Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [84]
I was just wondering, do you have any money I could borrow, he says.
Normally you would just say no. You give your time and money to the clinic. But things are different tonight. Your sense of well-being. The beauty that surrounds you. You wonder what you would feel if you took his hand.
You look for your purse. But there is nothing. You check your pockets in case you brought only your wallet or stuck your driver’s license and a credit card in a pocket. Nothing. The man watches as you go through your contortions.
Probably you shouldn’t have been sleeping here, he says. Probably someone got here before me, someone not so nice.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his coat and offers you one. When you refuse, he lights one himself and settles back on the bench.
When I saw you there, I thought, Now what’s a nice lady like that doing in Lincoln Park in the middle of the night? he says. It was a real strange sight. But where are your shoes?
You look down. Your feet are bare and dirty. There is some dried blood on the side of your ankle. You reach down and pluck out a piece of glass. The hem of your pants is muddied.
Someone’s been paddling, says the man. I can’t say I blame you. It’s certainly the night for it.
You notice that it’s no longer quite as quiet. Although the crickets have subsided, and the hum of traffic from afar has dwindled, there are other noises. You notice that the two of you aren’t alone. The field surrounding you is dotted with dark shapes, people rolling up carts, unfurling blankets. A man and woman struggle with a mass of material that turns into a small tent. An encampment is forming.
The man continues to talk as he smokes.
You’re new. You must prefer the shelters. A lot of the women do. You can stay cleaner there. But I don’t care too much for the rules. In bed by nine PM. No liquor. No smoking. No getting up before six AM.
You must be a night person, you say. I always was, too. I’m a wanderer.
Wanderer. Wandering. Wanderlust. You like the sound of the words as you speak them.
You said it. Give me the park at night anytime. Hey, where’s your stuff ? I can help you settle in.
I don’t know, you say. Home, I guess.
You have a home?
Of course. On Sheffield.
That’s a pretty nice street! Where on Sheffield?
Twenty-one Fifty-three Sheffield. Right down the block from St. Vincent’s.
I know that area. So you have a house there. So why are you out here, middle of the night, no shoes?
I guess I wanted some fresh air, you say. But now that he asks, you’re not sure. The man’s face has filled your mind, driving all other things out. His nose, his mouth. The grime in the considerable laugh lines around his eyes. A slight bruise on his cheekbone. The tufts of hair that stick out from under his cap. Not an unlikable face. A capable face, but capable of what?
What about your family?
They’re all dead, you say. My mother. My father. Everyone died.
Hey, that’s rough. Real rough. Mine all died too. I have a sister somewhere, but she doesn’t talk to me anymore.
He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, finishes it off, throws the butt on the ground, and grinds it in with his boot.
Hey, do you think we could go to your house? I sure would love to sleep in a bed for once. A bed with no rules.
We have a guest room, you say.
Well, that’s just perfect. I would love to be your guest. Just love it. He stands up, dusts off his trousers, and waits.
You get up too. Your feet are sore. A slight stinging on your ankle. Can you walk? You can. But you’re suddenly very tired.
Do you know how to get there? you ask.
I sure do. My old stomping grounds. And Antoine’s, too. Let me get Antoine. He’d sure appreciate a guest room himself.
I only have one guest room. But it’s a double bed.
Well, I could do worse than share a bed with old Andy. Let me find him. You just stay here. He runs off, glancing back at you every other step as if to make sure you don’t go away.
You do as he says. You are grateful that someone has taken charge. You never let James do that. You must be getting older.