She's Gone: A Novel (11 page)

Where was Will? He had been gone over thirty minutes. How long did it take to buy tickets? What if he had gotten arrested? How would she know? He had all the money. They should split it up in case they were separated. She needed to center herself and not panic. She couldn’t meditate in the terminal. She was afraid to close her eyes now. The packs might be stolen. She hugged her knees and cautiously watched everyone around her.

16

Back to Zero

Will appeared around the corner. He waved the tickets in greeting and smiled his irresistible smile. The girl in the tight-knit dress approached him.

He shook his head and continued toward Jolie. She moved a pack from the bench to make room for him. He handed her a Snickers bar. A fleeting smile crossed her face, too tired for much more.

“You were gone an eternity. What did that girl ask you?”

“If I wanted to have a good time,” he said.

“Like a party?”

Will looked at her. “You’re so naive. That’s why I love you. She’s a hooker. A hooker on heroin.”

“How can you tell she’s on heroin?”

“They mostly all are.”

“She’s a hooker on horse,” Jolie said. “Some guy tried to sell me some horse, that’s heroin right?”

Will put his arm around her. “We’ll be out of here soon. We’re on a four thirty a.m. bus to Boston. I’m feeling good about Boston.”

They sat together on the bench all night and watched New York’s underside. It had been a long four days. Will kept his arm around her. She relaxed a little now that they had a plan. And yet what if it was the same in Boston, and they couldn’t find a place to stay?

At four twenty in the morning, they boarded the bus to Boston and sat next to each other. There was no need to be paranoid about the private detective. They were invisible in New York. The bus was only half full as it rolled out of the terminal through upper Manhattan. They would be in Boston at ten thirty that morning.

She stared intently out the window, taking in the sights. The route took them through Harlem. They drove past a burned out stone church that sat charred in the darkness. How could anyone burn such a beautiful building? Windows were boarded up on storefronts, plaster peeled off of tenement buildings, abandoned buildings stood next to fire-blackened shells. Men lay on the sidewalks, passed out. Others sat on steps and watched the bus roll by.

She’d never seen such a grim sight. Can this be America? New York? How can these people live here? It was desolate, decrepit, and rundown. They passed a vacant lot with flames leaping out of a pile of trash. Were people camping in the city? What happened to civilized society? What would happen if the bus broke down there? She unconsciously gripped Will’s hand, and he rubbed it to relax her grip.

“Doesn’t anyone care?” Jolie asked. “This isn’t right.”

“This is what we’re organizing and fighting against,” Will said. “Poverty and the lack of equality. If our government spent the same amount here that they spend on one week in Vietnam, these folks would have a chance.”

The bus left Harlem behind but she’d never forget the scene. A shiver passed through her.

Soon they were out of the city, heading toward Connecticut. They leaned into one another and dozed, the bus engine vibrated a soothing hum.

They awoke as the bus pulled into Worcester, Massachusetts, the Heart of the Commonwealth, a sign proclaimed. The sun shone on old brick buildings. An hour later they disembarked in Boston.

Jolie asked a woman at an information counter about inexpensive weekly hotels. The woman opened a map and circled an area on Berkeley Street about twenty blocks away.

“It’s in the South End. It’s an okay area. There’s no hanky-panky going on,” she said, looking into Jolie’s eyes. Jolie strained to understand the strong accent. The woman then circled a bus stop on the map two blocks away and wrote the bus number. “This bus will take you near there.”

On Berkeley Street, under a canopy of trees, they walked past rows of old brick townhouses with colonial shutters. A few of the townhouses had been converted into resident hotels. In the first hotel that had a weekly rental sign in the window, they rang the bell at the reception desk. A wizened man with curly white hair shuffled out. He eyed them and their packs.

“How much for a room per week?” Will asked.

“We have no vacancy,” the old man said.

“But there’s a sign in the window,” Will said.

“No vacancy.”

They walked back onto the street.

“That’s bullshit,” Will said.

