That had been her life, belonging to others,
never to herself. There had always been someone to do or think for
her, someone to catch her as she stumbled through life. Every time
she tried to take charge of her life, she discovered she was no
match for hard realities of the world. For the first time since she
had run away at fifteen, Clarissa was alone and susceptible. There
was no one to tell her what to do, how to survive, how to stay
alive. All of the protection and the immunity to life's struggles
had left her so impotent and frail that getting the money to make
one phone call was an almost overwhelming achievement. Damn, she
had even let Morgan manage and invest the money she had made
modeling. Well, that was probably long gone.
Sitting here in this cell, somewhere at the
bottom of her existence, was getting her nowhere. She knew it would
be only a matter of time before Morgan Wolfe found her. There was
no place else to hide. The fear of the dark streets, of the rain,
of Marco out there stalking her, looking for her in all of her old
haunts, kept her securely in the trap Virginia had so cleverly
devised. The gnawing feeling that Morgan's executive secretary had
intended to abandon her from the very beginning would not go away.
For whatever reason, personal vendetta, jealousy, or just for the
jewelry Clarissa had been wearing, Virginia Essex would not be
showing up at the Hempstead Hotel. Even the money she had in her
purse was lost. Clarissa felt like an animal that had fallen into a
deep pit, pacing madly, waiting for the hunter to show up and
finish her off.
The sharp knock on the door down the hallway
brought her out of the depressing reverie. The shelter had been
quiet all morning. The storm seemed to have a lulling, calming
effect on the residents and there was little movement. Clarissa
could hear a woman's voice, overly pleasant and placating, then a
man's angry voice, and the crash of a door slamming. The click of
thick heels clipped hollowly on the linoleum floor of the hallway.
Another knock on the door across the hall and the woman's
condescending voice.
"Good afternoon, I'm Dotty Warren," the voice
coaxed. "I'm from the Christian Mission Services. We're here every
Monday to help where we can. Are you new to this shelter? I haven't
seen you here before. How many days have you been here? Oh, really?
Where did you stay before Saturday?"
A female voice, low and somewhat testy
answered, but Clarissa could not hear her reply. The missionary
went on in the same sweet tone.
"Is there anything I can help you with? I have
a Bible I'd like to give to you. If you need any social services,
this list will help you. I do have clean needles if you need them.
Are you staying here alone?"
Clarissa listened for the reply but could hear
only a woman's curt tones and the shutting of the door. Then the
missionary knocked on Clarissa's door. Patronizing or not, the
missionary was someone to talk to, someone who could possible help,
someone who might have a damn cell phone. Clarissa removed the
chair from under the doorknob and opened the door a
crack.
The woman did not fit her voice. She was short
and stocky with closely cropped dark hair, a round face that was
more masculine under black horn-rimmed glasses. She wore a severe
cut navy blue pants suit and starched white blouse that looked like
armor. Clarissa's first impression was that the woman would look
more comfortable in work boots and jeans, and, instead of the plain
black purse she carried, should have been carrying a gray metal
lunch pail.
"I'm Dotty..."
"From the Christian Mission Services,"
Clarissa said. "I heard."
"We help the homeless in any way we can,"
Dotty started her spiel. "We're here every Monday. If you need
something just let us know. Are you staying here with
someone?"
"No," Clarissa admitted. "Please come in. I do
need some help."
Dotty marched into the room with a sudden air
of authority, walked over to the bathroom and snapped on the light.
She checked the windows and under the bed, taking a small notebook
from her purse and making notes. Clarissa watched her with a
growing apprehension until the missionary looked at her and
smiled.
"You're new to this shelter, aren't you?"
Dotty observed. "How long have you been here?"
"Since Friday night," Clarissa
replied.
"Where did you stay before that?" Dotty wanted
to know, writing furiously.
"At a friend's place," Clarissa
said.
"What is your name?" Dotty asked.
"Sally Dugan."
"What can I do to help you, Miss Dugan? Is it
Miss or Mrs. Dugan?"
"Sally. You can call me Sally. Miss Warren, I
need to get out of here."
"Sally, are you using?" Dotty asked as she sat
down heavily on the desk chair. Clarissa sat crossed-legged on the
bed.
"Uh...no, no...I never have."
"What about clothes and food? Do you know
where to get them?"
"I go with Doc Rowland to the kitchen at the
church for dinner. These are all the clothes I have. Just this
t-shirt and that other shirt in the bathroom."
"Doc Rowland?" Dotty questioned.
"Rowland, down the hall. The elderly man in
three-twenty."
Dotty looked at her blankly and Clarissa's
apprehension began to grow.
"The church with the soup kitchen also gives
away clothing on Wednesday's," Dotty went on. "Salvation Army gives
away warm clothing and bedding as soon as the weather gets colder.
When was your last pap smear?"
"I think...I don't know. A year maybe.
Why?"
"You should be examined at least once a
month," Dotty told her. "The free clinic is only four blocks away.
There's no excuse for you not to go. With the spread of
communicable diseases women such as yourself are at high
risk."
"Wait," said Clarissa. "You've got it wrong.
I'm not..."
"Look, I'm here to help, not to judge," Dotty
told her in that suddenly sweetened voice. "I'm sure that Sally is
not your real name and I won't even ask you for it if you don't
want to tell me."
"I don't," Clarissa said suddenly angry. "I
need your help to get out of here. No questions asked. Can you do
that, Miss Christian missionary?"
"You're free to go, Sally. No one is holding
you here. There are other shelters, some worse, some a little
better run. Would you like me to recommend one?"
"No!" Clarissa snapped. "You don't understand.
I'm...I've decided to leave this city. Right away."
