Empty Chapel: A Novel

			  by Robert Kiesling



			      Chapter 1


	Jeanine stepped around the corner of Vinewood and Michigan
Avenue, into the bright, late-afternoon sunlight that angled across
the street.  The shadows between the soot-brown buildings looked as
dark as the twilight but more final.  A cold, dust-laden wind came up
from the west and made her skin tingle and eyes water.  Halfway up the
block and across the street, a dozen men stood under the marquee of an
abandoned movie theater.  A few had gathered around a steel trash can
that had a fire burning in it.  A few others leaned against the wood
and plaster that was smeared with graffitti.  They would huddle around
the flames as the sky darkened.  The November afternoon had already
turned cold.  In the morning, thin whisps of steam rose from the
street vents.

	She stepped back from the corner, away from the wind and the
men's view, and backtracked a half-block along Vinewood, past a fence
that was looped along the top with coils of shiny, barbed wire.  The
next street over was Hubbard Avenue.  The tall buildings downtown drew
up behind her in the darkening sky.

	The switchyard where Michigan Avenue passed under the railroad
bridges lay ahead.  The dull reflection of sunlight shone on the
weed-grown, rusting steel past the alley of the next block.  Her
gray-brown clothing matched the buildings' bricks and stonework, and
the sidewalks' concrete.  The shadows of the buildings chilled her.
She hurried through the alley.  She crossed Hubbard Avenue and passed
through the alley on the next block, and stepped through the weeds
growing through the cracks of the sidewalk.  There were two railroad
bridges, spaced a half-block apart.  After passing quickly beneath the
first of the bridges, she stepped into the foyer of her building.

	The door swung open easily.  She slipped in and closed the
door, listening only cursorily for the sounds of rats and mice.  Old,
crumbling bricks and rotting papers filled the hall.  She had tried to
eradicate the vermin when she had first moved in.  Her thick leather
boots would protect her feet and ankles if a few returned.  At the top
of the stairs, the hallway was clear, if not clean.  A narrow
mezzanine overlooked the first floor.  This had once been a stylish
building, a renovated factory, perhaps.  The fading sunlight filtered
through a broken skylight above her, and a window with the glass
smashed out at one end of the hallway.  She went halfway down the
mezzanine and took a key hanging by a string from under her sweater
and unlocked the door.  She dropped the padlock in her pocket and
folded the hasp back to conceal it between the closed door and the
frame.

	Inside, the apartment was dark.  She had nailed a thick
blanket over the window so that no light wouldn't escape.  At one side
of the room she had stacked her cooking things on a small table.
Beside the table was an old, wood-burning stove.  Through an open door
was the bathroom.  The faint sound of running water came from the
toilet.  A tattered sofa stood against one wall.  On the back was a
row of old paperbacks.  Beside the sofa lay a tumbled stack of
magazines and newspapers.  She had pushed two chairs up against the
round table in the center of the room.  On the table, a half-burnt
candle stood in an ashtray filled with melted wax.  Across the room
from the sofa, she had hung her clothing from a rope that was
stretched shoulder-high along the wall.  Beneath the clothing lay
piled her underwear and socks, mostly rags, and a few pairs of
tattered shoes.

	The inventory satisfied her that everything was where it
should be.  Nothing seemed to be missing.  She could identify
everything she owned by sight.  With her own hands she had found every
item in the room and was proud of it.  The part of her life when she
had a bank balance, paycheck, and colleagues was long gone.  But they
were not forgotten.  She had a mind like an attic.  Her memories faded
like the last glow of sunlight in the evening.  But sometimes they
re-emerged and intruded on her other thoughts.

	   She lit the candle with a kitchen match, shut the door, and
stirred the ashes in the stove.  After her eyes had adjusted to the
darkness, she settled onto the sofa and bent to remove her boots.  The
old springs creaked under her weight.  She had spent all day outside,
scavenging and gathering money to buy the things that she couldn't get
for free. It was pleasant, although it felt a little strange, to have
a place which she could return to.  She didn't think of the room as
hers.  But she was here, and legalities didn't matter much any more.
It was more satisfying to put her hands on everything she owned: the
candles she should have bought replacements for, the food she should
cook for dinner, the clothing, the sofa, and her few books.  Not long
ago, she would have recoiled in horror at the thought of having to
survive on her wits.  She had neither expected nor even considered the
dangers of the life which she had left behind--the false sense of
security, the childlike idea that the world was going to provide for
her, and the lack of safety afforded by four walls and a ceiling.  She
had relied on other people whose reliability was unknown, on
committees, proposals, and contracts.  They were like dusty, tattered
old clothing.  She and her friends had pulled them out of storage like
young girls playing dress-up, but otherwise she had no use for big
ideas any longer.  The sophistication of her life had led to nothing
but more of the same.

	She sat at the table to watch the stove and made sure that the
fire was lit, and stared into the candle flame.  The meditative
silence didn't help.  She was aware of a grim irony--a poor ghetto
philosopher she would be, if she had nothing to think back on.  The
quiet helped her relax before she made eggs, toast, and a cup of tea
for dinner.  Then she was going to fall asleep early.  The water in
the toilet was the only noise in the apartment.  She listened for
noises out in the hallway that would indicate whether someone had
entered the building.  There didn't seem to be any.  She could hear
nothing but the creaks of the building and the wind.  She had bolted
the door from the inside and was safe even if someone should appear in
the hallway.  It happened occasionally.  She stayed quiet until they
went away.  Once some guy camped in the building for two days before
moving on.  He only wanted to stay warm, probably.  She stayed hidden.
The extra caution was worthwhile.  If someone found anything valuable,
she would have no end of trouble and did everything she could to
insure that no one ever saw her.

	There was another grim irony in that.  In her previous life,
street people would have been invisible to her.  But she had
discovered how to stay out of sight, too.  She was as good as anyone
at it and was alert for the presence of other people, like she knew
which line was the fastest at the grocery store.  What she had once
thought of as insignificant was important for surviving.  It was also
a way of compensating for being left with nothing but her wits.

	In the candlelight, she collected her thoughts, then stood and
went to the small table and shelf which comprised her pantry.  Her
foodstuffs consisted of a few eggs, some corn meal, flour, and sugar.
There were kitchen matches, a plastic bottle of cooking oil, and some
herbs in corked bottles.  Mentally, she made a list of food, and
balanced its shortfall against the money she had, a few dollar bills
folded very small and tucked into a trousers pocket.  In the next
several days, certainly by the weekend, she would need to find more
money before she went shopping.  All of these things had to be done in
a way that didn't make her a target for anyone--men mostly, she had
noticed only a few other women.  Having taken care of those chores,
she would be able to settle down for the weekend with her diary.

	Her whole life had been bounded by the four walls of the outer
office where she had worked--she would not have considered intruding
upon her boss' domain, the inner office which she traversed the few
steps to dozens of times daily.  The plate-glass windows comfortably
overlooked the decaying streets from a half-dozen stories above.  At
the surface level, the city was too dangerous for whites.  For a long
time, it had been too poor to make living in it worthwhile anyway.
She simply ignored the fact.  But the streets and buildings were
falling into disrepair even then.  Five days a week, the office walls
and windows comprised her environment.  She, like the others, wore
clothing she had purchased on weekend trips to New York, Boston, and
Chicago--quick, in-and-out jaunts when she saw nothing but the insides
of malls and department stores.  She knew her Visa card number as well
as she knew her address.  Her colleagues and she set themselves apart
from the homeless and the merely poor who had taken over the streets
in the two-mile corridor between her office and downtown.  The people,
like the streets, had been abandoned by them, then forgotten.  Jeanine
and her men friends went out for drinks after work with their hands in
their pockets, their fingers poised on the buttons of mace and
pepper-spray cans.  They didn't relax until they were safely indoors.
Their destination functioned as a shelter from the street life, as if
they had just stepped off a moving train.  They hid together in their
offices.  Crowds of people commuted back and forth in the halls.

	She didn't realize how fragile her environment was until it
fell apart much too quickly.  The cracked and destroyed concrete
encroached until it had taken over the buildings and the promenades
below her.  Like the concrete, her nerves were shattered.  Every day
she cursed herself for not noticing the decay.

	She was left with nothing.  Her credit cards, books, and
clothing were useless.  How she managed to survive, with only a
shoulder bag full of clothes, was a mystery to her.  She was almost
beaten, almost starved, almost killed, she supposed.  Her life had
become a series of _almosts._  She saw others with whom she had
worked, older like herself, or students who were not yet twenty, on
the streets as well.  They all avoided each other, and then dropped
away.  Had they survived?  Did they wonder about her?

	She simply had not been able to take much more than the
clothes she had worn for days on end.  She couldn't keep small
valuables.  They were stolen.  In the end, there was nothing but what
she had scavenged and was useful to her there and then.  Without the
shroud of possessions to conceal her from the world, she became naked,
and survived.

	She could claim credit for her rebuilt life.  This was no mean
feat.  Nobody had a claim on her.  She was free to pursue her fancies
and felt far more aware her surroundings than before.  The room was
perfect.  She was free not to think constantly of surviving and was
not burdened by obligation.  She claimed squatters' rights and could
abandon the place if necessary.  It would be an emotional wrench.  But
she could balance the separation against the unencumbered feeling that
she was accustomed to.  She loved the ability to pull up stakes and
move on.  When she had changed her life, she left behind all of her
obligations and traces of herself, and she became invisible, for all
practical purposes.

	She felt restless again.  She scrambled three eggs in
margarine and grilled some bread for toast, and reviewed the mechanics
of picking up and moving.  In a pinch, she could get away in 15
minutes.  That was how long it would take to throw on her clothing and
overcoat, which had everything she owned of value in the pockets.  She
could walk out as casually as if going to the store to buy milk.  She
placed a kettle of water on a vacant burner and took out a fresh tea
bag.  To pack her journals and perhaps a book or two would take
another minute.  It would be time well spent.  Her one lack when she
had lived on the street was any tangible reminder of her past.  She
didn't trust her memory because her existence was too precarious.  The
few notebooks which now contained her writing might have been
destroyed.  She would have burned them to keep warm.  But that was not
really important.  They existed as a comfort to her but not much else.
Sometimes she recorded images or snatches of verse, perhaps sketches
of things she had noticed, or else she wrote down what had changed or
seemed new and different.  She did it only for herself.  It was her
book of days.  If she didn't write things down, there would have been
no sense that time had ever passed for her.

	She ate and let her mind wander over the day which had just
passed.  It had been uneventful.  She did not record events aimlessly,
nor was she a compulsive list-keeper.  She had no desire to stay
current with what anyone else might be saying or doing, a sort of
post-menopausal rat race.  She only gave form and shape to her
thoughts, and moved them from the pale vapor of ideas and musings into
something which she remembered and had actually occurred.  She hardly
ever recorded the events of her previous life.  They existed behind a
wall.  She didn't want to discover whether traces of them still
existed.  They were frozen like images in photographs.  She could
think about them, but only to look the other way.

	The constant solitude no longer bothered her.  Walden Pond
could not have been more lonely.  The concrete mulch which had been
the ruined buildings was the final stage of their life cycles.  In her
former life, she would have felt compelled to perform some kind of
last rites over them and record in minutest detail their architectural
decay.

	The candle had burned to half its length.  Jeanine stared at
it for a moment longer and calculated how much money would be left
after she had bought replacements tomorrow.  She had put off buying
anything today for that very reason.  She wanted to enjoy the feeling
of having money in her pocket, as she had not done for a long time.
It would be a long night, but she had been through worse and was tired
anyway.  She blew out the candle ambivalently.

	She couldn't place the exact time that Detroit had stopped
being a city and became a desert.  The slow deterioration nibbled away
at the people and buildings.  Its magnitude had taken her by surprise.
She imagined that it had taken a lot of other people by surprise, too.
More and more of her friends had disappeared.  They left first for
other jobs.  Then they just left.  She heard vaguely that they went to
places like Dearborn, or Flint, or Kalamazoo.  The poor people on the
streets had less and less until finally they were left with nothing.
Everything had been used and re-used until it disintegrated.  More
people left.  It became apparent that half of the buildings were
empty.  She was told that there was no more work.

	It was amazing that nobody seemed to notice the deterioration.
Nobody spoke of it.  They all seemed to deny it.  What was even more
amazing was how quickly it had all happened.  The world had taken no
more than 10 years to collapse; an eye blink, now that she thought
about it.

	Few buildings were habitable.  Most of them barely stood, but
were in various stages of decay.  The landscape was one of broken
glass and concrete, rotting, charred wood, rusty nails, and steel
reinforcing rods.  Weeds grew through the pavement and concealed the
debris.  On warm nights the wind wafted through the broken windows of
the buildings and across the street, and the faint sibilance was
broken by the voices of people outside who had to stay awake.
It was quieter once the weather turned cold, when only the wind blew
through the buildings and empty streets.

	On those nights she was glad she had found the squat.  She had
spent winter nights on the street.  In retrospect she was terrified.
Even more than that, she was surprised to have survived.  She would
never have thought it was possible.  She doubted that anyone would
have believed her, either.  It had been a real achievement, looking
back on it.  She was comfortable and warm, she had food, and, she had
discovered, long ago, to her surprise and pleasure, that she needed
nothing else.  She slipped into unconciousness.  An image drifted into
her mind.  It was an image of an old friend of hers.  They were at a
party.  She tried to remember what had happened to her friend and
realized that she couldn't.  She felt a vast sense of loss before she
fell asleep.

     The next morning, she lay still on the sofa until she was fully
awake.  Then she got up and dressed.  She didn't feel like eating but
lingered in the apartment, and memorized the location of everything in
it.  Outside, she wandered north along the railroad tracks, toward the
old General Motors plant.  She didn't feel a sense of urgency.  For
the moment there was enough money for most of the things which she
needed.  The weekend was three days off.  It would take her perhaps 15
minutes to do her shopping, and it could wait until later, before the
store closed in the afternoon.  She stepped carefully over the cinders
of the railroad tracks and allowed herself to relax in the sunlight.
Exposed as she was, there was no breeze, and less need to be on guard.
The street people would be asleep after being awake all night.  The
bed of the railroad stood elevated above the streets.  It was possible
to see anyone who might approach from some distance away.

	In the tall grass of the embankment, below the railway, she
was out of the wind.  The sun was warm.  She opened the cardigan
beneath her coat.  She felt like lying back against the embankment but
decided that her chances of being discovered were too great.  All
around her stood the dried stalks of the weeds which grew up over the
summer.  A faint vestige of their fragrance remained, or so she
imagined from the rustles and sibilance they made in the breeze.

	She calculated the number of weeks before winter started.  A
year ago, she would not have been able to plan that far in advance.
At first she had not been able to plan even one hour in advance.
Looking back on it, she wondered how she had survived.  Until she had
discovered the squat, she was never able to live more than day to day.
Now she was able to plan weeks, even a month, in advance.  She
admitted to herself that there was no practical reason to do so, only
some need that she had for order.  She was not going anywhere and was
willing let one day flow naturally and aimlessly into the next.

