White Oleander - Janet Fitch [93]
“Come on,” he said. “Help a guy out.”
I was ready to cross, to escape this scarecrow of a man, but Claire looked over at him. She didn’t know how to ignore people.
“Can you spare some change, lady? Anything’ll help.”
The light changed, but Claire wasn’t paying attention. She was digging in her purse, emptying out her change. She never learned about street people, that if you showed them the least little kindness, they’d latch onto you like castor seeds. Claire only saw how thin he was, the limp where he must have been hit by a car while panhandling between traffic lights. My mother would have offered to shove him out in front of a bus, but Claire cared. She believed in the commonality of the soul.
The hippie man pocketed the money. “You’re a real human being, lady. Most people won’t look a man in the eye when he’s down.” He gave me an accusing look. “I don’t care if a guy gives me something, I just want him to look me in the eye, you know what I’m saying?”
“I do,” Claire said, in her voice that was cool water and soft hands.
“I worked steady all my life, but I pulled my back out, see. I never drank on the job. I never did.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” The stoplight turned red again. I was ready to pull Claire out into traffic. Everywhere we went, people ended up telling her their sad stories. They could see she was too polite to just walk away. He came closer. She was probably the first normal person who’d listened to him for days.
“Unemployment only lasts so long,” he said. I could smell him. Either he’d pissed on himself or someone else had done the honors. “Nobody gives a shit.”
“Some people do,” Claire said. The late afternoon sun was turning her dark hair red around the edges.
“You’re a real human being,” he said. “They’re out of style now, though. Machines, that’s what they want.” He was breathing right into her face, but she was too sweet to turn her head. She didn’t want to offend him. They always seemed to know that about her. “I mean, how many people they need to fry burgers?”
“Not enough. Or maybe too many.” She smiled, insecure, shoving her windblown hair out of her face.
The light turned green, but we were going nowhere. Stalled in the stream at Sunset and Cahuenga. People walked around us like we were a hole in the sidewalk.
He stepped closer again, lowered his voice confidentially. “Do you think of me as a man?” He stuck his tongue through the slot of a missing tooth.
She flushed, shrugged her shoulders, embarrassed. Of course she didn’t. I wanted to shove him off the curb.
“Women used to like me a lot. While I was working.”
I could see the tension on her face, she wanted to back away, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She was twisting the bag of eight-by-ten glossies she ’d just paid two hundred dollars for. A black Corvette went by, trailing rap music.
“You’re a nice lady, but you wouldn’t take your clothes off for me, would you.”
She was bending her photographs, her sensitive face quivering with contradiction. “I don’t . . .” she mumbled.
“I don’t blame you. But you wouldn’t.” He looked so sad.
I took her arm. “Claire, we have to go now.”
But she was too caught up in the homeless man who was pulling a mind trip on her. He had her snared.
“I miss women,” he said. “The way they smelled. I miss that. Like you, whatever you’ve got on.”
She wore her L’Air du Temps, out of place as a wildflower in a war zone. I was amazed he could detect her fragrance through his own stench.
But I knew what he meant. I loved the way she smelled too. I liked to sit on her bed as she combed and French-braided my hair. I could sit there as long as she wanted, just breathing the air where she was.
“Thank you,” she whispered. That was Claire, afraid of hurting anyone ’s feelings, even this sad old bum.
“Can I smell your hair?” he asked.
She went pale. She had no boundaries. He could do anything, she wouldn