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Authors: Janice Erlbaum
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stuck up—look at this.” She hiked the leg of her cargo pants, and I could see a deep two-inch gouge on the back of one heel. “Achilles tendon. Someone cut it when I was a kid after I burned ’em on a drug deal.” My eyes widened in horror, and she let the pant leg drop, satisfied. “I don’t need this place, shit. I’ma smoke this cigarette, go upstairs, and beat that bitch’s ass, then grab my stuff and heave-ho.”
Then she started talking about respect. I told her, “I respect you one thousand percent. I think all the adults here respect you, a lot.” She rolled right over this. She was still working that pronounced ’hood accent, but it was a combination of about eleven different hoods—Wyoming, New York, Texarkana. If there was a ghetto, she’d been there.
Ice.
That was her nickname. She was talking about guns she’d carried, a dog she had. She mentioned her old street families, people named Turtle, Tiny, and Pyro. I asked, “What did they call you?” Ice.
She was done with her cigarette, stomping on it and scowling at it. We sat on the concrete loading dock under the scaffold, swinging our legs. It was cold, and she had no coat on, so I gave her my sweatshirt to wear. I had my down coat.
Philadelphia was her favorite city, she told me—no, Washington, D.C., because of the free museums. Her face was starting to relax; though she still wouldn’t look directly at me, I could see it peripherally. She had the notebook in her pocket; she showed me some new drawings. A faceless girl on a cloud embraced a broken mirror; her reflection bowed her head. An exquisitely detailed pair of bound hands, blood pouring from the slit wrists. I cleared my throat and wiped my runny nose. “These are really good,” I said.
We sat out there for a while; she smoked another cigarette. At one point she said, “I’m cold.” And without saying anything else, we walked back inside.
Rina was waiting for us. They conferred, and Sam agreed to “chill,” she said. “As long as that bitch stays away from me, I will stay away from her.” That was good enough for Rina. I was betting the mystery girl would stay away from now on—everyone in the lounge was already talking about how Sam jumped up “like she was gonna kill somebody!” and how the other girl cowered in the office for an hour while Sam calmed down.
It was time for me to head home—I had groceries to buy, phone calls to make. “Are you really going to be okay?” I asked Sam, searching her eyes, which were finally turned toward mine. They were soft around the corners again, wide and warm. She even smiled.
“Yeah. Hey, good thing you came up here today, huh?”
I brushed this off, though I was thinking the same thing—my timing was perfect, I’d pretty much rescued her from being discharged, and what might have happened had I not dropped by to handle the situation? She could have been bounced; she could have been halfway to nowhere by now. I straightened up, stifling a smile of pride. “Always glad to see you,” I said, and passed her the pack of cigarettes. “I’ll see you Wednesday. I
better
see you Wednesday.”
She laughed. “All right.”
I waved and headed for the staircase, wondering, as I always wondered when I left her side, whether I’d ever see her again; whether she’d make it to next Wednesday, much less rehab, or anyplace beyond. Each time I let her out of my sight, it seemed more likely that she might disappear from my life entirely, and more vital that she stay. But walking that day toward the subway home, the image of her laughing fresh in my mind, I had hope.
The next Wednesday, Sam wasn’t there.
I showed up at the shelter early again and found Ellenette and St. Croix in front of the TV with two new girls, holding hands on the couch, despite the rule against physical affection among residents. Ellenette put out the call—
Bead Lady!
—but there was no response. No Sam coming around the corner, no
Then she started talking about respect. I told her, “I respect you one thousand percent. I think all the adults here respect you, a lot.” She rolled right over this. She was still working that pronounced ’hood accent, but it was a combination of about eleven different hoods—Wyoming, New York, Texarkana. If there was a ghetto, she’d been there.
Ice.
That was her nickname. She was talking about guns she’d carried, a dog she had. She mentioned her old street families, people named Turtle, Tiny, and Pyro. I asked, “What did they call you?” Ice.
She was done with her cigarette, stomping on it and scowling at it. We sat on the concrete loading dock under the scaffold, swinging our legs. It was cold, and she had no coat on, so I gave her my sweatshirt to wear. I had my down coat.
Philadelphia was her favorite city, she told me—no, Washington, D.C., because of the free museums. Her face was starting to relax; though she still wouldn’t look directly at me, I could see it peripherally. She had the notebook in her pocket; she showed me some new drawings. A faceless girl on a cloud embraced a broken mirror; her reflection bowed her head. An exquisitely detailed pair of bound hands, blood pouring from the slit wrists. I cleared my throat and wiped my runny nose. “These are really good,” I said.
We sat out there for a while; she smoked another cigarette. At one point she said, “I’m cold.” And without saying anything else, we walked back inside.
Rina was waiting for us. They conferred, and Sam agreed to “chill,” she said. “As long as that bitch stays away from me, I will stay away from her.” That was good enough for Rina. I was betting the mystery girl would stay away from now on—everyone in the lounge was already talking about how Sam jumped up “like she was gonna kill somebody!” and how the other girl cowered in the office for an hour while Sam calmed down.
It was time for me to head home—I had groceries to buy, phone calls to make. “Are you really going to be okay?” I asked Sam, searching her eyes, which were finally turned toward mine. They were soft around the corners again, wide and warm. She even smiled.
“Yeah. Hey, good thing you came up here today, huh?”
I brushed this off, though I was thinking the same thing—my timing was perfect, I’d pretty much rescued her from being discharged, and what might have happened had I not dropped by to handle the situation? She could have been bounced; she could have been halfway to nowhere by now. I straightened up, stifling a smile of pride. “Always glad to see you,” I said, and passed her the pack of cigarettes. “I’ll see you Wednesday. I
better
see you Wednesday.”
She laughed. “All right.”
I waved and headed for the staircase, wondering, as I always wondered when I left her side, whether I’d ever see her again; whether she’d make it to next Wednesday, much less rehab, or anyplace beyond. Each time I let her out of my sight, it seemed more likely that she might disappear from my life entirely, and more vital that she stay. But walking that day toward the subway home, the image of her laughing fresh in my mind, I had hope.
The next Wednesday, Sam wasn’t there.
I showed up at the shelter early again and found Ellenette and St. Croix in front of the TV with two new girls, holding hands on the couch, despite the rule against physical affection among residents. Ellenette put out the call—
Bead Lady!
—but there was no response. No Sam coming around the corner, no
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