	It wasn't much trouble staying organized.  She avoided people
who were proud of their obsessive attention to detail, as much as she
avoided the pathological habit in herself.  This attitude left her
with time to wander along the railroad tracks--now rusted from
disuse--and remember what her past had been like, and to think that
maybe things weren't so bad.

	Because she remembered anything at all, she felt set apart
from the people on the streets.  She constantly reminded herself that
she had once had a better life in many ways.  Certainly she could
desire something besides sleeping in a doorway.  Had she felt some
stirring of that experience when she was rich?  She doubted it.  She
wouldn't have understood herself and couldn't have explained it.  No
one would believe her, starting with the fact that she had almost been
killed.  Well, people would almost believe her.  She wouldn't have
known where to begin, anyway.

	She sometimes felt the urge to tell other people about it.
Talking was a way to understand it.  ``When I was a girl,'' she said
aloud, ``I lived in another part of the city, and we had a big, clean
house, a dog, and a new car.''  Her voice fell in the cool air.  But
what did that matter?  Who hadn't had all of those things?  For all
she knew, there might still be people who lived the old way,
comfortably, who were able to step from their houses without being
afraid to meet other people, who were able to greet their neighbors.
They had food and lots of clothing and bank accounts and stores to
shop in.  They had distractions to take their minds away from chores
like getting food and making sure they had somewhere to stay.  They
had rented movies when there was nothing better to do, or they went to
the theater.  It was hard to imagine that sort of luxury now.  Her
survival depended on every single action.  Her own distractions became
subtler and more intense.

	The effect was like walking toward a mirror.  What she saw in
front of her had already passed.  The trick was to sidestep the mirror
before she walked into it.

	When had she last spoken to someone, or had a real, at-length
conversation?  She couldn't remember and felt the lack of fresh ideas
and intellectual challenge.  And the emotional pain.  It hurt to open
up to other people, but it was necessary so she could maintain her own
perspective.

	The GM plant loomed ahead of her.  She had considered spending
the afternoon poking through the crumbled factories and warehouse
floors, looking for things which she could use.  But something always
seemed to distract her.  She had never gotten inside the place.

       She made her way carefully across the vast, crumbling asphalt
of the factory's parking lot.  It was hard to imagine that the plant,
once a vast cathedral of industry, was silent.  It had contained more
people than a small village.  The only sound was the wind across the
wide, asphalt slab.  The ruins of gray, rusted conveyors and towers
loomed above her as she walked quickly toward the corner of the
nearest building.  She rounded the corner and walked quickly to the
nearest entrance, anticipating the welcome shelter from the wind and
the warm sunlight.

	She caught her breath and halted.  Seated on the steps of the
entrance ten feet from her was a young boy, who stared at her with a
look of mild disinterest and suspicion.



			      Chapter 2


	Jeanine and the boy watched each other for several moments.
He looked cautious but defiant, and no more frightened than she was.

	She discovered that she couldn't speak.  She tried to clear
her throat and managed to say, ``I'm sorry. You scared me.''

	He spat between his feet and watched her from the corner of
his eye.  He looked like he wanted to be left alone.

	``Do you have a name?'' she asked.

	He glanced angrily at her but said nothing.  Then he looked
back across the empty lot toward the railroad tracks.  An adult was
wrapped in a frayed, old blanket in the doorway behind them and was
asleep.

	``Is that your friend?'' she asked.

	He was grimly silent.

	She sat on the top step beyond his reach, opened her overcoat,
and basked in the sunlight for a few moments.

	``Go away,'' he said.

	She looked directly at him.  ``These aren't your steps.''

	``Go away,'' he repeated.

	``I can be here if I want.''

	``We were here first.''  He glanced behind him.  ``My dad said
you aren't supposed to get too close to us.''

	``That's your old man?''

	``What the fuckin' hell is it to you?''

	``Why did you say it?''

	``Because I'm watching out for him.''

	She hesitated. ``Maybe I should leave.''

	He looked frightened but didn't say anything.

	``Maybe I should stay?''

	``I'm not supposed to let anyone get near us without telling
him.''  His expression became doubtful.

	``I'm just not supposed to let anyone get near us,'' he
repeated.

	``Why don't you ask?''

	``Because he's sleeping.''

	She said seriously, ``Maybe I could sit here for a while.''
He didn't answer and she said, ``I need to rest.''

	She felt less tense in the warm sunlight.  After the cold
night, it was welcome.  ``It feels good to sit here.''

	He still didn't say anything but didn't look hostile, either.
He seemed to have adjusted to her presence and decided she wasn't
dangerous.  She would have acted exactly the same way.

	``This is a good spot,'' she said.

	He seemed content to let her stay.  He didn't move or watch
her as closely as before.  She was glad to sit in the warm sunlight.

	``Where is your mother?'' she asked after a few minutes.

	The boy paused.  ``Gone away,'' he said, ``with my sister.''

	``Where?''

	``I don't know.  My dad said, `Just somewhere else.'''

	She felt a surge of concern.  Then she repeated, ``What's
your name?''

	``Timothy.''

	``Been here long?''

	``Sure,'' he said.  ``A long time.''

	``How long?''

	He shrugged.  ``I don't know.  Two or three days.''

	``Where do you live?''

	 He motioned vaguely across the parking lot.  ``Over there.
We had a big house.  We lived there and my mother moved away.''  He
looked over his shoulder at the sleeping form behind him.  ``My dad
used to work at a factory.  But he doesn't any more.''

	``Nobody works any more,'' Jeanine said.  ``Do you have any
idea how many people worked at these factories?  If things hadn't
changed, you probably could have worked in one yourself in a few
years.''

	``I still can,'' he said.

	``No,'' she answered.  ``A lot of people went away, like your
mother did.''

	``My mother and sister,'' Timothy said.

	She watched him closely.  His expression was guileless.

	``You could have built cars.  But you don't have a car now.''

 	He thought for a moment.  ``No, but I still like them.  I like
throwing rocks at the windows and breaking them.''

	``I used to sleep in cars when I didn't have a place.  It was
easier to make people think I was a man, and other people didn't
bother me so much.  Don't ask me why, that's the way it worked out.''

	He turned away slightly and stared at the parking lot.

	``Cars like those came from the factory.  They were all shiny
and clean and new.''  She looked around her, at a loss.  ``I can't
explain it,'' she said.  ``You see yourself in the windows and paint
when the light is just right.  People spend years learning how to
build cars just right.''

	``I used to kick on the door of our car,'' he said.  ``When my 
dad wasn't looking.  I bent it once.  Was he ever mad....  If he 
wakes up he'll be p.o.'d.  My mother could wake him up and he 
wouldn't be mad.''

	``What do you do now?''

	He looked distracted for a moment, as if he were thinking.
Then he said, ``At night my dad watches for me.  Then I look out for
him.''

	``Did you go to school before?''

	``Huh?''

	``Do you know how to read?''

	``No.  I didn't like it.''

	``I used to work near a school,'' Jeanine said.

	``You look like a teacher.''

	``I was a secretary.''

	``A what?''

	``I only worked nearby.''

	``But you said that everyone worked in factories.  Like my
dad.''

	``Most people did.  But some of us did other things.  Not
everyone can do one thing.''

	``My mother didn't work,'' he said.

	``She stayed at home?''

	``She sure did.  Until she had my sister.  Then she went
away.''

	``Went away where?''

	``I don't know.  He said, Just Away.''

	The man sleeping behind him stirred, then resettled.  ``We 
have to be quiet,'' Timothy whispered.

	``We will,'' she said.

	``I'll get smacked if he wakes up too early.''

	``Don't worry,'' she said.  ``That won't happen.  I don't want
to have him angry at you.''  She paused and took a breath.  ``There's
not much I can tell you, anyway.''

	``We don't talk about hardly anything else except where we 
lived before.  There's nothing to talk about around here, except just
getting by.''

	``It doesn't seem like it matters very much.''

	``Mostly he talks about my Mom.  Then he gets really p.o.'d
sometimes.  But that's all he wants to talk about.''

	``He wants to go back to them.''

	``We don't know where they are.''

	``They're not at your house?''

	``We went back there, and we thought it was burned down.  But
we were wrong.  It was a different house.  He has trouble remembering
sometimes.''

	``Could you show me where it is?''

	``Maybe.  I guess so.''

	``Not unless you don't want to.''

	``We've already been by the house.  They're not there.''

	``They're probably far away.  A lot of people moved because
it's so dangerous here.  Most of my friends moved to Dearborn and
Ypsilanti, or even further, to Kalamazoo.  Any other place that was
worth moving to.  Not that it makes any difference.  Wherever they
went, they're still gone away from you.''  There was nothing she could
do to tell him what he had missed.  She looked bleakly across the
broken, asphalt parking lot.  He was the first child she had seen in
months.  She felt an urge to protect him.  But she couldn't think of
anything to do.

	``Have you been to school?'' she asked finally.

	``I heard about it.'' 

	She held up her right hand, fingers outstretched, palm
forward, the thumb tucked in.  ``How many fingers do I have up?''

	``Huh?''

	``Tell me how many fingers you see.''

	``I don't know.''

	She put her hand down.  ``Never mind, then.''

	``What is the longest you lived out here?'' she asked.

	He looked disturbed for a moment.  ``We were always here.''

	``When was the last time you were in a house?''

	``I don't know.''

	``But you said you used to live in a house with your mother.''

	He looked down at the concrete between his feet.  ``It was a
long time ago.''

	``Do you remember any of it?'' 	 

	``Some.  A little.  Maybe not.''

	``You haven't lived anywhere else since then?  Since your
mother went away?''

	``They left after my father lost his job.''

	``Your mother went away first?''

	``Yeah.''

	``Is there anything you remember about her?''

	``She was real nice.  I remember that.''

	``Is there anything else?''

	``No.  My father said I was real young when she went away.  I
guess I don't remember very much.''

	``You probably wouldn't.  What is your mother's name?''

	``Mary, I think.''

	``That's a nice name.  Was she pretty?''

	``Yes.''

	``Does your father have another wife?''

	Timothy looked confused, then frightened.  

	She said, ``Sorry.  I guess he doesn't.''  She wanted
conversation so badly that she would have talked about anything, to
anyone who would listen to her.

	The strange thing was that she had not noticed the lack of
conversation.  Talking to the boy made her realize how long she had
gone without human contact herself.

	She caught the faraway smell of the river.  It was faint but
unmistakeable.  Many years ago she wondered how the smell could drift
so far across her neighborhood on still, summer nights.  The adults on
the porch talked quietly in the hazy dusk, and she and her friends
counted the fireflies.  It wafted delicately over the smells of
asphalt, the pets and garbage.  The odor seemed to muffle the sounds
of the cars on the road, the barking dogs, and the shouts and laughter
of the younger children that were playing in the street and front
yards.  She had once asked her mother to take her downtown to see it.
``But we've been past it a million times.''  ``Well, maybe we can go
and see it again,'' Jeanine persisted.  She could not picture the
river at the moment.  They had gone to see it often, and the tall
buildings that overlooked the gray water.  But she wanted to look at
it over and over again.  She had thought there was nothing past the
river.  It seemed to be the place where everything ended.

	Sometimes now she just wanted to throw herself into it.

	There didn't seem to be very much to talk about, even when she
had someone to talk to.  She was surrounded by relics of her past.
All of the things that she could have told about to other people had
remained silently inside of her.  The out-there and the in-here were
totally different things, after what seemed like forever, because she
no longer felt like she was part of the world.  She did not even feel
like a spirit, because she couldn't get away from the past.

	``I suppose I could tell you a story,'' she said to the boy
after a while.  ``But I don't know where to begin.''  The sun had
begun to move westward in the sky.

	``Sure.''  He looked at her closely and seemed uncertain of
what to expect.

	``Would you like to hear one?''

	He nodded.

	``I'll tell you about when I was a little girl.''  She paused
a moment and thought.  ``Just let me think of how to start.''

	Her memories were all there, as far as she could tell, but
they all seemed as distant from her as the boy who sat on the steps
next to her--separate, yet almost within reach.

	``The time we went to the theater,'' she said, ``I was so
bored.  I was all dressed up, with all of the grown-ups around me,
watching a play.  I don't even remember what it was.  I couldn't
follow it.  But they wanted me to be there, and be good, and I obeyed
them.  But I couldn't follow along, because they wouldn't tell me what
it was about.  I was an ornament, a perfect little thing to show off
to the grown-ups.''

	Timothy looked at her blankly.

	``Maybe I have to explain.  I wanted to play with people my
own age.  But I had to be proper, do you understand?  We were playing,
we weren't living.  It isn't like you and your father.''

	``I don't play any more,'' he said.

	``That's right,'' Jeanine replied.  ``Everything was different
when I was a girl.  It got all screwed up.  We had too much time, we
never learned how use what we had.  We coasted.  That's why you're out
here, you and your father, and that's why I'm here, too.  It isn't
that any of us can't live out here.  If we hadn't wasted so much time,
we wouldn't have to be.  I don't suppose you understand that.''  She
watched him in order to gauge his expression.  ``But I wonder if
you'll ever be able to.''

	``Why not?''

	``It isn't possible if you don't know anything else.  Do you
know, we had school all day, and we came in every morning dressed in
clean clothes.  We were freshly washed, and we each had a desk where
we put our things, books and pencils, crayons, and scissors?  We had
an hour for reading, and we wrote for a little while, and there was
time to go outside and play.  We did that every day.''

	``You hung around there?''

	``We went there to learn.  That's what I was talking about.
We went there to learn about the world.  But we didn't learn anything.
I don't know how to start now.''

	She looked around the parking lot, and at her scuffed boots.
``We didn't learn a damned thing.  Nobody told us that the world could
fall apart, or that we would suffer in our lifetimes.  You don't learn
about it secondhand.  You have to experience it.''

	``Did you suffer, lady?''

	``Jeanine.''  She looked thoughtfully at him.  ``I didn't
think of it like that.  I just went on living.''

	``I saw someone die.''

	``How did you know he was dead?''

	``There was blood all over.''

	``Was he stabbed?''

	``A car hit him.''

	``That must have been a long time ago.''

	``There was a crowd of people.  There were lots of cars 
around.''

	``I've never seen anything like that,'' Jeanine said.

	``It was pretty gross.''

	``Didn't it bother you?  I don't think I would have been able
to stand watching that.''

	``There was a lot of blood all over.  You wouldn't believe
it,'' he said.

	``I can't picture it.  Do you think about it?''

	``No,'' he said.  ``Nothing like that.''

	``That's unbearable to most people.  You're quite an unusual 
boy.''

	He shrugged.  ``It just happened.''

	``I've never seen anything like that.''

	``It happens a lot.''

	``Sometimes you learn not to look for certain things,'' she
said.  ``You learn to stay away from them.''

