I stood there a while longer and then walked away quickly, hoping no one who knew me had seen me. How embarrassing that would be, I thought. Again, without consciously planning it, I
walked in the direction of my house. When I arrived on our street, I stopped, like someone who had been picked up and dropped there, someone totally surprised at where she was and how she had gotten there. I stood looking at the front door and thinking, about Mama mostly. Would she be coming out soon, perhaps to go grocery shopping or do some other errand? I wanted to see her. I waited and waited.
Finally, she did emerge, with Emmie. For some reason, she was either taking her to school late or taking her somewhere else. Emmie looked sad, as if she had been crying. Maybe she had asked about me so much that Papa had exploded at her. Secretly, I hoped that was it. I was tempted to step out and call to them. I might even let Mama talk me into coming back, I thought. But I couldn’t do it, even though I knew Papa was at work and wouldn’t know.
I defied the tears that were forming over my eyes and turned away quickly, now practically jogging down the street, through Central Park, and then into the subway station to go back downtown into the hell I had chosen for some sanctuary. Again and again, I asked myself what I was doing and what I had hoped to accomplish. I had to get hold of myself, get back securely on my feet. The way to do it, I thought, was to get a job and make enough money so I could either leave the city for some other place or at least get into a decent hotel.
So I decided to actively look for work, first in stores advertising for salespeople. I returned to the hotel and changed into my best pantsuit. It was a little wrinkled, but I had to make do. I had a bright red beret that I thought would be a nice added touch. Then I went into the bathroom and did the best I could to make myself look put-together. After only several days in the rat hole, I had already begun to let myself go, not caring about my hair or what I wore and certainly not bothering with any makeup. I was starting to look like the others there. When you started to neglect how you looked, you began to diminish and slowly turn into a ghost, I thought. It put some panic in my chest.
With more determination, I worked on my face, brushed out my hair, put on a pair of earrings, and practiced my “older” look. Feeling confident again, I hurried out to go job hunting. The young man at the desk whistled at me and shook his limp hand.
“You’re a looker,” he said.
I didn’t even pause.
“I can make you a lot of money,” he called after me.
Despite my appearance, it took me three tries before I was able to meet with someone doing the hiring in a store. I was brought to a small office at the rear of a clothing store and met with the store manager, a man who looked about my father’s age. He was surprised at my knowledge of some of the styles and designers, especially those doing clothes for younger women. I thought I was doing well and was on my way to getting the job, until I was asked for my identification.
What was I thinking? Why didn’t I anticipate that would be a problem? The moment anyone learned my true age, eyes narrowed, and more detailed questioning started. Why wasn’t I in school? Was this address on my ID my current address? They knew how upscale the East Side neighborhood was. Why would someone from that world be looking for a full-time job? Using the dumpy hotel as an address wasn’t going to work. How would I begin to explain why I was there?
One female manager, who was pretty dumpy and plain for someone running a boutique, in my opinion, actually stopped talking to me for a moment, narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and then simply said, “You’re a runaway, aren’t you? Well?”
I didn’t respond. I just got up and left the office. Ironically, I did run away from her. I was afraid she would get on the phone and call the police or something. She looked like one of those do-gooders who poke their faces into other people’s affairs because their own lives are so mundane and boring.
Maybe retail outlets weren’t the best possibilities, I thought, and started to inquire at restaurants looking for waitresses and waiters. They might be less demanding. Surely my background wouldn’t be as important. Didn’t waiters and waitresses come and go all the time? I always thought I was an expert liar, but when it came to describing past experience at restaurants, I would readily admit myself that I sounded pathetic and dishonest. This wasn’t going to work, either, I realized. My ID was too difficult a problem to solve, and by the end of the day, I was in a deep funk, discouraged and defeated. Whether I liked it or not, I was going to have to go back home and plead for mercy. What other choice did I have?
I stopped at a restaurant not far from where I was staying. It was the cleanest and nicest one I had eaten at since I had left home. I wasn’t hungry, but I ordered a pasta salad and a mineral water just to have something to do while I sat there considering my desperate and now hopeless situation.
My stash of funds was looking pretty pathetic. I had rushed so much to leave the house after Papa ordered me out that I didn’t take my best clothes or enough of anything, really. If I started buying myself new things, I’d soon be broke. I didn’t even have enough makeup. I certainly didn’t have the right shoes, and I was beginning to get blisters.
Face it, Lady Big Shot, I told myself, your father knew what you would be up against. He probably told your mother they were giving you enough rope to hang yourself, something like that. He was confident you would return, plead for mercy, and get in line. It was the way he was brought up, the way he was forced to compromise and obey until he was old enough to break free. Now that I was out there, I could appreciate what it took for him to be so independent, to defy his father and all that family tradition. He was too tough, too strong. I was a fool to think I could break him before he would break me.
No, I told myself, there was no sense in prolonging the pain. It was time to wave the white flag, surrender, and go crawling back.
I thought about calling Mama first so she could set up a smoke-the-peace-pipe meeting with my father. I rehearsed what I would say, the promises I would make, and the punishments I would accept. Every thought was like swallowing sour milk or being jolted by a surge of hot electricity on my spine. I was so down and depressed that I hated the image of myself I saw reflected in a nearby mirror, which was another reason I was so surprised by what happened next.
2
How anyone could look at me at this point and not be completely turned off by what he saw in my face amazed me. I was depressed, defeated, and soured by all that had happened, but when I raised my head and looked across the restaurant, I saw a man with a dark complexion, handsome and rather distinguished-looking in his dark gray suit and black tie, looking at me with interest and smiling. He had wavy light brown hair and looked to be in his late forties, early fifties. There was a confident, successful-movie-actor glow on his face, the look of someone who was untouched by the things that annoyed, irritated, and aged most people.
His smile wasn’t licentious. I could sense that he wasn’t flirting with me. Rather, he looked a little amused, but still expressed admiration, too. He was more like someone’s nice uncle preparing to toss compliments at me. Of course, I thought, this could all be a façade, too. He might very well be a womanizer, someone who took advantage of young women, especially young women who wore a look of desperation. Despite how much I wanted to think otherwise, I kept myself cautious. I didn’t smile back at him or acknowledge him in any way, but that didn’t appear to discourage him. In fact, I think my indifference only encouraged him.
He rose and crossed the restaurant to my table. I thought he had the most amazingly blue eyes, Caribbean Sea blue, with a softness that radiated kindness.
“Pardonnez-moi,” he said.
Every guy thinks he’s cute imitating a Frenchman, I thought. And then I thought I’d fix him. “Oui. Comment puis-je vous aider?” I asked. I didn’t know if he knew that meant “How can I help you?” but after I spoke, his smile widened.
“I had a suspicion you spoke French,” he said. “That’s why I said pardonnez-moi.”
“Pourquoi?”
“I don’t know. Just your look. Anyway, I was sitting there watching you and thought to myself, what’s a beautiful young woman like her doing here this time of the day by herself?”
“And what did you tell yourself?” I replied. “Or aren’t you in the habit of answering your own questions?”
I thought I saw a slight nod of his head, confirming something he had suspected. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t intimidated by someone his age approaching me. “I didn’t have an answer for myself, but I thought I’d like to know the answer. Do you mind?” He nodded at the chair across from me.