“We do look a little scruffy.” She stroked his five-day beard. They looked like gypsies with Will’s hand-woven headband, her small rolled-up Persian rug tied to her pack, and her leather fringe purse.

Three townhouses down, they walked into another hotel that advertised weekly rooms. A plump woman sat at the desk, reading. The lobby was dimly lit, and a stale odor permeated the air. Will inquired about a room. The woman indicated they had a room on the third floor with a shared bathroom. It was cheap.

“We’ll take it.” Will paid for a week and the woman handed him the key and pointed toward the wooden staircase.

On the third floor, a threadbare oriental carpet runner led them down the hall to the room. The stale odor was stronger. What was it? Will unlocked the door and she followed him in. Sunlight streamed in the tall windows of a large corner room. The paint on the windowsills was chipped. A small wood table and two chairs were set against a wall. On top of an old wooden dresser on the opposite wall was a stack of threadbare towels. In the corner, a hot plate, a can opener, and a small pot sat on the floor. A hot plate? That was part of the smell. People cooked in their rooms. There was an overhead light bulb with no shade. Jolie pulled back the moss-green chintz bedspread. The bed sagged in the middle.

It was shabby and rundown, but there was a bed with clean sheets, the door locked, and a bathroom was right down the hall.

“This is heaven, pure heaven,” she said, smiling.

“That’s the first smile I’ve seen in a week.”

Showered and changed, they flopped on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. Two hours later, a siren woke Jolie. She looked around the unfamiliar room. Will sat in the chair, looking out the window. The map the woman in the bus station had given them was spread on the table next to their money. Groggy, Jolie joined him at the table.

“Ready to explore?” Will asked.

“I’m famished. How much money do we have left?”

“We have enough for another week’s rent or food, but not both,” Will said.

Outside, Will led her through the Back Bay along quiet, tree-lined streets. They paused while she buttoned up her coat. The sun was out but it was cold and her cheeks were numb. She felt refreshed and almost herself again.

A sign hung outside a diner on a sandwich board: Cheap Breakfasts Served All Day.

“Let’s splurge.” He took her hand and led her inside. They slid into a booth. The mood here was different than New York. Not as rushed. They ordered tea and pancakes and eggs. Jolie held her warm tea mug to her cheeks. When their order came, they smothered the pancakes in butter and warm maple syrup and devoured the feast.

Will picked out the
Boston Globe
Help Wanted section from a stack of newspapers in a nearby vacant booth. “We’ll read this tonight and plan out where to apply for jobs tomorrow,” he said.

Jolie nodded, but an uneasy feeling crept over her as she glanced at the thick help wanted section. The big city was intimidating.

Outside they turned onto Boylston Street. In the distance, four pyramids and a huge tower trimmed in red sandstone stood out in the skyline: a glorious church. They stopped in front of another building. Jolie stared up at it.

“This is the library? It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to come back here,” she said.

People walked by and didn’t seem to notice the grand building. “Everything is so old and dignified. I’m going to learn all about the history and architecture,” Jolie said.

“Focus on the future, not the past.”

They walked up Newbury Street past vintage row houses, boutiques, and restaurants.

“Look for Help Wanted signs,” Will said.

They passed men in long wool coats and women in skirts, leather boots and cashmere scarves. She eyed a handbag in a shop window. The price tag was equivalent to a small fortune. She didn’t have anything to wear to an interview, much less to work in these shops. Her vintage clothing would be considered too bohemian.

They turned onto Commonwealth Avenue and walked along the Mall, a wide street lined with grass. Benches and monuments decorated the promenade. At the end of the avenue they stood and gazed at the Public Garden before heading to the Charles River. After three blocks it lay before them. Mystic blue, with rowing teams racing along the banks. They walked along the riverfront and sat on a bench.

“I love Boston,” Jolie said. “It’s much more laid back than New York.”

“Don’t let your guard down. All cities have crime,” he said, and took her hand and kissed it. They sat on the bench, gazing across the river at Cambridge.