	``What?''

	``Sometimes it's hard to accept certain things if you forget
that the dead person could have been you, because you don't think
about fate.''

	``What?''

	``Your destiny.  Don't worry about it.  What you were supposed
to be in life.''

	He looked at her blankly.  ``I don't suppose you've thought
about it much,'' she said.

	She was swathed in innocence until late in life.  The boy was
innocent in a different way.  It seemed to her that he would stay like
that forever.  Living was a process of gaining experience, but what
could a kid reasonably hope to learn, and how much time would he have
to learn it?

	``It's such a waste,'' she said.  ``That people like you are
so busy making a life out here that you don't have time to learn to do
anything better.''

	``But I like doing this,'' he answered.

	``But you'll be this way forever,'' she said.  ``You'll never
grow up.  You'll live, and eventually you'll be on your own.  You'll
continue on like this.  This will be all there is.  Forever.''

	He looked frightened for a moment.  Then he said angrily, ``I 
don't want to be doing anything else.  I like what I'm doing.''

	``But you could be doing a lot more,'' she whispered.

	``What the hell.''  He turned from her a little and looked
between his feet, at the concrete.  His sneakers frayed and splitting
at the sides.  She thought about what would happen when it began to
snow.  In the wet they would fall apart quickly.

	``I don't want to,'' he said.

	``You could die of pneumonia in those shoes,'' she said 
sadly.

	``I like them.''

	``No,'' she said angrily.  ``You can get sick in this weather.
It's a crime when someone like you has to wear shoes that can kill
you.''

	``There isn't anything wrong with them,'' he insisted.  ``Why 
don't you go away?''

	She paused for a moment to allow herself to calm down.  The
boy wasn't going to listen if she was unpleasant.  ``I wasn't trying
to interfere.  I just get angry.''

	He didn't say anything.  

	She went on, ``I don't talk to people very often.  It feels
good to talk once in a while.  Maybe you don't know, because you and
your father talk to each other all of the time.  I'm alone.  I don't
have much chance for that.''

	Once again the sleeping shape behind them shifted.  She 
watched to see if he was awake.  ``Is your father going to wake 
up soon?'' Jeanine asked.

	``I don't know,'' Timothy said.  ``Sometimes he sleeps for a 
long time.  'Way into the night.''

	``Do you ever worry that sometime he might not?''

	``Not what?''

	``Wake up?''

	``Sometimes during the day I want to talk to him.  But he 
gets mad if he can't sleep.''

	``Is there anyone else you know?''

	``No.  Some guys.  They're nice, but they're crazy.''

	A pair of men walked along the tracks past the parking lot,
directly across from them.  They were small in the distance.  Their
clothing shone brightly as they walked through patches of afternoon
sunlight, which was an amber, autumn hue.

	In the lucid air, the objects around her seemed sharp and
magnified.  Talking felt like praying.  Her senses were cleaner, her
thoughts flowed with ease.  She figured quickly whether she would be
able to get home without incident, and decided that she had better
leave soon.

	She asked Timothy, ``Are you and your father here a lot?  I
can come back another time.''

	``He likes sleeping here,'' he said.  

	``Well?''

	``Yeah, we come here a lot.''

	She rose from the steps and felt her leg muscles stretch.  He
looked at her with a mixture of confusion and fear.  ``Don't worry,''
she said, ``I'll be back soon.''

	``Nobody stays,'' he said.

	There was no trace of regret in his voice.  It was only a
statement of fact.  She looked at him for a moment longer because she
wanted to remember his expression.  Then she turned and walked across
the parking lot, taking care not to stumble on the concrete while she
also watched for other people who might be walking on the railroad
tracks this time of day.


			      Chapter 3


	She had been thinking about the boy and forgot to go shopping.
In her makeshift pantry, the shelf above the stove, and the unsteady
table next to it, there was enough food--some bread, eggs, and cooking
oil--that she wouldn't starve until morning, but the thought of not
having enough to eat depressed the hell out of her.  At least the
cooking was a way to kill time.  She still had trouble sleeping on an
empty stomach.

	Her stock of matches and candles was running short.  While she
waited for some oil to heat in a pan, she examined herself in a
mirror.  She looked healthier after being outside all day.  She tried
briefly to separate the strands of her tangled hair.  It was not too
badly snarled, even though it had blown around all day in the wind.
Time went faster when she was doing something.  Now that the weather
was colder, she spent more time inside, and the days and weeks passed
more slowly.  A few months ago, she hardly thought about the time. She
didn't bother remembering what day of the week it was.  Surprisingly,
it mattered to her.  There was part of her life that she thought was
lost for good.  It had all seemed to fade into one long, indefinite
blur.

	The diminishing food of her small pantry, and the simple
mechanism of feeding herself, reminded her that time went on.  It was
more effective than a clock. It was like a full-time job.

	``Tell me about when you were a kid.'' The boy had looked
fascinated.  She was sorry he brought it up.  Her life was no
adventure.  Beside, it wasn't much different from his.  Nor did she
want to sound like an old fool.  When she was young, she had no
patience with old people.  She didn't expect him to be any different.
The conversation reminded her that things were a lot worse not long
ago.  It was no way to live, dragging around a shopping bag full of
things.  She had survived from one day to the next.  There was no way
she could worry about what happened in the future.

	She was afraid of what that man who had been sleeping behind
them would have done if he discovered her talking to the boy.  She
tried to remember what she had gone through and all of the things she
had ever done.  She was upset--with all of her experiences, she
couldn't do more for the child.  She imagined that once she had
started to keep her notebook again, it would be easier to remember
what she had been through.  She was discouraged and wondered what the
use was of trying to remember anything.

	She turned from the stove and took her notebook from the pile
of books and magazines on the sofa.  The willows that lined the
railroad tracks in the low, swampy places at the bottom of the railway
embankments reminded her of trees overhanging a riverbank.  The
stagnant puddles were the closest thing around here to running water.
She thought a lot about throwing some clothes into a bag and heading
in the direction of the setting sun, because life went on.    

	By the time she was a teenager, the boys didn't stay around
very much.  Donald, her brother, was the same way.  The one who lived
two houses down disappeared for a week, two weeks, a month at a time.
His parents almost killed him for going into another neighborhood.
They said that was what almost happened to him anyway.  She and her
friends had a good laugh about it.  They were better than their
parents.  But she did the same thing when she was finally middle aged.
She was still rebelling after all.  She had lost her job, or maybe she
had given it up as an act of desperation.  She was a lot older and had
no obligation to her parents or to Donald, who was no different.

She had not thought about those kinds of things for years.  There had
been an elm tree growing in the back yard of her parents' house, but
there was no reason for that memory to come to her now.  She went back
to the stove and dropped two slices of bread in a pan and stood over
them.  The memory would not go away.  There was some significant event
that she remembered happening there.  The elm tree was not so much a
place as a thing.  It was a way back into her past.  That boy was
named Eddie--``Fast Eddie,'' they called him, after a basketball
player or someone.  She had forgotten about him for years, too.
Somehow she associated the memory of the elm tree with him.  Maybe it
was some foolish game they had played, but that didn't seem right
after she thought it over.  It seemed too important.  There was also
some heavy grief that she remembered about it.  She tried to remember
the circumstances, but the only thing she could remember was despair.
But she was sure the recollection was still there.  Some other time it
would come back to her.  She wanted to stay rooted in the here and
now, and not worry too much about some unknown future or a past which
didn't exist.

	If she didn't go over to the factory to find the boy and his
father tomorrow, then she would look in the next couple of days.  She
was long overdue to renew her ties with people, even if they were bums
like herself, or even if they thought that she was bothering them.  It
had been a long time since she had spoken with anyone.  It would be
all right if she didn't scare them, though.

	She took the slices bread from the pan and put them on an old
plate.  She poured a little more cooking oil into the pan and broke
two eggs into it after the oil had warmed.  She stirred the eggs.
What was it that had bothered her so?  She often had memories of the
past that stayed with her.  Sometimes they seemed distant and hazy.
Seldom did they nag at her like this one.  If she somehow pinned down
the long-ago memory of the boy with what she had done today, and gave
it some sort of significance....  How did the tree figure into it?
The image was innocent enough.  The elm tree had been growing in the
back yard for as long as she could remember.  She and her friends had
done all of the usual childhood things--they played house or tag at
the base of the trunk, and spied on each other from the upper limbs
when they were old enough to climb into the branches.  She was once,
as an adolescent, propositioned by one of the neighborhood boys, who
timidly tried to hold her hand.  It wasn't Eddie.  Many of the most
important events of her life focused on where she grew up.  Recently
she hadn't had the time or the will to think about them.  Her
neighborhood, the house, and her friends all existed in a distant past
which had become less real to her.  Somehow the elm tree brought them
all together.  She could not imagine its absence.  If she could take a
snapshot of her back yard, the tree would be in it.  To remove it
would be like taking a scissors to a photograph and cutting it out,
and watching the rest of the photograph fall apart.

	These thoughts drifted through her mind idly while she ate
dinner.  After she had finished, she paged through the notebook.  The
thoughts imposed themselves there also.  She let them pass.  Turning
to the last page with writing on it, she made an entry at the bottom:
``Elm Tree.''  She couldn't think of anything more to write.  The
candle light flickered over the scrawled handwriting.  She did not
want to concentrate on the earlier entries now.  They didn't seem
important.  She didn't want to elaborate, because it wouldn't matter.
If she didn't remember something, it wasn't worth telling.  Not that
anyone would read what she had written anyway.  She could not imagine
anyone, herself included, being interested in the musings of someone
who was going slowly insane.  She closed her notebook and thought idly
on it for a few moments, then replaced it with the books and magazines
on the back of the sofa.

	The candle on the table burnt low.  There was nothing to do
but crawl into bed and wait for tomorrow.  But she wanted to stay
awake for a little while longer and think about what happened today.
She needed the calm reflection.  It would not matter so much if she
had not been thinking about the boy and his father.  She did not know
what to think of them.  She realized that she felt fear.  It was a
long time since she had been in a relationship with anyone, however
casually, let alone that man who was sleeping in the doorway and a boy
who might possibly be his son.  She thought over the situation for a
while longer.  She was nervous, even frightened.  At this stage of her
life, even a casual relationship would destroy the delicate balance
her affairs were in.

	She sat back on the sofa and rested her feet on a chair, and
waited until she felt sleepy.  She also felt a warm sense of
anticipation.  She would live on the street with the man and the boy
at first and not invite them to her own place.  That would be better
It might take days, or even weeks, to build a friendship with them.
She wondered why she was anxious to develop a friendship with anyone.
Even in the normal course of things, a few weeks was not an
unreasonable length of time.  Once she had friendships which had
lasted years.

	This was different.  They were vagrants.  If she did not make
clear from the start what she wanted, they could leave without
warning.  They would disappear to another part of the city where she
couldn't follow them.

	Many of the blocks were still too dangerous to be seen in.
She didn't have the right clothes, or her skin was the wrong
color--anything like that.  She remembered the neighborhoods being
divided sharply by race.  She had no idea if the city was like that
now.  She had her few miles of railroad tracks.  The thought of being
footloose again half excited, half frightened her.  She was reluctant
to abandon her safe haven.  It was safe because it was between the
West Side and Dearborn, and it was unpopulated except for a few street
people who only wanted to survive.  In both directions were the
still-poor neighborhoods where the gangs shot at each other all the
time when she had last been to them.  That was years ago.  This
neighborhood was heavily industrial and not even worth fighting
over. The boy's father knew what he was doing.  If he and the boy had
tried to be homeless a few blocks in either direction, they would
never have survived.

	Nor was it safe for her to pack up her things and head west.
She was still uncertain of what happened in the country in the
direction of Ann Arbor and Brighton.  It was lonely out there.  It was
cold and dark and empty.  That much she remembered.  If she had any
desire for traveling, the best course would be to head away from the
city, south toward Ohio, or across the river, to Canada.  The latter
course was even more uncertain.  She couldn't walk across the river.
Now she felt tired.  She took a blanket from behind the sofa, and
pulled off her sweater, pants, and shirt.  She lay down and wrapped
herself in the blanket.  Her last conscious thought before she slept
was of the sunlight shining brightly on the polished steel rails of
the Grand Trunk railroad that converged in the distance, and of the
long walk she wanted to take in that direction.

	She woke in the dark, wondering what time it was.  She peeled
back the edge of a curtain and saw that it was early morning.  Before
looking for the boy and his father again, there were some things that
she needed to take care of.  She mulled over the errands of the day
and how soon she should look for them.  They probably wouldn't be
around the buildings anyway.  She felt slightly hungry because of her
frugal dinner the night before and decided to get the marketing out of
the way as early as possible.  She might need to hang around waiting
for the store to open, but she was used to waiting.

	Once she dressed, she stepped out to the landing and looked at
the sky.  The glass was missing from one of the skylights.  The floor
below it was warped and soft from the rain.  The weather would be mild
again.  She could spend the entire day out of doors.  But it was still
early and there was no need to rush.  She thought again of the elm
tree and the boy, Eddie.  The memory was still there, but it was
buried deeply.  She could not identify its significance.  What she
really wanted was a cup of coffee or tea.  It would help her
concentrate for a few minutes at least.

	The memory came to her the moment she stepped into the warm
sunshine.  Eddie's little brother had some childhood disease which
they thought was terminal.  The evening before he moved away, she and
Eddie talked in the dusk and then into the night while the fireflies
buzzed and flickered over the lawn.  She was confused and slightly
overcome by his grief.  He sounded so heartbreaking that she placed
her arms around him and squeezed tightly.  It was the first time she
was old enough to give comfort to another human.  It was one of the
few times she remembered actually being in a position to help someone,
and the first time she was old enough to know how to cope with someone
else's problems.  He was really her first.

	``I hate this,'' he said.  ``We're moving away.  My brother is
going to die.''

	``No, he isn't, you jerk,'' she said.  ``He'll be all right.
You always see people recover.  They're fine.''

	``My mom and dad talked to the doctor.  You don't hear about
the people who don't recover.''  She squeezed his hand to make him
stop sobbing between his sentences.  It didn't help.  ``We're not
coming back.''

	``I'd die instead,'' she said desperately.  That seemed to
calm him down a little.  She didn't dare say anything else.  After she
said it, she wondered if she really would die for someone.

	``I would,'' she said.  ``I know I would.''

	He looked up at her.  ``You're sure?''

	``I sure would.''  It was easy to say back then.  She was
barely aware of the time passing during summer vacations, let alone
her lifetime.  He seemed satisfied.  She supposed she would have been.
Not like this boy next to her.  She never found out what happened to
his brother, and was disappointed that she couldn't remember his
name. Dave, Chris, it was something like that.  It didn't seem
important now, even though Eddie had repeated his name like a chorus,
from deep within himself.

