I need to repair the hole in my heart
. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

“I’m worried about you, Sarah.”

“So am I.”

He shifts closer to me and puts his arms around me. I wipe my eyes, lie against him in the dark. My mind floats back to Josie and Tyler. Soon I hear Robert’s breath slow down and hit a rhythm.

I can’t sleep. I get out of bed. Out of habit I go check on the boys. I walk into their room and let my eyes adjust to the dark. The sound of their soft snoring comforts me, as ever. Izzy is splayed out in the crib, cradled in Oliver’s hand-me-down footed pajamas. I wonder if Tyler has cozy pajamas that fit, if he sleeps through the night.

Restless, I go downstairs. A square of moonlight shines through the window and lands in a parallelogram on the floor. I open the back door and walk outside, and try to calculate the miles of concrete and asphalt between where they are downtown and where I stand. The cool air pierces my nightshirt and I hug myself against the cold. I start to go inside but stop, force myself to stay outside another ten minutes, until my fingers and toes start to hurt. I want to feel what it’s like to be outside when you don’t want to be.

I walk back inside and lock the door. I look around at all the space in here, the couch, the plush carpet. Again I picture Josie and Tyler sleeping on our sofa bed. They could be here right now, instead of in a shelter with who knows what kind of dangers. Why couldn’t I offer them refuge? If I had more courage. If the world were different.

I walk to the bookshelf and scan the familiar spines for something that might help me. Eleanor Roosevelt’s biography. Maybe she can
lend me the boldness I lack. I scan the first page, but can’t concentrate on Eleanor. I put it back. My eyes move to my mother’s favorite book of Jewish blessings. Sometimes she would read one to me when she thought I needed encouragement, or she just wanted to share one that had special meaning to her. I pick it up and look at its familiar cover. This book has traveled with me to college, to law school, and now to this house. Every time I open it I listen for her voice.

I turn to a dog-eared page with a poem called “The Stranger.”

They come—the orphan, the widow, the stranger
.