To warm up, they walked back along Arlington Street and wandered into the Public Garden. A path lined with elms, horse chestnuts, redwoods, and ginkgo trees meandered alongside a lagoon. Weeping willows spilled over the banks. Couples strolled hand in hand and children fed the ducks. Jolie was drawn to a large bronze statue of George Washington. She gazed up at him astride his lifelike, prancing horse and stroked the horse’s leg.

They walked across Charles Street from the Public Garden into the Boston Common. People were everywhere. Some bicycling, others picnicked on benches; it didn’t seem to matter that there was a chill in the air. Everyone seemed happy for the sun and to be outside after the long winter. Jolie and Will walked through the Common, pausing at the monuments and fountains, taking in the history.

“They used to hang people in gallows here,” Jolie said, reading a plaque.

Ahead, a small group of about fifty or so anti-war protesters had congregated around a stone-columned bandstand. The protesters, finished with their march, hung around in small groups talking. Two policemen on horseback watched nearby.

Will and Jolie approached the group. Will sought out a clean-shaven, short-haired blond man who appeared to be the leader. He was finalizing instructions for the next protest to be held at the Cambridge Common the following Saturday. When he finished, Will introduced himself. The man’s name was Adam. Will talked to him at length about the West Coast anti-war activities and the Revolutionary Youth Movement. Jolie stood next to Will, silently observing.

“I’ve written a revolutionary socialist manifesto that I plan to publish,” Will said.

“Like The Communist Manifesto?” Adam asked, his face lit up at the prospect.

“Along those lines. But I’ve made it relevant for our government, our corporations and our social inequities.”

“Bring it by our meeting place. We hang out at Liberation Books in Cambridge. I’ll introduce you to the owner. We need new ideas to organize,” Adam said.

Jolie glanced at Will. Their first day in Boston, and he’d already met up with a movement. That was good, if it didn’t distract him from looking for work.

The protesters disbanded as the light faded. Jolie and Will walked back toward the hotel. They stopped at a neighborhood Italian grocery and bought food for dinner. In their room, they ate cheese and olives and Italian bread on the small table. It was basic, but they were off the street.

Jolie took the crumpled Help Wanted section Will had been carrying around all day and started reading down the column out loud. “Bus Driver, Cook, Dishwasher, Engineer, Machinist, Medical Assistant, Nurse, Preschool Teacher, Sales, Shipping Lead, Waitress.” She looked up. “I’d like to be a preschool teacher.”

“Focus on restaurants. People give you good tips, they like you. Plus you get food.”

She went back to the Waitress section. “Here are some waitress jobs in Harvard Square. Is that by Harvard University?”

“They’re both in Cambridge.”

“This one says ‘Apply in person Monday–Thursday. Ask for Manager. No phone calls.’ There are a bunch in Harvard Square.”

“Let’s go there in the morning. I want to check out Liberation Books. Cambridge seems to be the heart of the movement.”

She glanced at him. Shouldn’t work be his priority?

Exhausted by the past five days, they fell into bed. The radiator sputtered intermittently. The bed creaked, and the mattress sagged, but it was safe and warm and one hundred times better than last night’s bus bench in New York. Will held her tight. They talked of all the places they would explore and the things they would do.

“I want to live in a historic brick house in one of the quaint neighborhoods,” Jolie said.

“Someday. But first you have to score a job.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be looking. I don’t fit into an eight-to-five job. I need my own gig.”

Her heart sank. “But you’re the one with the college degree.”

He laughed. “All the more reason to be my own boss. It’ll be easier for you. You’ll find a job in a day or two. You have to. Our money is almost gone.”

Her body froze. What if she didn’t? What if their money ran out and they were back on the street? “Can your parents lend you some money?” Her voice small in the dark.

“I disowned my father years ago. He was a control freak.”

“Like what did he try and control?”

“Me. My mind, my ideals, my politics. Nothing I did was good enough. End of story.”

“Don’t you miss them?”