	People cried when they moved.  She had never done that for
anyone, nor had she ever felt a keen sense of loss, even at a funeral.
She only had attended one or two in her life time.  Other people
worked out their loss and anger in fits of grief.  She stored hers.
The impression of her life was one of loss, but the feeling was so
familiar that she hardly noticed it.  She never felt any sense of
tragedy, had never been indignant or crushed at the world's injustice.
Not seriously.  She certainly had a right to feel that way, though.
She wondered how she could be so calm about the way her life had
turned out and had no good answer.  It was simply the way her life
was.

	Going to the store and getting unnoticed back to her room was
tricky.  The fewer people who knew where she lived, the better.  The
squat was nearly half a mile from the store, where she was a stranger.
They saw her often and knew she wasn't lost, but they had no idea
where she stayed.  She was simply a woman who passed through.  For all
she herself knew, she was the only female street person around here.
That alone would make her vulnerable.

	Even getting harassed a little made her panic.  A few months
ago when she was going home, some guy had yelled after her, ``Hey,
lady, you're not safe alone.'' In a fit of anger she turned around
and gave him a bird.  

	He looked offended.  ``Hey, I'm only trying to help,'' he
shouted after her.

	``I don't need your help.  I've got friends.''

	``Yeah?  Where are they?  They're not here.''  She tried to
avoid him by walking a few blocks on.  He was still around.  She went
back to the store and waited until he gave up and left.  That was
before she found her room.

	Being alone made her vulnerable.  And it weighed the odds
against her.  She took more precautions.  But it meant that someone
could catch on to her, and then she couldn't stay.  It was a risk to
be seen at all, but she owed it to herself to find out sometime if
other women were around.  She might even take someone in, but it would
have to be soon.  Even the trip to the store would be hard in the
winter.

	The block included the grocery, a secondhand store, a bar, and
a boarded-up cafe.  The facades were neglected and had been spray
painted over many times.  The entire strip looked abandoned.  The
place was crude, but that didn't stop people from settling in.  They
weren't above overcharging someone.  They followed people home, and
she worried about that most of all.

	She had moved to another level of society.  Many people had.
Before, she could ignore the horror that existed right under her nose.
She was hardly the only person to do that.  The television and the
shopping malls concealed reality from anyone who had money to spend.
The things that the poor folks saw advertised had nothing to do with
them.  Looking at commercials was like watching a movie.  Being poor
was like being in a movie, too.

	The block contained the only businesses for at least half a
mile in any direction.  People hung out.  They were more suspicious
than in the past and didn't tell others that they had money and didn't
let themselves be seen.  It was too dangerous.  She carefully stepped
inside.

	She didn't want to be noticed at all if possible.  She already
knew by heart how much she had to spend--a little over four dollars.
She also knew what she had to buy, and would have a few cents left
over if something went on sale.  She picked up a bottle of oil and set
it on the counter.  The shopkeeper glanced at her and then went back
to jotting something with a pencil stub on a scrap paper.  She came in
often enough that he knew she wouldn't steal anything.

	She picked up the candles and the matches, thinking she had
money left over for several potatoes.  She picked those up and placed
them on the counter, and let the cashier add them up by hand.  ``Four
thirty-two,'' he said.

	``What for?'' She heard the door open behind her.  There was
the sound of a man's heavy footsteps.  She didn't turn around to see
who it was but concentrated on the shopkeeper in front of her.  ``How
do you get away with changing the prices like that?''

	``It looks like someone's got you over a barrel again,
Homer,'' said the man behind her.  She tensed but kept her attention
on Homer.

	``No, that's what it is.  The price went up.''

	``Let me see that.''  She snatched the paper from him.  ``Why
are the matches so much?  And the candles?  You have $1.25 for the
matches, and 90 cents for the candles.  The matches should be only a
dollar.  That's what they always cost.  I've been coming here for a
long time.  And the candles.  That's 'way too much.  They're fifteen
cents apiece.''

	``Well, I'll give you the old price.  Homer's special.  But
only for now.''  He calmly made the adjustment on the paper and held
it under her nose. ``Is that better?''  The amount was a little under
four dollars.

	``That's what I thought.''  She took the money from her pocket
and handed it to him.  She waited for her change.  ``That will be all
for now.''

	``I never saw you in here before.''  It was the guy who came
in behind her.

	``Have I seen _you_ before?''  The tall, heavy-set black man
was ragged and down at the heels, like everyone else.  He didn't seem
at all mean.

	``No, I don't think so.''

	``That's good.''

	She put the items in the canvas bag and walked right past him.
He stepped aside and showed no interest in whatever she had.  Last of
all, she dropped the matches into the canvas bag and stepped outside.
She walked about ten feet on the sidewalk and glanced back.  He hadn't
followed her.  She crossed the street and continued on her way, and
turned the corner at the first side street she came to.


			      Chapter 4


	Her anger caught up with her as she walked home.  Homer
wouldn't cheat her.  He wasn't the type of person to take advantage of
other people.  The market wouldn't have lasted very long if he was.
It was the only store around and wasn't anything special.  She had
been buying her food there for half a year at least.  But he might
have given her a break, especially when he didn't mark the prices on
anything.  Not that he would have thought of charging her less if she
hadn't reminded him.  She never bought more than a dozen or so items
at a time and knew what each of them cost.  But she had been thinking
about finding money for next week and paying attention.  The door of
her room stuck briefly.  She threw her shoulder against the door, and
it swung open.  Maybe he had other things on his mind, too.  She
dropped the groceries on the table and decided to have it out with
him, the next time she was in there.

	The day was still early.  She didn't know what to do and
didn't care, as long as it involved not sitting around.  She didn't
want to think about Peter or the elm tree right now--not in the mood
she was in.  She was too discouraged even to think about foraging for
things to sell for next week's money.

	``Damn it all.''  She removed her coat and dropped it over the
back of a chair.  ``I don't understand why things can't just stay the
way they are.''

	Seeing the boy and his father again seemed like as good an
idea as any.  She was still worried about what they would think of her
and even more worried of letting them into her place.  She didn't want
her imagination to get away from her.  They might not even be there.
She would try to find them again, and not say anything about herself.
Maybe she would do that in a week.  With the meeting comfortably in
the future, she didn't feel as tense.  She settled on the sofa to rest
her legs, but she didn't want to sit around for too long.  She had
been caught in the trap of staying idle when she should be doing
something.  There was a difference between thinking about something
and actually doing it.  She wondered if other people realized that.

	She wasn't going to sit around all day.  After a few minutes,
she forced herself to stand up.  The weight of her coat as she put it
on was like the settling of a familiar burden on her shoulders.  She
took her time fastening the buttons and allowed her pulse to return to
normal.  It wouldn't do any good to rush outside.  She would be tired
later on.

	She had the few things she needed: keys, the money she had
left over, and that was all.  Everything was in its place.  She tried
the door again.  It was locked.  Leaving was like running through a
checklist.  She had carried a small knife until she saw how some of
the young kids on the street used them.  She decided that it was
better not to carry a weapon, especially one that she didn't know how
to use.

	Following her routine, she stuck her head outside the door and
looked quickly in both directions to see if anyone approached.  A
light breeze from the south carried the faint smell of rain.  The wind
seemed to brush away the winter chill that had been creeping into the
air for the last month.  She stepped out of the building and
disappeared quickly around the corner.  Every time her feet touched
the sidewalk, she wondered what she would do if someone was waiting
for her.  She had no good answer to that but wanted to have as much
warning as possible, even if it came only a fraction of a second
before she was attacked.  The routine was comforting, even if it was a
false comfort.

	The embankment of the railroad tracks and the path which led
up to them was only a block from the building.  Jeanine went around
the back and found the worn path.  At the top of the embankment, she
paused for a moment to catch her breath and see if anyone was near.
The strange thing about being alone was that she had gotten into the
habit of watching out for people, not so she could encounter them, but
so she could avoid them.  She had acquired the furtiveness which all
of the street people had, and it betrayed her.  If she had been her
former self, she simply would not have noticed them.  The possibility
of being attacked would never have occurred to her.  She was immune to
the things that happened to other people.  Her own blindness went a
long way toward avoiding it.  Until it was too late.

	She was not the person she once was.  The extra worries were
the price of experience.  She had seen enough to know that she had
been naively foolish.  Perhaps to think that she was hiding was wrong.
Her wits had become sharper because she used them every day.  The
argument in the grocery store was not the first time that someone had
tried to cheat her.

	She was unsure of which direction to take.  She half wanted to
look for the boy and his father right now.  With another look up and
down the railroad tracks to make sure that she wasn't followed, she
started northward slowly.  By the time she had walked half a mile, the
stiffness was gone from her legs.

	She could have walked a lot faster but saw no reason to hurry.
The weather was too good to waste.  This would be one of the last warm
days of the year.  Soon she would have to stay inside and guard
against feeling shut in, and watch out for any beggars that might
wander into the building looking for shelter.  It had never occured to
her to block the door.  Someone who wanted inside would simply crawl
through one of the broken windows anyway.  She had thought about
taking people in, but she was never brave enough nor ambitious enough
to make sure she could do it, because it was too dangerous.  Caring
for herself was all she could do.  Until she met Timothy, she had no
desire to make friends with anyone on the street.

	The warm, southerly breeze was more pronounced at the top of
the embankment.  The smells of the dried-out weeds were mixed with the
acrid, tarry smell of the railroad tracks.  They were so familiar to
her that she felt like she was home.

	She approached the complex of buildings and craned her neck to
see if the boy and his father were sheltering in the doorway of the
factory.  No one was there.  She felt slightly disappointed, but also
relieved.  It was one more obligation that she could put off.  She
owed it only to herself to find them, but that didn't make it seem any
less important.  After pausing and wondering what to do next, she
thought again of her childhood friend Eddie.  She wondered if her
parents' old house still stood.

	With some trepidation she took a walk around back of the
factory to make sure that Timothy and his father were not there.  She
supposed she could look closely, and try to find them inside of the
huge buildings, but she wasn't up to it.  The cavernous interiors and
rotting piles of junk scared her.  With a sense of relief, she went
back across the parking lot and climbed the embankment to the railroad
tracks.  With a final look backward at the old buildings, she started
walking along the tracks again.

	She couldn't figure out why she suddenly wanted to find them.
She wondered if she wanted their company now because she was tired of
being alone, or if it was simply a passing thing.  Maybe she would
have settled for any sort of relationship.  Maybe it was the weather.
But it wouldn't have been the first winter that she had survived.  She
didn't feel any such need last year, or the year before that, as far
as she could recall.

	Her old desire simply to take off returned.  This time,
however, she was discouraged because she could not rebuild her life
again so easily.  She might never again be able to duplicate the
effort she put into surviving here, or overcome the trouble it took to
set herself up comfortably.  Perhaps she was more aware of how great
the odds were against even surviving.  She no longer felt equal to the
effort of finding a comfortable place to stay so she could maintain
the steady, predictable life she had.

	She decided to settle for the happy medium of walking toward
Grosse Pointe to see if her parents' old house stood.  It was nothing
important, but she hadn't been up there for years.  It would be a
change of scenery.  She would come back later on.

	Still taking care not to hurry, she searched her memory for
the place where she needed to leave the railroad tracks and head into
her old neighborhood.  Probably the landmarks had all changed.  She
didn't remember any of them, but they might come back to her if they
still existed.  The streets and freeways that were visible from the
railroad bridges all looked vaguely familiar.  She hoped that she
didn't miss any landmarks.  She could easily keep going and walk
straight out of Detroit.  She was careless enough to do that.  It was
all the more reason to slow down and re-examine the scenery around
her.

	She had been a little disappointed not to find Timothy and his
father at the factory.  The fact that she didn't want to poke through
the abandoned buildings didn't have much to do with it.  The best way
to save herself further disappointment was to take her time and try
not to involve herself with anyone else, at least for the present.
She had been on her own for a long time and had no close friends.
Anything more than a casual friendship would be too much of a change
and definitely not worth the trouble.

	Why not take them in?  She was getting older.  She felt the
urge to talk to people.  Time was catching up with her.  There had
been too many disappointments.  Her failure to find the boy again
simply was another in a long string of missed chances.  She fully
expected that her parents' house had been torn down.  Perhaps coming
up here was another attempt to put that part of her life into the the
past--into history.  There was no reason why the house should still be
there, with no one to care for it.

	Her parents had always threatened to leave the house to her
brother Donald, but he had left before her father died.  He didn't say
that he was going away, he just stopped coming back.  Jeanine
suspected that Donald's disappearance contributed to her father's
death.  She wasn't terribly bitter about it.  Their mother wanted him
to be the head of the family, but he needed to strike out on his own.
Her own anger and disappointment wavered as she watched her mother's
decline into bitterness and old age.  Even then she had known not to
blame herself.

	``Why did you think you could make him stay?''  she demanded.

	Her mother replied, ``What right did he have to leave us?
Imagine what your father's going through because of this.''

	``He's not going through anything.  Donald's just away.''  

	That was not long before her father's funeral.  After the
funeral, her mother started mixing the two of them up.  Jeanine and
her mother took down from the attic all of the old boxes and packing
cases of her father's and brother's things.  Jeanine was hot and dusty
from climbing around in the attic and irritated by her mother's
self-pity.

	``He should have been here.  He is part of this family.''  Her
expression hardened.  ``He _was_ part of this family.''

	``Don't think you could have held us all together.  That's too
much to expect of anyone.''

	``Was it too much to expect that all of you would take my
feelings into account?  That's no way to show gratitude for the
trouble I put into keeping this family together.''

	Jeanine wiped the sweat from her forehead.  ``And what good
did it do you in the end?  I'm still here.  You can be thankful for
that.  Did you expect that we would all stay here together?  Donald
grew up.  I'm grown up.  Do you think I'm upset about staying here?
Not half as much as I should be, if I had listened to you.  Think of
what I missed because I wasn't on my own.''

	Her mother's look softened into a kind of sadness.  ``This
isn't the time for that.  He should be here.''

	``It would have been dangerous for me to leave, like you
always said, but don't you think that life is dangerous?  Just because
he was a boy, what difference did that make?  You could never have
sheltered us forever.  That's too much to expect of anyone, especially
you.''

	``All I wanted was a happy family.  I would have settled for a
safe family.''

	Jeanine stepped around her, carrying a box.  Over her
shoulder, she said, ``Maybe you asked for too much and set yourself up
to be disappointed.''

	Jeanine was beyond expecting anything that even approximated a
family.  She had been living with strangers for so long that she was
accustomed to a different sort of life and aware that families who
stayed together were the exception and not the rule.  She had no
illusions about that subject, as meager as her own experience was.
She would be content to play the odds and make of her life what she
could.  If she accomplished more than what she expected, she would be
lucky.  But it was nothing more than that.  She didn't want to
attribute it to her skill at keeping a house.

	She walked slowly, thinking over these faded memories.  She
had held on to the images of her family for so long that they seemed
like cherished, old photographs.  There was a certain comfort and
perfection in that.  The moment she came face to face with the house,
she would have to examine her memories again and fit them into her
present reality.  It was like giving birth to an action.  What she
found could very well have little relationship with what she hoped or
imagined was there.