"I see." The coldness in Dotty's eyes was
evident and Clarissa was beginning to think she had made a mistake
in letting the woman in. Yet, Clarissa's one hope was in reaching
Hugo and for that she needed to make a phone call, either to the
convent or again to Wayne. "I'm not familiar with shelters in other
cities. I'm afraid I can't be of help. Have you ever been tested
for HIV?"
"No, I haven't," Clarissa said. "If you can't
help me, maybe you should leave." Clarissa could not sit on the bed
any longer and got up and began to pace.
"I'm here to help you, Sally," the coldness
gone and replaced by the velvety smooth stroking voice. "You can be
straight with me. I'm not here to turn you in or get you in
trouble. But you have to work with me. I can see that you haven't
been too long on the streets. Have you applied for public
assistance in the last six months?"
"I need to get out of this place," Clarissa
cried. "If you're just going to ask me a bunch of stupid questions
then get out!
"I'll help you, if you'll help me. There are
programs that give assistance to people and you could use some of
that help. Deal?"
"Alright," said Clarissa evenly. "My last pap
spear was a year ago, my doctor is Norman Kelley on Rodeo Drive in
Beverly Hills. I know you don't believe me but call his
office."
"They'll know Sally Dugan?" Dotty
asked.
"My name is Clarissa Hayden," she blurted, the
anger still evident in her voice. "I've never been tested for any
disease, never applied for welfare or food stamps, and have been
homeless for exactly four days. I've had two meals and ten hours
sleep since Friday night. I don't have one cent on me and my friend
with my purse never showed up. I can't even get on a bus or make a
phone call to another friend who could help me. No one knows I'm
here except my friend who stole my purse and my jewelry and I don't
think anyone much cares. Does that answer your stupid
questions?"
"I'll bring back some forms for you to fill
out," said Dotty. "I assume you have no children. We'll apply for
some public assistance and insurance. What kind of work experience
do you have?"
"I was a fashion model," Clarissa
replied.
When Dotty looked up from writing there was
anger in her eyes. "Clarissa, I know that whatever you're going
through is very difficult. You would not be here if you didn't need
some kind of help. Believe me, there are people out there who do
care. We need to get you the basics before we can get you out of
here. Do you know what I'm saying? You're young and you're healthy.
You need to eat, a place to sleep, and a dress and shoes so that
you can go out and get a job. You need someone who you can call if
you need someone to talk to. You need to get back into touch with
your life, to get back on your feet. I want to help but you have to
cooperate. We'll get you out of here."
Clarissa sat back on the bed defeated. This
woman was like some pre-programmed machine, by-the-book, all
according to some rigid system of rehabilitation she was taught at
missionary school. She was oblivious to Clarissa's needs, could not
sense the desperation in her. The frustration was agonizing and
Clarissa fought down tears. She pressed the palms of her hands
tightly to her eyes and felt a silent scream shudder through her.
Dotty waited patiently. Finally, Clarissa looked at the missionary
tiredly.
"I need to make a phone call," Clarissa said.
"Can I borrow your cell phone?"
"I don't have it with me" Dotty apologized.
"Left it on the charger in my car. Sorry. If you want, you can give
me the number of your friend and I can make the call from my
office."
"Thanks," said Clarissa. "His name is Hugo
Montego. The number is five-five five, eight one oh two. Tell him
where I am and to come and get me. If his roommate answers, tell
him to call Hugo and give him the message or at least get a phone
number where I can reach Hugo. If the roommate isn't home, call the
convent at St. Hector's and ask if anyone left a message for
me."
"I'll do what I can," Dotty assured her, but
there was little confidence and a lot of false hope in the
missionary's voice.
"Thanks," she tried to smile. It was foolish
trust in blind hope. Clarissa was certain she would never see the
missionary again.
The contestant spun the wheel, clapped loudly,
and begged the wheel to stop on the highest number. "Four hundred,"
the television host told him.
"S", the contestant beamed.
"There are four 'S's," the host said and the
hostess in the tight red cocktail dress turned the lighted letters
around on the board. The studio audience applauded.
"A man's home is his castle," Dusty said to
the small six inch screen television sitting on the reception
desk.
"I'd like to buy a vowel," the contestant
said.
"For gosh sakes," Dusty shook his head. "You
don't need no damn vowel. A man's home is his castle."
"An A," the contestant smiled then squinted
hard at the board.
"There are three "A"s," and the audience held
its breath as the hostess reached up to the top line on the board
to turn over an A. Fortunately, her short dress was somehow pasted
down to her behind and the audience was once again denied a view of
more thigh.
"I'll spin," said the contestant.
"Spin?" Dusty yelled at the television. "You
must be some kind of idiot. A man's home is his castle. How tough a
puzzle is that?"
"Depends on where he's living," the voice on
the other side of the wire mesh startled Dusty. The old man looked
up into the hard eyes of a young woman in her early thirties. Her
thin unsmiling face was framed by wispy reddish hair, worn long in
the back and tied in a short pony-tail. She looked out of place in
the light gray designer suit under the tan raincoat. She laid her
wet black umbrella on the desk and took a small black notebook from
her inside jacket pocket.
"My name is Dana Phillips," she told Dusty.
"I'm an inspector with County Health Services." She flashed a
laminated ID at Dusty. "I'd like to take a look at the rooms. A
spot check. I only need to see a couple."
"You're a new one," Dusty grunted as he turned
off the television.
"I also need to see a list of the current
residents," Phillips said.
"No one ever asked for that before," Dusty
said skeptically. “They just usually check the tickets. Wanna see
‘em?”
""The county needs it for state and federal
funding purposes. No, I don’t need to see the tickets."