part the shelter played in their lives.
In a voice completely devoid of any emotion she gave me a dry run-down. “The homeless problem in this state is not considered by legislators to be of much social importance, even though the numbers of runaways increase by the month. We exist on a minimal…really pathetic amount of assistance from the Department of Health Services and an occasional Runaway and Homeless Youth Grant from the federal level. Needless to say, we rely heavily on private donations and we still receive some help from the Valley Chapel.” While she talked, she rubbed the back of one hand with the other.
The curtain at the window beside her fluttered gently, wafting the scent of her sweet perfume toward me. I was genuinely puzzled by her cool attitude. Was this normal or was she annoyed with me because I’d come without an appointment?
In the short time remaining she explained that most of the girls stayed only a few days, usually moving on to larger metropolitan areas like Los Angeles where welfare budgets were more substantial.
“We can give them a change of clothes, food, some medical assistance and help them out with bus fare,” she continued, “but due to our limited funds we’re unable to provide much more.”
“How do the girls find this place?” I asked.
“Posters at the bus station, some of the churches and the clinic direct them to us.”
And Lucinda Johns at the cafe I added ruefully to myself. She rose then, announcing the conclusion of the interview. I thanked her, stating my intention to do a series on the problem after the fundraising event and could I return for more details and perhaps interview some of the girls?
She rubbed her hand harder. “Interview?”
“Yes, you know, to kind of personalize this. And perhaps I could take some photos…” I halted as her eyes narrowed. They were a peculiar shade of violet.
“I think not, Miss O’Dell. I do after all, have an obligation to protect these girls’ privacy.”
“Please think it over. I can assure you of their anonymity and I would, of course, shadow their faces.”
She showed me to the door. “It’s really against policy.”
“Whose policy?” It couldn’t hurt to push a little.
“Mine.” Her smoldering gaze challenged me to respond. It was obvious I’d overstepped the line.
“Thank you so much for your time,” I said, faking a warm tone. “You’ve been most helpful. Perhaps we can talk another time when you’re not so busy.”
“Perhaps.” She inclined her head and shut the door.
Inwardly fuming, I turned and strode to my car. It was ego deflating to be so thoroughly skunked on a story. With a touch of defiance, I yanked my camera from the car, snapped a few pictures of the house’s exterior and then slumped behind the wheel. I’d gain nothing by alienating Claudia Phillips so I’d have to think of a different approach.
Before leaving, I surveyed the house once more. It was then I noticed the slight movement of the curtain at the office window. If Claudia Phillips was so terribly busy, why was she watching me?
I’d returned to the office and made the afternoon deadline with ease. The rest of the week went smoothly, but now, as I sat studying the notes three days after the interview, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something about the woman just didn’t click. The more I thought about it, the more I was reminded of drawings in some of my childhood activity books. What’s wrong with this picture? What doesn’t belong here? I flipped to the back of the notebook and added Claudia Phillip’s name to the list.
“Hey, O’Dell, wake up! I’m talking to you.” Jim’s demand combined with being hit on the head with a paper wad pulled me from my reverie.
“What is it?” I said with a slight touch of irritation in my voice.
“A bunch of us are going over to the bowling alley for happy hour and then,” he paused and scooped his right hand forward, “knock down a few pins. You
In a voice completely devoid of any emotion she gave me a dry run-down. “The homeless problem in this state is not considered by legislators to be of much social importance, even though the numbers of runaways increase by the month. We exist on a minimal…really pathetic amount of assistance from the Department of Health Services and an occasional Runaway and Homeless Youth Grant from the federal level. Needless to say, we rely heavily on private donations and we still receive some help from the Valley Chapel.” While she talked, she rubbed the back of one hand with the other.
The curtain at the window beside her fluttered gently, wafting the scent of her sweet perfume toward me. I was genuinely puzzled by her cool attitude. Was this normal or was she annoyed with me because I’d come without an appointment?
In the short time remaining she explained that most of the girls stayed only a few days, usually moving on to larger metropolitan areas like Los Angeles where welfare budgets were more substantial.
“We can give them a change of clothes, food, some medical assistance and help them out with bus fare,” she continued, “but due to our limited funds we’re unable to provide much more.”
“How do the girls find this place?” I asked.
“Posters at the bus station, some of the churches and the clinic direct them to us.”
And Lucinda Johns at the cafe I added ruefully to myself. She rose then, announcing the conclusion of the interview. I thanked her, stating my intention to do a series on the problem after the fundraising event and could I return for more details and perhaps interview some of the girls?
She rubbed her hand harder. “Interview?”
“Yes, you know, to kind of personalize this. And perhaps I could take some photos…” I halted as her eyes narrowed. They were a peculiar shade of violet.
“I think not, Miss O’Dell. I do after all, have an obligation to protect these girls’ privacy.”
“Please think it over. I can assure you of their anonymity and I would, of course, shadow their faces.”
She showed me to the door. “It’s really against policy.”
“Whose policy?” It couldn’t hurt to push a little.
“Mine.” Her smoldering gaze challenged me to respond. It was obvious I’d overstepped the line.
“Thank you so much for your time,” I said, faking a warm tone. “You’ve been most helpful. Perhaps we can talk another time when you’re not so busy.”
“Perhaps.” She inclined her head and shut the door.
Inwardly fuming, I turned and strode to my car. It was ego deflating to be so thoroughly skunked on a story. With a touch of defiance, I yanked my camera from the car, snapped a few pictures of the house’s exterior and then slumped behind the wheel. I’d gain nothing by alienating Claudia Phillips so I’d have to think of a different approach.
Before leaving, I surveyed the house once more. It was then I noticed the slight movement of the curtain at the office window. If Claudia Phillips was so terribly busy, why was she watching me?
I’d returned to the office and made the afternoon deadline with ease. The rest of the week went smoothly, but now, as I sat studying the notes three days after the interview, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something about the woman just didn’t click. The more I thought about it, the more I was reminded of drawings in some of my childhood activity books. What’s wrong with this picture? What doesn’t belong here? I flipped to the back of the notebook and added Claudia Phillip’s name to the list.
“Hey, O’Dell, wake up! I’m talking to you.” Jim’s demand combined with being hit on the head with a paper wad pulled me from my reverie.
“What is it?” I said with a slight touch of irritation in my voice.
“A bunch of us are going over to the bowling alley for happy hour and then,” he paused and scooped his right hand forward, “knock down a few pins. You
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