	She left the railroad tracks where she guessed was closest to
her old street.  Her recollections seemed to be correct.  The
neighborhood was a lot like she remembered it, except that the yards
weren't mowed and the leaves were thick and tangled in the knee-high,
drying brown grass.  She could not remember the individual
streets--they looked the same to her.  The vague familiarity did
nothing to refresh her memory.  Even with the bright sun high in the
morning sky, the neglected yards, faded houses, and the trees withough
leaves reminded her of an old, neglected cemetery.  She came to the
yard that should have contained her house.  There was an elm tree near
the back, and the remains of a foundation where the house had been.
Tires and burnt tin cans littered the yard.  So she could put another
part of her life behind her.

	She walked down to the corner and saw a sign with a street
name.  She on the wrong block.

	A few streets up, only few houses and yards showed signs of
care, but the neighborhood began to look more familiar.  The houses
for the most part looked like her own.  There wasn't much point in
checking each one of them out.  Finally she found her old house.  The
shutters were the right color.  The bushes covered the walls almost up
to the window sills and covered the fading paint on the walls and
front steps.  She started to walk around the side of the house toward
the back, through the tall grass which threatened to choke the cracked
sidewalk and overflow into the street, like a summer that had run
unchecked and would die from its own abundance.


			      Chapter 5

	The side of the house was not as overgrown.  She pressed her
face up close to the glass to shut out the reflections of the trees
and the sky.  Inside, the rooms were empty.  She studied the bare
walls and floors.  The house must have been vacant almost from the
time she left.  Her parents had passed away long ago.  She expected
that the house would be either occupied or gone.  How it had remained
in such good condition was a mystery to her.

	She walked around the house again, examining it like a museum
piece, and tried to figure out how to get inside.  One of the upstairs
window panes was broken.  She looked for a way to reach the second
floor.  There was a down spout she could use as a ladder, or she could
try to find a grip on the edges of a window frame on the first floor.
Neither choice appealed to her.  She did not relish the thought of
breaking a bone if she slipped and fell.  Whoever had broken the
window should have thought to break a windowpane on the first floor.

	Finally she kicked at one of the basement windows until the
glass broke.  She unlatched the frame from the outside and let
herself down.  She dropped to the floor in the middle of the broken
glass and went upstairs.  She didn't recognize anything about the
rooms at first.  They were all empty.  There were no familiar objects
anywhere.  Her footsteps echoed on the bare floors.  The rooms seemed
larger and emptier than she remembered them.  And colder.

     She couldn't place herself in them.  She remembered the contents
of the bare rooms better than the rooms themselves.  In one corner of
the sitting room, the television set had been a permanent fixture.
There had been a couch across from it.  The shadows drifted across the
empty walls like pale curtains, and the room's boxy, symmetrical
shapes suggested a meditative serenity.  It seemed too good to be true
that she was the only person here, and unbelievable that the rooms
could be hers alone.  The absence of sound also suggested the
deadening fall of life.  The time at the university, the time with
Eddie and her other friends, with her parents--her life was like some
sort of afterlife already.  At the kitchen window, she looked out over
the backyard.  She could not determine whether the elm tree had grown.
The base of its trunk was covered with tall, matted weeds and grass.
Of course it had grown in all these years.  Only the passage of time
remained constant, and the change of one phase of her life to the
next.

     Upstairs, she went through the rooms one by one.  In her parents'
old bedroom, there were some cardboard boxes against one wall.
Intrigued, she opened the first one and looked inside.  It contained
some old clothing.  She could not identify any of the items until she
came to a flowered apron that her mother wore.  That brought back
still more memories of her mother working in the kitchen, where she
had seemed to spend every day.  The rest was mostly underwear and
lingerie, and in another box, linens that she couldn't identify.

     In the last carton she found a jewel box.  One of the corners and
the hinges of the lid had been broken.  But that did not lessen her
delight.  She looked for hidden drawers in the jewel box and could
find none.  Whatever had been in the box that might have been worth
something--rings or pendants, for example--or held some sentimental
value--a hair pin, a clasp from a missing earring--would have
disappeared long ago.  She set the jewel box aside.  There were loose
sheets of paper at the bottom of the carton.  They looked like old
ledger sheets and meant nothing to her.  Some of the pages had been
shredded by rodents.  But digging through them a little, she found a
sheaf of letters, bound with a faded red ribbon.  She didn't untie it.
The package of yellowed envelopes was arranged too carefully.  The
address in faded ink on the first letter was her mother's.  The
handwriting was that of her father.  She was charmed and transported.
The harsh sunlight seemed to soften.  She knelt on the floor with the
bundle of envelopes clutched in both hands, feeling a vast sense of
emptiness and confusion.

     She put the bundle carefully in her pocket and then settled on
the floor and rested her back against the wall.  She drew her coat
around her and listened to the sounds inside the house and outside of
the house.  The neighborhood was one big ghost town.  It seemed
impossible that so many people had picked up and left, but they had.
Who was she to feel so superior?  She had tried to do the same.  Like
them, she felt the need to shed her past like the shedding of an old
skin, leaving behind all of her old obligations and guilt.

     She could imagine the movers, hurrying to put the house behind
them, forgetting about the boxes upstairs.  They would mean nothing to
the workmen.  It was another abandoned house.  It had been the same
thing with the other people who had lived here.  First one family
decided to put everything in a truck and just leave the desperation
behind them.  She saw it happen.  Other people living here noticed
this and decided that leaving was the only possibility they had, too,
and the migration continued until almost no one was left.  Maybe they
hadn't lived there very long or didn't realize what they had left
behind.  Maybe they didn't care, anyway.  The old times dropped away
from all of them except for a few people, like her, who always lived
here or always returned.

     She allowed herself to doze.  The rest was welcome.  She could
enjoy the warmth of relaxing, and sitting alone in the room bundled in
her coat.  She realized that she didn't have to worry about being
attacked while she slept.  She was secure.

     When she awoke it was afternoon.  She felt hungry but had nothing
to eat.  She sighed.  It would be perfectly all right to spend the
night here.  She could have brought some food from her squat, but she
had expected to go straight back and not spend the night.  She sat
motionless for a few minutes until she became fully awake.  She took
the bundle of letters from her pocket and picked apart the knot in the
ribbon that bound them, and arranged the letters in rows on the bare
floor, careful to maintain their order.

	She read them carefully until the sun began to drop behind the
leafless trees outside and the sky became dusky.  She slid over to the
window so she could read by the last of the daylight.  The letters did
not seem to be arranged in any order by her mother or whoever had tied
them together.  But she kept the arrangement anyway.  At first the
letters seemed overly sentimental.  They had been written in an
awkward, formal style that she found strange coming from her father's
hand.  She felt slightly embarrassed for him.  His sentiments were so
overblown that he seemed to be putting himself at her mother's mercy.
It was like reading a dime-store novel.  But the letters fascinated
her.  She didn't know any of this.  She realized, as she read them a
second time, that her father was consoling her mother.  Jeanine
decided that the words were so compelling to her because they revealed
a portrait of her parents that she had not thought much about before.

     Most of the writing seemed irrelevant to her.  She failed to see
anything about her parents as unique, perhaps because they had been
far too detached from her time and age that she was unable to form a
complete picture of them.  One paragraph of her father's caught her
attention: ``I wish you would try to come to terms with Hank's death.
It is death.  He was a brother close to you.  How are we going to stay
together?  Once there has been a decent grief period, I would like you
to stay with me.  We can think about him together.''

       The thought of her mother grieving was new to her.  Jeanine had
never thought of her mother as having mourned.  Her mother probably
had not wanted her to see it.

     She began to realize, as she read the letters again, that the way
her parents had viewed love and courtship and marriage, which would
have meant the world to them, at least at first, was entirely
different from hers.  But then, she had never married.  She began to
see that her father's awkward words had a purpose, even the awkward
tics of his embarrassment, the way they had shaped the world they
inhabited.  Jeanine wondered what her mother had written in return.
Had her letters been conciliatory?  Had she put him off?  Jeanine
tried to remember her parents' attitude toward each other.  Her mother
was so practical that Jeanine could not imagine her murmuring sweet
nothings to her father.  She had believed in nothing so much as her
steady domestic routine.  Jeanine wished she knew more about her
mother's youth.  If there had been an excuse to keep from becoming
romantic, or ``silly,'' Jeanine was certain, her mother would have
given it.  Even mourning.

	But there was still, for all of her parents' practicality, the
letters.  Jeanine held them in her hand.  They had served as a
substitute for the world that her parents made together, which she had
only a glimpse of.  Their relationship had not included her, and she
herself formed another aspect of their lives, but it was by no means
the only one.  She had suddenly become a witness.  Reading the letters
was like looking at their world through panes of rippled glass.

     The best she could hope for from reading them was a fragmentary
picture of their lives.  She had only her own recollections to
supplement them.  Her memories came back fleetingly, disconnectedly,
in no definite order.  To gather her thoughts, she pictured the room
as it had been.  She imagined her mother's bureau, the nightstand, the
bedside lamp with the frilled shade, the dressing table, and the
counterpane with a pattern that matched the wallpaper in the
stairwell, as they had been many years before.  She remembered
listening to her mother and father from her room next to theirs.
Sounds of conversation, of fighting, of love making.

	Late one night when she was young, she had been awakened by
her parents arguing.  She got out of her bed and went out in the hall.
She stood in the door while her parents fought.

	``How in the Hell am I going to put food on the table, when
you you didn't pay the gas bill?''  her mother demanded of her father.
``I'm trying to keep a budget, and you went out with those jerks you
work with.  And did what?  You spent money.  What in God's name am I
supposed to do about feeding us?  How am I even going to get to the
grocery store if you can't put gas in the car?  Are you going to pick
me up and carry me there?''

	``That's about what I'd expect, from your bitching.  I still
have to do business, which is something you have no understanding of.''

	Then her mother noticed her in the doorway.

	``Am I in trouble?'' Jeanine asked them.

	``This isn't for you to listen to.''  Her mother took her
gently but firmly by the shoulders and guided her back to her own
bedroom.  ``It's time for you to sleep.  Go back into bed.''  Her
mother smoothed the bedspread over her and went to the door.  ``We're
not talking about you.''  She stood in the doorway and her face was
shadowed in the dim hallway light.  ``Now hush, and don't come back
out.''  She shut the door and left Jeanine alone in the dark bedroom.

	Her parents' room was off limits.  Jeanine stayed out of it
except on Sunday mornings.  Her mother stayed in bed while her father
went out for the newspaper and returned to make breakfast for
them--for her and her brother downstairs and for her mother upstairs.
``Why does he always have to go out?''  she asked her mother from the
door.  ``I hope he comes back soon.  I'm hungry.''

	``Of course he'll be back soon, dear,'' she said.  ``I'm not
going anywhere, but he'll be back.''  

	``Is something wrong?''

	``No, of course not.  I'm fine.''

     Her father hummed quietly while he cooked breakfast.  ``Be quiet.
We don't want mother to wake up.  We want to surprise her.''  But she
was always awake when they pushed through the door with the breakfast
tray.

     ``I smelled the coffee,'' she explained shortly.  Her father left
the tray and went downstairs.  Sometimes Jeanine stayed behind for a
few minutes.  She had never once seen her mother eat Sunday breakfast.
She went away and came back to collect the empty tray after her mother
finished, carrying the tray downstairs on her tiptoes.  But she waited
silently while her mother lay in bed.  She stared at Jeanine, then at
the ceiling, and didn't say anything.  Jeanine turned away and went
downstairs.

	She found it easier to sympathize with her father, especially
after her parents had an argument.  ``Why aren't you nicer to him?''
she had demanded of her mother when they were alone.

	The older woman gave Jeanine one of her rare smiles.  ``He
wouldn't know what to do if I was.''

     There were other less romantic, and less terrible, rituals.
Breakfasts during the week were not so ceremonious.  Her father was
dressed in his work shirts and trousers, she and her brother for
school, and her mother, still wearing her bathrobe, fixed breakfast.
At the end of the day they were tired and not in the mood to talk,
whether it was from housekeeping and yard work, or homework and play.

	At dinner, her father was the worst.  If it wasn't his job, it
was his family.  `I can't even say anything to them.  ``Get those
parts out the door,' that's all I hear.  Then I have to be a slave
driver.  And I do it for all of you, just so you can eat.''

	``You don't have to take it out on us,'' Donald said.  

	``I'm telling you what it's like.  He was suddenly angry.  He
got up from the table and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving the rest
of them in embarrassed silence.

	Her family's collective life, the good and the bad, seemed
like it had been created from nothing, a fact that her mother kept
reminding her of.  Of course, it was simply untrue.

     Donald left home before she did.  He was 18 then, and there she
was, already 20 and still in school, a sophomore in college.  Donald
returned home about once a year on no special occasion, always
dropping in unexpectedly.  ``My straight-A sister,'' he chided her one
time.  He was grown, but different than she--he had the alertness of a
survivor.  She realized that there were things she couldn't ask him
about.  _He does things I'll never be able to do,_ she thought,
when she saw him again.  She knew since she was very young that she
wasn't supposed to hear about those sorts of things, the men things
that Donald and her Father talked about.  For a long time she wished
she had the courage to ask him about ``those things,'' but she finally
did when he got back.

	``Nah, don't worry about it,'' Donald told her.  ``Dad and I
don't say a damned thing to each other.''  He had become this stranger
who was sitting across the kitchen table from her.  He was somehow
still her brother, but she and her mother lived here and he didn't.

	``Jeanine is getting good grades,'' her mother told Donald.
``Girls stay home longer anyway.  Why don't you settle down, too?''

     ``Why don't you tell me where you've been?'' Jeanine could not
resist asking him.  It was more of a way to start a conversation than
get an answer.

     ``Because Mom would have me thrown in jail if she found out,'' 
Donald said.

	``Was it that bad?''  She batted her eyes at him, her voice
full of sarcastic wonder.

     ``Don't be contrary,'' her mother said.  She turned to Donald.
``Are you going to stay or not?''  There was a note of worry that
verged on fear in her voice, but it was also a challenge.  Perhaps she
knew better than to expect a full answer.

     Donald was silent.  ``Maybe I'll go, too,'' Jeanine said.  ``He 
seems to be having a good time.''

     ``You'd never survive,'' her mother said.

     ``How can you be so sure?''

     ``You're not suited to that kind of life.  You need more
stability.  And I won't allow it.  Donald won't either.''

     ``You said the same thing about me,'' her brother answered.

     ``But you're a lost cause.''

     It seemed to Jeanine that her whole life was a lost cause.  What
had happened to it?  Somehow they had lost touch.  She tried to follow
in Donald's footsteps and then her mother was gone, too.  Jeanine held
herself unreachable, aloof from her family.  When they were gone, she
held herself aloof from the world.  She was left with nothing except
the life that she had been able to scrape together on her own.  It was
nowhere near the same.  She had gotten into the habit of leaving her
problems behind instead of coping with them as they arose.  ``It takes
a lot of work to make a home,'' her mother had told her one night.
``Do you think all of this happened by itself?''

     Jeanine was caught off guard.  She had been occupied with
something else, and that made her feel contrary.  ``Why should I think
about it?  It will be a long time before I ever settle down.''

     ``I'm just telling to you that it's a lot of trouble. You'll want
to remember when you try to raise a family yourself some day.''

	That day would never arrive, Jeanine had promised herself.
With the benefit of hindsight, she knew she had narrowly avoided
having the same sort of life her parents had.  She did not want to be
patronized nor told how her life would be in twenty years.  It had
accumulated largely unnoticed by her, almost behind her back.  Then
she lost everything.  She was forced to sit still, and she noticed her
life passing by the fact that nothing was happening.  Then she got
ambitious again when she found the squat.  The time in between was not
worth thinking about.  She had missed a few things.  But she had also
learned not to force events and take them one step at a time, and
allow herself and her surroundings to fall together naturally.  It was
exactly the opposite of what her mother had done, she guessed.

     ``Don't tell me how to live or patronize me,'' she said to her
mother.

     ``I'm not.  You're still young yet.  That's a fact.''

     ``But you'll get older, that's a fact, too,'' said Donald, 
winking at her.

     ``Stay out of this, you.''  Her mother turned to Jeanine.
``We'll have to talk about the facts of life sooner or later.''

     Donald leaned forward.  ``It might as well be sooner.  I 
want to hear this.''

     ``This is woman's talk,'' her mother said.

     Jeanine thought her mother's use of the word ``woman'' was a
concession to her maturity.  How foolish she had been.  Neither she
nor her mother said anything more.

     She awoke the next day and took extra care with her hair and
makeup, because Donald said he might be leaving.  She hoped her mother
had softened her position somewhat.  That was a Donald term.  She
called the things which brought him to mind, ``Donald things.''  She
would never have used that sort of expression for anyone else.

     ``There is no way,'' her mother told her, ``that I'm going to 
let you traipse around the country with him.''

     ``I'm an adult.  I even had two years of school, which he didn't.
He's doing fine.''

	``You're still not old enough to know better, if you're going
to leave on a whim.  I didn't even have a chance to go to college.''

	``It's certainly caused me to see things differently than
you,'' Jeanine said.  Her mother did not answer.  Jeanine knew then
what she had suspected, that they would never see things the same way.

	She waited for Donald to come down the stairs.  She had
thought he would be packed and ready to leave, with his bag slung over
his shoulder.  There was a silence from upstairs that was deeper than
the silence of the empty house.  The sky outside darkened and the glow
of reflected moonlight shone on the floor in front of her.  At the
time, Jeanine wondered how old ``old enough'' was, and if she was old
enough now.  When she had tried to listen for her brother's footsteps
on the stairs, she could not tell if he was already gone.



			      Chapter 6


 	She guessed it was well after midnight when she awoke, wrapped
tightly in her coat.  The room was strange.  A faint light from
outside that looked like moonlight, and maybe a streetlight off
somewhere, came through the window that she had opened slightly.  She
did not recognize the bare walls, ceiling, or floor, and she felt
lost.  A breath of cold air entered through window and chilled her.
She wrapped her coat more tightly around her.

	In a moment or two she remembered where she was and wondered
what to do next.  Nothing came to mind immediately.  She stood and
stretched her legs and paced the room, and slowly and thoughtfully did
the same in the other two rooms upstairs.  She wanted to memorize
their dimensions, the locations of the windows, and even the tears in
the wallpaper, as if going through them yesterday hadn't been enough.
She wanted to make sure they were still here, now that she was awake.
The rooms had once been her parents'.  Now they belonged to her.

     She tried the faucets of the bathroom sink and the toilet.
Neither of them worked.  She used the toilet anyway.  The smell of it
would make her want to get the water running sooner.  The mains came
into the house through the basement.  She let this practical problem
occupy her mind for a while and went downstairs.

     There was no compelling reason for her to leave.  She could
reasonably stay here for a while, if she overcame practical, everyday
difficulties.  But she knew she would be able to find water if she
thought about it long enough, and she was not worried.

	It might be better to stay here, in fact.  The neighborhood
was much quieter.  She looked through the front and back windows and
walked back and forth under the arch in the hallway that separated the
living and dining rooms.  As with the room upstairs, she was
surrounded by the same lonely stillness.  She looked through the bare
windows for signs of activity on the street and listened for noises of
people outside.  The streets were as empty and quiet as the inside of
the house.  It was not like her old neighborhood.  It was perfectly
natural for the streets to be deserted at this hour.

     Again the noises of the house came flooding back to her.  The
play of a shadow across one corner of the kitchen reminded her of
having to get up from the table and leave when there was an argument
brewing at breakfast between her parents.  She remembered her mother's
concentration working at the counter, paying attention to nothing but
the food in front of her.  Jeanine looked past the shadows and through
the window above the rusted, free-standing sink.  More and more she
had wanted to escape those scenes and the unpleasant memories they
carried and be alone with her thoughts.  

	There was something in these recollections that made her
uncomfortable, and this surprised her.  She was mistaken to think that
she had lost all of her regrets years ago and had begun to cope with
the loss of her family and the material things that made her past seem
real.  

	She had been so upset with her parents that she was happy to
leave them behind.  They contributed nothing to her life, in
comparison to the burden they were, and she wanted to move on and be
independent.  She had been complaining to a school friend of hers
about her family and didn't realize that she had taken over the
conversation.  Her friend nodded sympathetically and said finally,
``It's the _possibility_ of going back that frightens people.  It
isn't the fact that you remember something and then feel guilty about
it, but you get the idea of reliving it.  And that is upsetting.''

	``But I'd do it again,'' Jeanine was almost defiant.  ``I have
nothing to be ashamed of.''

	``Most people can't say that.  Why should you bother?''

	``You're right.  I have enough problems with what I'm doing
now.  And there's this _guy_ who's interested in me.  He keeps
asking me to go out with him.  And I do.  Go out with him, I mean.''

	``There isn't anything wrong with that.''

  	``I suppose it's all right, but I don't want it to go any
further.  I don't want to live like my Mother.''

	What she had really felt was a sort of comfortable, anesthetic
floating, as if she had been separated from reality.  She wasn't
ashamed of her past but wanted to relive it in order to make sure that
it actually happened.  She hadn't realized that once she stepped
outside of the comfortable security blanket that she found herself
wrapped in, she would be able to view the bounds of her life as
clearly as the walls of the room.  They were no less intractable.  It
hadn't been simply that she didn't try to cross the boundaries of her
life.  The possibility of transgressing them, of escaping and breaking
them, didn't come up.  She never thought that she could do something
so simple.  She didn't feel guilty.  Instead, she was disappointed
with herself.

     ``Out of sight, out of mind,'' she thought to herself.  She
didn't want any more disappointments.  She had lost something also
because she didn't try to learn anything from her mother's mistakes.
At least they seemed like mistakes.  But her values weren't the same
as her mother's.  Maybe they weren't mistakes at the time.

     She thought about the practical advantages of staying here: the
house's isolation, its security.  But she also needed to make some
sort of living.  Getting the water running might be easy, but the
problem of finding food wasn't so trivial.  She might reasonably plant
a garden in the back yard and live from the produce, but that wouldn't
be until next summer.  She still needed to survive, and the winter was
practically here.

     She decided to look around the neighborhood before many people
were up.  She needed some things to live, like cast-off furniture and
a way to find some money.  She knew the streets well enough from
memory.  It would be no trouble for her to look around unobtrusively.
She wanted to avoid the large houses and mansions that stood along the
river.  They were still likely to be occupied, and in any case
vagrants like her tended to drift toward the water.  For the moment,
at least, she wanted to avoid everyone so that no one would discover
that she had a squat in the neighborhood.  After being there for a
while she would be able to explain her presence as a sort of _fait
accompli._

	It was a little after dawn when she left by the door.  The
faint, pearly light told her that it would be about 15 minutes before
sunrise.  She didn't expect to see anyone at this hour.  But on the
next block, a very old lady tugged a shopping cart down the opposite
sidewalk.  One of the cart's wheels was not turning freely, and the
old woman seemed blind to everything but dragging the cart along
behind her and the sidewalk directly in front of her.  She didn't seem
to notice Jeanine, who slipped back around the corner and walked
hurriedly in the other direction.  She turned the corner of the next
block and nearly walked into a man, slightly older than herself, and
like her, wary of passersby.

     He started, then said good morning to her.  ``I didn't mean to 
frighten you.''

     ``No harm done.''  She averted her eyes and stepped off the curb
in order to give him a wide berth.  ``I didn't expect to see anyone at
this hour.''

	``I didn't either.  That's why I'm out now.''

	She decided to press her luck.  `'Didn't I see you with some
children a week or so ago?''

     ``What children?''  He looked at her suspiciously.  She shouldn't
have come on like a stranger, which of course she was.  She had the
impression that he thought of her as insane, or angry that she was
testing him.

	He seemed to consider her.  ``I don't have any children.'' he
said finally.

     ``I... I thought I saw some children with you a while back,'' she
stammered. ``About a week ago.''  She wanted him to have the
impression that she had been living here for a long time and didn't
get out much.  But he examined her clothes and tangled hair
skeptically.  ``It would be so nice if there were some other people
around here, especially some children,'' she said clumsily.  ``You do
live around here, don't you?''

	``There haven't been any children around here for a while, not 
that I saw,'' he said and then turned away.  ``Certainly not mine.''

	She walked past him in order to hide her embarrassment.  He
probably thought of her as a crank.  If that led him to avoid her, it
was all to the good, the way things stood now.  But, he would probably
remember her anyway.

     She decided to put the encounter behind her.  She explored the
neighborhood a few blocks further.  It was like most of the places she
had seen.  There were large, vacant lots between the houses that were
still standing.  Only here in this neighborhood, the houses seemed
better preserved.  She would need to think this through, and decide
how far she could reasonably walk to get food or whatever else she
would need.  Further on, the side street came to a dead end that
overlooked the freeway.  On the opposite side, down the near
embankment and up the further one, there were buildings that looked
like they might have been a shopping center, viewed from the back.
She looked up and down the freeway for the nearest bridge across.  The
road eventually led north to Canada, if memory served.  There was no
bridge for at least a half mile in either direction, so she looked for
an easy way down and across the traffic lanes, which seemed okay
because there was no traffic.

     She started down the embankent, along an overgrown footpath that
probably had been made long ago by kids, and started across the near
traffic lanes.  The concrete was cracked and broken from neglect.  She
wondered casually if it had been in such disrepair when the freeway
was in use.  Probably it had, if memory served.

     With difficulty she climbed the barrier that separated the
southbound and northbound lanes.  She was getting old, and she felt it
in her limbs as she swung her legs over the barrier.  She wasn't so
old that she couldn't get around, though.  She hoped she would still
be inconspicuous.  The conversation with the man was unfortunate.  If
she didn't ask embarrassing questions of the other people in the
neighborhood, she would be fine.  Once across the northbound lanes,
she looked for a way up the bank, mindful of how conspicuous she was.
About 20 yards further along the freeway, she found a path that led
up, and climbed the bank without difficulty.  But she still planted
one foot carefully in front of the other.  One could never be too
careful, especially on an unfamiliar footpath.  There was a break in
the chain link fence at the top of the path.  She stepped through
that.

     The neighborhood on the far side of the freeway seemed like it
was not nearly as abandoned as it was on the other side where her
parents' house was.  She looked for the buildings which she had seen
earlier and walked in that direction, suddenly mindful that she had
spent the entire night sleeping on the floor.  She hoped she wasn't
too much of a sight.

     There were other people about, even at this early hour.  No one
seemed to pay her much attention.  Most of the stores were boarded up,
as in the neighborhood of her her old squat.  But here in an otherwise
empty strip mall, there was a small grocery store, and across the
street was a book shop where a man sat wrapped in a coat in a
weathered chair next to the door.  He looked like he was a little
older than she.  There were racks of books and magazines in front of
the windows.  He smoked a cigar and seemed not to notice the
passersby.  It looked like he was displaying them for sale.

	Jeanine said good morning to him.  ``I never expected to find
a bookstore around here any more.  That's what this is, right?''

     He gave her a wry smile.  ``It's the only one like it left, as
far as I know.''  He paused for emphasis.  ``But I don't get out very
much.'' 

	She turned to leave.  He didn't seem inclined to speak any
further, so she kept walking.  She was aware that he was looking at
her and was determined not to show that she wasn't used to being seen.

     It felt strange to have other people around.  She found the
sensation of being watched unnerving and was especially conscious of
her appearance.  Her coat was wrinkled from sleeping in it all night,
and she tried to straighten her hair in the reflection of a
plate-glass window, but she was unsure of the result.  Her nervousness
seemed to be another result of her indigence, an inward one that had
nothing to do with the way she looked, possibly one of the most
profound symptoms of being alone.  She was afraid that people would
pry into her life, and she would have to explain why she wasn't like
them.

	Something was eating her.  Gates, the person she had just
spoken with, wasn't sure if he had seen her before, but there was
something different about that woman.  She was more alert, or
intelligent than most of the people around.  But he hoped, since she
had passed by so quickly, that she wouldn't cause him any trouble.
Everyone had their problems. His worst problem was the heating oil
bill, which was due on the first of the month, and every month for the
rest of the winter.  They appeared like clockwork, to him alone, Gates
Shepherd, even though he had no business to his name any more.

	``This bookstore is my life, and that's why nobody ever
bothers to look into it,'' he said to his girlfriend and companion of
the last 15 or 20 years before she went out this morning.  ``Do we
want all this stuff to freeze?''

	``Of course not, Gates.''  He had lived in the building's
upper floor for 30 years, and Theresa had been with him long enough
that counting the years didn't matter.  Both the upper and lower
floors of the building were stacked to the ceiling with the
accumulation of a lifetime's possessions.

	``If we don't pay the heating oil bill, we're going to be in
for a very cold winter,'' he told her.  ``Quilts and blankets are only
going to keep us warm until the icicles start to hang down from the
inside of the windowsills.''

	``I know it's serious, Gates.  But don't complain, we'll
figure something out.  I'll be back in the evening.''

	Gates didn't give the woman who had just walked past much
thought.  He reasoned that if she came back, then he would start to
worry about her.  When he looked around the small, crowded bookstore
and assessed the old books and magazines despondently, he realized
that he would be here until he died or was forced out.  He could never
afford to sell the place--no one would want to buy it anyway and
there seemed to be no way to turn the stacks of aging books,
newspapers, and magazines into cash.  Some of the items probably had
not been moved from the shelves where he had placed them 30 years ago.
There were more people who had no money or time or inclination to buy
books--most of them didn't even have televisions--and Gates wondered
how he had been able to make ends meet every year.

     It had been one long, unending struggle.  He lit a cigarette and
watched the few people on the street pass by the storefront.  He might
as well have gone out, too.  There was nothing to do but sit and
wait.

	Jeanine wandered into the grocery store where the clerk looked
up briefly from waiting on some other people.  She didn't seem to take
much notice of Jeanine.  The other customers looked like they were as
destitute as she.  She wandered through the aisles looking to buy
something for lunch and hopefully for dinner.  At her parents' house.
It felt good to think of the house that way, as if she had found a
real home at last, but there was no one she could tell that to.  Maybe
she could and no one would be any the wiser, but that would destroy
the illusion that she had allowed herself to drift into.  Hell, there
wasn't even an oven yet.  So cooking was out for now.

     She imagined her presence would be felt gradually, like ripples
of a stone dropped in the water.  She had been on her own for too long
now to feel comfortable making any sort of casual contact.  No, she
would just sort of grow on these people, and her presence would become
gradually known.  That was the best way.

	The man who had been sitting in front of the bookstore was no
longer there.  He must have gone inside.  The piles of newspapers
looked like junk in the pale, cloudy light.  Jeanine could not think
of any reason why he would want to be outside in this weather.  It was
chilly.  But the inside was cramped and musty.  She went back to her
parents' house, thinking that maybe she would need a cooking stove of
some sort.  She retraced her steps across the freeway.  What she
needed was human companionship.  It had been a long time since anyone
had been around.  But she didn't want impatience to overtake her.  She
knew the dangers of being alone.



			      Chapter 7


	Timothy and his father, William, had only half of a loaf of
bread to eat between them, and that wouldn't last very long.  In the
morning they would be out of food and hungry.  ``I don't suppose you
know where we can get something to eat?''  His son looked askance at
him briefly.  Then he shook his head, and William laughed sadly and
glowered across the parking lot.  ``I didn't think so.  We need to get
some food.''

	He was silent for a minute or more.  Without saying another
word, he stood and rolled up one of their blankets and tucked it under
his arm, and left the remaining two blankets on the ground next to
Timothy.

	``I'm going to be gone for a while, maybe a day or two,'' he
said.  ``You be here when I come back.''

	Timothy nodded.  The old man walked away with his shoulders
stooped and disappeared around the corner of the factory.  Just like
that, he was gone.  He seemed too tired even to turn and yell to
Timothy one more time that he would be back soon and not to go
anywhere.

	Timothy had the half-loaf of bread.  His father had reminded
him that he could get water from the tap around the corner.  Timothy
thought about what his father had said about the water, about how it
was left over and it kept running even when nobody was around to use
it.  Timothy didn't know how all of the water faucets worked, only
that they did, and that the pressure would be enough to keep the water
running for a long time.  It was rusty and brackish, like his father
had warned him.  But that was all right with his father, so it was all
right with him.  He wasn't hungry and he wasn't thirsty.

     It was getting late in the day.  He wanted to do something
besides sit around and wait.  But his father had wanted him to stay in
the big entryway of the factory.  He knew his father was right.  He
wanted to be here when the old man returned, and he was worried that
something had happened to him.  He kept glancing around the corner of
the entryway, expecting that his father would appear, taking his time
like there was no hurry.  Timothy wished he could be so unconcerned
about things.  More than anything else, he was worried that he
couldn't see very far around the building on either side of the
entryway.  He gathered his courage and hurried down the steps and went
to the corner.  He leaned around the side of the building and looked.
There was nothing but bare and broken concrete all the way to the
buildings and bare trees on the other side of the parking lot.  He
knew he should stay in the entryway.  But then he wouldn't be able to
see his father coming.

     Eventually the sky darkened.  Timothy was worried.  His father
might have gotten lost, or killed by someone, or fallen into a hole
and died.  Because just like that, he had gone away.  The going away
part was the only thing about dying that he saw.  No one else could
ever see everything about dying, either, only the first part.  First
his mother had gone away, and now his father was gone, too.

     When he was younger, people explained to him that she went away
permanently.  Now he knew that she was dead.

     He didn't want to be alone if the same thing happened to his
father.  Nervously, he wandered out halfway into the parking lot.  The
evening sky was a dark, cold, gray color like concrete.  He saw no one
across the empty, flat space.  He was terribly lonely.  He ran back to
the shadow of the entryway and wrapped himself in his blanket.
Despite being tense and worried, he fell asleep.

     It was completely dark when he awoke.  Someone was prodding him.
At first, he thought his father was trying to wake him up, but then he
realized it was someone else.

	A man bent over him.  His hand was on Timothy's shoulder.
Timothy didn't know who the person was, but he desperately tried to
remember if he had ever passed the stranger on the street or if his
father had ever spoken about him.  Timothy shrank back against the
wall and thought frantically, but he could not remember having seen
him before.  He could think of nothing to say.

	``What are you doing here, boy?'' the stranger asked him.
``Don't you know how dangerous it is to sleep here all alone?''

	``I'm waiting for my father,'' he answered, frightened.

	``How long have you been here?''

	``I don't know.''

	``All night?''

	``I said, I don't know.''

	``It doesn't look like he's coming back.''  The man laughed.
His features were hidden by the darkness.  Timothy imagined they were
terrible and cruel.

     ``He'll be back,'' Timothy said, but suddenly he didn't believe
himself.

     ``He shouldn't have left you.  We're staying here.  My friends
and me.  That could be a long time.  Imagine leaving a little kid like
you all alone.  Where is your mother?''  The man stood up.  ``What is
your name?''

	``But you're all alone, too.''  Timothy was suddenly afraid of
being smacked for answering.  With a desperate burst of speed he threw
off the blanket and ran across the parking lot into the darkness.  He
ran until he felt like he couldn't go any further and dove into some
tall weeds next to the railroad tracks.  The weeds were dry.  They
rustled and scratched when he moved.  He lay perfectly still,
shivering.



Jeanine felt sleepy.  It had been a good dinner.  After she returned
from the store, she had set about getting some water flowing.  This
involved going down into the basement and finding the pipes that
bypassed the disused water heater, a rusting hulk tucked under the
stairway, and then she turned on the shutoff valves that regulated the
flow of water from the city mains.  She waited until the pressure
built and hoped that the pipes weren't rusted or clogged with old tree
roots.

     That took several hours.  She traced the plumbing and checked for
leaks.

	After waiting half the afternoon, she had water--rusty at
first and then pale and milky--in both the kitchen and the bathroom
upstairs.  It was a miracle that she had water at all, but it had been
much easier to get the water running here than at her other place,
because the office building did not have nearly the plumbing system
that the old house did.

	She bathed her face and hands and shivered until the chill of
the cold water left her.  She settled comfortably on the bedroom
floor, wrapped in her coat.  She could return to the old place in the
morning and get some of her belongings.  She would at least bring some
food.  Her money was running low. The stores, if there were any around
here, were unfamiliar to her.  She would bring her notebook, too.  She
could not bear to think she might leave it behind.

     For the second night in a row she sat quietly and listened to the
infrequent sounds of the street.  She had forgotten what it was like
to be in a place which was so peacebful.  Except for the few cars that
passed, she heard nothing.  She hadn't expected to hear or see cars
anywhere, but apparently people had them.

     She contented herself with counting the stars that were visible
through the window and watching their movement across the narrow band
of sky.  Still she listened for the sounds of people outside who
stayed awake at night because at her old place it was safer to sleep
during the day.

     Sometimes she felt like she missed most of the people and their
goings-on because she slept at night.  There were so many of them.
Sometimes they got into the building, too.  They had gone so far as to
try opening her locked door a few times.  On those nights she stayed
awake and watchful, and only slept near daybreak when the intruder had
left.  It seemed much safer to wander around in this neighborhood than
it was to risk the railroad tracks and freight yards near her old
place.  But the unfamiliarity of the neighborhood made her
uncomfortable.  Things had changed too much, or maybe it was her.
Maybe after retrieving some of her belongings, she would explore the
neighborhood on the other side of the abandoned freeway.  She would be
able to do her shopping much more easily over there and wanted to look
in at that old bookstore.  It looked like an interesting place.  The
old man who had been sitting there yesterday seemed friendly enough,
even though he was in a bad mood.

     Jeanine was certain she would be able to start back to the squat
for some things as soon as she could make her way without difficulty
to the railroad tracks.  But Timothy thought the night would never
end.  He listened to the sounds of footsteps passing by unsteadily on
the crushed rocks and ties above him.  He crouched in the weeds and
held perfectly still until they were gone.  The dried stalks of the
weeds made rattling noises when he moved.  Then he sat still and
shivered quietly until he was almost warm again.  He didn't hear
anyone talking up there on the tracks, only the footsteps of people
passing by quickly, one by one.  They were simply walking along the
railroad tracks at night, alone.  He did not know if his father was
looking for him but hoped so, because he did not want to become one of
those persons himself.  His father might be back at the factory, lying
awake, and wondering were he was.

     Timothy did not want to give his father up for dead and hoped
that the old man would feel the same way about him.  He was a
different person after the funeral.  He said less and less, and
becaume moody and sometimes mean.  It seemed like there was nothing
that he wanted to say.  When they left the house, he didn't speak for
two whole days, except when he had to.  Timothy followed him around
quietly and tried not to bother him.

	His father had been worried, but knew he couldn't do anything
about their situation.  He had the same feeling as when Timothy's
mother had cancer.  He watched her die slowly.  She lost weight.  Her
cheeks became hollow, and her eyes were large and dark, and more
beautiful than ever, it seemed to him.  All he could do was look at
them, knowing that their light would be gone forever.

	A month or two before her death Mary lay on the sofa and
stared at the television.  She was wrapped in a blanket.  Bill pulled
up a chair and was sitting beside her.  There was a soap opera on, and
he didn't pay any attention.  He didn't normally watch soap operas.
The problems of the actors and actresses were not his problems.
Besides, he was watching Mary.  She hushed him and pointed to the
television.  The actors were talking about one of the hired help who
had been killed.  Involuntarily, his hand sought and found Mary's hand
on top of the blanket.

	``Just give him the funeral,'' Bill said, glancing at the
television.

	``They won't.  They need the money for a business deal.''

	``You sure you're comfortable?''

	``Talk about someone besides me for a while.''  She pulled the
blankets more tightly around her and turned again toward the set.
``I'm as comfortable as I can get.''

	``There isn't anything I can do for you?''  

	She drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes for a moment.
``Don't ask me any questions.  Of course it hurts.  But I can't think
of anything you can get for me, unless it's something stronger than
Percodan.''

	He slammed his hand against the arm of the chair.  ``What, I'm
not getting you flowers?  I'm not up to whatever you need.''

	His outburst made her smile.  ``I didn't mean it.  You did
everything you could.  I'll have a lot of flowers soon enough.
Where's Timmy?''

 	``He's at school.  You know that.''

	``I want to see him now.  Jesus, I miss him already.  We've
never had enough time together.  I want to see as much of him as
possible now.''  She looked more discouraged than he had ever seen
her.  ``Just let me know that everything's all right with him. Make
sure that everything is all right with him.  That's all I'm asking.''

	``But I want to do a lot more than that,'' he said.

	``For God's sake, Bill, just do what you can.''

	He returned to the factory the next morning, he saw the men
lounging in the doorway, but not his son.  He walked up a little
closer to them.  ``Hey, did you see a kid around here?''  

	``Sure, he was here last night, but he ran off.''

	``Damn.  I told him to stay.''

	``I guess I scared him.''

	Bill didn't answer and started back across the parking lot.

	Mary would have been disappointed with him in no uncertain
terms.  He couldn't even look after the boy.  But he accepted
Timothy's disappearance the way he had accepted everything else.  At
least Mary wasn't here to disapprove.  And how she would have.  He
couldn't have explained to her that life had its own way of taking
control.  She fought for her life from the very moment she started to
die.

     He pulled the blanket more tightly around him.  He wasn't afraid,
or even worried, about how dangerous it was at night.  There were
plenty of places to sleep in the old complex of buildings.  He
wondered why he and his son had not stayed in the house.  It didn't
seem worth the trouble after Mary died.  They didn't bother cleaning,
and the house was cold and dirty.  Leaving was easy.  He and Timothy
took a walk and didn't return.  They left all the problems behind
them.  Just like that.  They could return just as easily.  But he
worried that he would not be able to find Timothy in the meantime.
The boy still had some fight in him.

	He had probably run away when he saw the people who wanted to
camp in the doorway.  It was a good spot.  William couldn't blame them
for wanting to stay there.  They were like the shadow people, the
blacks who lived on the street.  There was the old lady around here
who had called them that.  They appeared and disappeared like ghosts.
She said the same thing.  She acted like they did.  But so did he, and
everyone else he could think of.  And why shouldn't they, he asked
himself.  This wasn't a life to be proud of.  He didn't know anything
about her.  But, hell, it was dangerous for a woman to be alone on the
streets.  ``Why should I make friends in this kind of neighborhood?''
she had asked one day at the store.  She was right.  There wasn't any
reason for it.  William knew he would probably have to sleep somewhere
else tomorrow night.  He couldn't stay awake forever.  He didn't want
to move too far, though, because then Timothy would never be able to
find him.  Like the attitude of the shadow people, it was one more
mystery he could ponder as the night wore on.

     All that Jeanine had ever seen of the shadow people was their
forms as they slipped around corners of abandoned houses and
buildings, where they disappeared through the broken windows and
gaping doorways.  She had never wondered what they were doing.  They
would never have let her find out.  They took liberties only so far as
to keep them from stepping on other people's toes.  They wanted the
same freedom she had, but there seemed to be something in their spirit
that disposed them toward resignation and humility.  They were waiting
for another time, a better one.  But she wondered if they were ready
to seize the opportunity when it occurred.  All she saw that they had
were storefront churches, vacant lots where people camped in cardboard
boxes and shacks made of crates, and burned-out buildings where they
hid from people like her.  There were still a few stores that sold
groceries and liquor, where it was safe for her to go, too.

          Then trouble's gonna lose me--leave my worries behind.
	  And I'll stand up proudly in true peace of mind.
	  'Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound.

					-Way Over Yonder, by Carole King.

	She had heard a choir sing that when she passed a storefront
church one Sunday afternoon.  White folk's music, at that.  They sang
like they were celebrating, even more when they sang the old stuff,
like ``Coming up on the rough side.''  She found the service
senseless.  It seemed to be a kind of denial.  Everybody who set foot
inside one of these churches didn't want to see the ruin that was just
outside his door.  Folks didn't even realize the cheapness of their
little churches.  What else was there to do on a Sunday afternoon?
The people inside were living in their own time, and she had to admit
the storefront churches were convenient.

	Homer's store on the next block was common ground.  Folks
stepped aside for Jeanine when she entered.  They were black and she
was white.  Like them, she accepted it because that was the way things
were.  Nobody there would ever have thought of comparing themself to
her.  She kept her distance.  She never believed she was superior to
any of them, and she knew that most of them didn't.  Only a fool would
worry about something she couldn't change.  It was simply a convenient
role.  Everybody got along fine because they didn't take it too
seriously.  Jeanine was certainly no better off than Homer, who was
always behind the aged, mechanical cash register.  She must have been
easy to remember, because she herself could not remember any other
white faces in the store.  Homer seemed to know all of his customers
by heart and didn't mind being friendly with them, regardless of their
skin color.  He said, ``It's nice to see a paying customer once in a
while.''  He smiled significantly at the other customers.  But hell,
he knew everyone in the neighborhood, including her, and he had no
reason to be afraid of anyone.

	``I don't ever want to be afraid of nothing,'' Homer
proclaimed to everyone within hearing.  ``I've got nothing to hide.''

	He was glad he was able to make a living at honest work.
There weren't a lot of groceries in the store, not compared to the
stuff he had seen in some stores even a few years ago.  Getting fresh
inventory was a lot harder than it used to be.  But he managed to keep
on hand what people needed, with the exceptions of liquor and crack.
He wanted to keep the store on the up-and-up.  The strongest
stimulants he carried were tobacco and coffee.  The rusted cigarette
rack above the counter had long since lost its advertising, but the
people who came in usually got the cheapest cigarettes he sold.
Sometimes even they cost too much money.  Then, Homer sold single
cigarettes.  Many of his customers came in, slunk around the store
looking for what they could afford, and left.  They were simply there
to kill time.  It was tough to be in business here.  Homer had to
maximize every opportunity for a sale.  He had no reason to be ashamed
of anything, and no reason to hide.

     Which was more than many of his customers could say.

	He thought of all the times he had driven over to the district
police station not far from the old stadium and had gotten someone out
of the slam.  It was usually someone's kid who had gotten into a gang
fight, or someone like Leonard, who passed out in the middle of the
street in his own vomit after he had drunk too much.  Homer had gotten
Leonard out a few times, after convincing the police to let him sign
for his friend.  He stuffed the bond slip in his pocket and pushed
Leonard from behind and tugged at his ragged, filthy coat sleeves
until they were outside.  Then Homer cursed him and got him into his
old car and drove him back to the store.

	He had to be careful, because he didn't want to be stuck
dealing with Robocop.  But most of the police were as embarrassed as
Homer, because Leonard was a brother.  Homer thought it was a
backhanded compliment that the police didn't come very often into his
store.  There were some things that neither he nor the law should see.
He avoided the police as much as possible.

	One time Leonard appeared at the door of the drunk tank with
his eyes blackened.  His lips were swollen and split, and blood
stained the front of his dirty white shirt.

	``What happened to you?'' Homer asked.  One of the police
behind a counter averted his eyes, embarrassed.

	Leonard didn't even pause to thank Homer.  He took Homer by
the sleeve of his coat and tugged him toward the door.  Homer grabbed
his paperwork from the desk and followed.  ``This brother got upset at
me,'' Leonard explained to Homer.

	``Why?  What did you do?''

	``I ain't do nothing.  I was just telling him that my man
gonna come with a car and get me, and he got all upset 'cause he
thought I was lying.''

	``And you never saw him before?'' 

	``A stranger to me, brother.''

	``You might as well be lying.''  Homer glanced back at the
police, who seemed not to notice.  ``Putting my name all around.''  To
have a car made him one of the wealthiest people around.  The police,
if they knew, were sure to be watching him now to see if he had drugs
or women.  Get him for not having insurance, whatever.  He didn't have
anything to do with those things, but he didn't want the police
watching him anyway, because that might give people the wrong idea,
thinking he was sucking up to the law.

	``I'm gonna leave you with the Reverend and the ladies if you
do that again,'' he shouted at Leonard as soon as they were on the
sidewalk.  ``At least they'll know enough to give you a shower.  Look,
you can't even hold nothing down!  They'll fatten you up with so much
religion that you won't be able to call your pecker your own.''

     He watched Leonard--it was only Leonard again--come through the
door.  He was part of the neighborhood like the buildings were.  Over
the years they had built an uneasy relationship as Homer acquired his
wealth and Leonard stayed the same.

     ``What's doin' Homer?''

     ``Same-old, same-old,'' Homer eyed him suspiciously.  Like almost
everyone else, Leonard had tried to steal things from the store a few
times during their acquaintance.

     Homer couldn't prosecute him, or folks like him.  Leonard was
only Leonard, he had no last name.  Not any more, at least.  The law
didn't know how to deal with that.  To bother the police earned Homer
more enmity both from them and from his customers, than the loss of a
few cans of vegetables.  The best he could do was try to shame the
criminal into staying away from the store for a week or two.  That was
usually enough.  Homer didn't bear his customers any lasting grudge.
He simply looked upon the transgressions as another example of human
frailty and with a weary sigh, he allowed the criminal to come back
into the store after his sentence was up.

     Leonard obviously wasn't going to take anything.  He kept his
coat buttoned and his hands in his pockets.  His confident manner also
suggested that he had money on him.  Why shouldn't he take his time?
The customer was always right.  Leonard had probably spent the entire
night warming his hands over a fire, looking out for anyone who was
even remotely hostile.  That way no one would figure out that he had
any money.  Homer had been there.  People in general were mostly nice
to the homeless folks.  Homer himself was better off now, but like a
lot of people he was only a month's rent away from being on the
street.  Sometimes it was less than a month.  A lot of people were in
that situation.

     Leonard took a can of beans from the shelf.  That and a loaf 
of bread.  He had only money for the bread.  But he took the items 
to the counter and looked into Homer's face, pushing the can 
toward him.  ``How about putting this onto a tab?''

     ``I never let you have no tab,'' Homer said. ``You can't repay 
it.''

	``How do you know unless you let me prove it to you?  I'm 
being honest.''

	``Right.''  Leonard would just take what he wanted another
time, anyway.  ``You have a point there.  Just don't steal anything.''

	``I'm tryin' to see how long I can live on two dollars.  I'm
saving.  This helps a lot.''

	``You have the money?''

	``You expect me to show it to you?  Like I said, I'm saving
it.''

	``Sure.''  Homer rang up the bread and then made out an I.O.U.
for the beans.  Half of his I.O.U.s were never repaid.  It was better
to give credit than turn a blind eye toward being ripped off.
Anything that helped him avoid problems was an axiom of business to
Homer.

     ``Thanks, man."  Leonard put the can in his pocket and tucked the
bread under his arm.  "Lord, this definitely helps.  You don't know
how hungry I was.''

	``Sure.''  Homer had seen people on the edge of starvation
before.  Leonard didn't have that desperate gleam in his eyes or the
sunken look in his cheeks.  Homer wondered where he had gotten
something to eat before he came in.  But Leonard was a regular
customer and an old friend, and he wouldn't have told Homer even if he
had asked.


			      Chapter 8


	The night seemed endless.  Timothy hid in the bushes below the
railroad tracks, concealed by the darkness and sheltered from the wind
by the lee of the tracks.  He was nervous and kept still.  But he had
only his coat to keep warm and could not have fallen asleep again if
he had wanted to.  He shifted and stamped his feet as much as he could
without making any noise.  The prickly leaves of the weeds crackled
and sounded like the autumn wind if he moved.

	Finally the sky in the east turned light.  His clothing was
damp and cold.  He climbed uncomfortably to the top of the bank and
looked up and down the tracks.

     There wasn't enough light from the dim, gray sky to see very far.
He could only see a little bit of the tracks ahead and some old
buildings nearby.  He hadn't expected to find anybody else walking
along the tracks this early in the morning, anyway.  He was still too
tense and worried from the adventure of the night to be hungry.  He
was not at all concerned about being out so early.  

	He remembered to look for scraps of metal they could take.  He
and his father had been over this part of the tracks more times than
he could remember.  But he was worried about him.  Maybe he would find
him here again.  Not now, so early in the morning, but maybe later his
father would be here.  The railroad embankment was their usual place
to search for useful pieces of junk.  Sometimes they spent all day
searching back and forth over the same section of the tracks looking
for old metal which they could haul away to the junkyard for money.
Without thinking very much about what he was doing, he started walking
between the rails until he was even with the old factory.

	It became lighter.  The sky turned from gray to blue, and the
air felt warmer, even though the breeze had freshened a little.  The
day was going to be nice.  The boy walked beside the tracks until he
was even with the complex of deserted buildings.  There was a gravel
road running beside the rails which was a lot easier to walk on than
the rocks between the railroad ties.  He watched closely for anyone
who might be coming.  He didn't want to see those people again.  He
had planned to cross the parking lot to see if his father was sleeping
in the entryway, but that stranger might be there, too.  His father
probably had not come back yet.  But if he had, he would be angry to be
awakened.

	He decided to sneak up on them just far enough to see whether
his father was there.

     He walked back down the tracks, on the edge of the opposite
embankment.  Several times he crossed the tracks and glanced down the
other bank for the place where he had spent the night.  But after he
had gone on for a while he decided that he had missed it.  He thought
about going back to look for the place again.  By now, though, he was
beginning to feel hungry.

     He sat down on one of the rails, but not before looking up and
down the tracks again to see if a train was coming.

     ``One of those can rip a semi in half,'' the old man had said.
They had been walking beside the tracks one day, not long ago, when
the weather was warm.

	``Just think of what it can do to you.''

	``What's a semi?'' Timothy asked.

	``It's a big truck.''

	``Like the ones at the 'yard?''

	``Something like that.''  He looked distracted.  Timothy
didn't ask any more questions. There had been no trains in sight.
Timothy wondered why he even bothered to think about trains.  Under
his hand, there was a coating of old rust on the steel rail which
meant that hardly any trains passed by here.  He lay sideways and
pressed his ear against the cold metal anyway.  He could hear a train
by listening to the rails long before it was visible or he heard the
sound of the engine.  He couldn't tell whether any were coming or not.
Maybe he wasn't listening for the right thing.  Maybe he needed
practice, so he could become like one of the Indian scouts who had
showed the settlers how to listen to the ground for buffalo.  Probably
he didn't hear anything because trains never passed this way anyway

     He didn't care much for cowboys and Indians.  He liked going
through the factory buildings a lot better.  He had never seen the
mountains, which were always in the background of the fields and
deserts on the television where the cowboys and Indians hunted.  That
wasn't like working.  There weren't any old buildings around the
fields like there were around here.  Maybe out West all of the
buildings had disappeared.  When the cowboys and Indians hunted they
killed animals.  Sometimes they killed people.  He had seen dead
animals in the street but they weren't very big.  He didn't see why
the people on TV should go to so much trouble if they could just run
over the animals with cars.  They could probably kill bigger animals
if they had a truck.  Still, he thought that listening to the rails
would be a neat trick to learn.

     He could tell it was going to be a warm day because the sunlight
brightened above the layer of distant haze.  He walked further north
and passed the factory.  Then he came back down the tracks a little
until he could see the entry.  Several men lounged in the doorway.  He
couldn't see if his father was one of them, but he doubted it.  He sat
on the bank so they wouldn't see his shadow over the tracks and
watched them for a few minutes.  None of them moved, as nearly as he
could tell from this distance.  He didn't think that his father was
going to be there anyway.  ``You stay away from those people,'' the old
man had told him.  ``They're not interested in your good.  You don't
know what they've been up to.''

     ``But you know about them,'' he answered back.  ``You talk to
them all of the time.''

	They had been sitting on the steps of some building.  It
wasn't as nice as the factory.  All of the windows were missing and
part of the roof had fallen in.  The place had been theirs for a week
and they felt settled there.  The old man raised his arm as if to
strike him, then dropped it.  Sometimes he wished the kid would go
away.  He looked down into his lap.  ``You mind that.  Sometimes I
can't even tell.''

     ``I don't get it.''

     The old man looked annoyed.  Then he took a deep breath.  ``The
only thing that makes a difference between me and them is that I'm
your father and they're not.  I'm not any better or any worse than
they are.  And neither are you.  But you work with me.  You stay clear
of them until you're old enough and big enough to deal with them.  Do
you hear me?''

	His father was right.  It was better to stay away and be
hidden and safe.  But if he got into trouble, no one would know.  He
wanted his father to be able to find him.  Hell, he wanted to be like
his father, to be strong and proud and alone.  And brave and free,
like the soldiers on television, to be able to face the world however
it wanted to be faced.  He thought of their sleeping in the entryway,
and how different that was from sleeping in their own house when he
was little and wondering what was outside.  His mother had never liked
what was outside.  It was too strange.  But then she had died and both
he and his father had left home.  Now they were living outside, and
the world didn't seem like such a bad place after all.  It was just
different.

	He turned away from the dawn haze which brightened the factory
shadows and started walking up the tracks again.  He knew how to trim
the grains of wheat from the wheat stalks and chew on them.  He
figured it would be a matter of time until he became hungry enough
that he really wanted to eat.

	Jeanine awoke with the gray light coming dimly through the
bedroom window.  She thought about the day ahead.  Last night she had
decided to return to her old place and pick up some of her things.  By
the cool light of dawn, she was certain she would do that.  Now that
she had returned to the old house, she suddenly felt rootless again.
Nothing about the empty rooms seemed vaguely familiar.  She had her
clothing, and that was all.  Maybe the years of her childhood were too
far back to seem entirely real.  She didn't deny that they had been
important to her, but the memories of the house didn't give her the
sense of her past which she wanted.

	She dressed quickly and went downstairs.  The morning sunlight
grew brighter in the kitchen.  She leaned against a countertop and
nibbled on an apple.  The window was bare of curtains or any
ornaments.  Through the window, the yard outside looked deserted and
lonely.  She had once thought the tree in the yard next to the garage
was an apple tree, because of a story she had heard... where?  From
her mother?  In school?  She had heard it somewhere and she remembered
it vaguely, about a girl who had tried to get an apple tree to grow in
a field, and finally it did.  Even with the hindsight of years, she
had never felt so unsettled.  There was no continuity to her past.
There was her childhood, but the gap between it and the present was
unbridgeable.

	``Not ever,'' Donald had exclaimed once to her claim that he
would be married someday.

	She was dismayed by his fit of anger and ran back toward the
house.  She wasn't really frightened.  But he got so _mad._  She
was only teasing him.  

	``You're a jerk,'' she yelled over her shoulder.

	``I would never want to turn out like _you,_'' he shouted
back.

	He was about 13 at the time, and she had always put his
meanness down to adolescence.  He would never have the attitude that
her old boyfriend had.  As recently as five years ago, she could have
had a baby.  Now that chance was gone.  It was like growing an apple.

	She hadn't thought very much about Donald in the intervening
years since he had left home.  The only time she remembered talking
about him during that period, she half-jokingly compared him with the
guy she was going with.  "I don't suppose I'd like my brother very
much if I saw him now."

	``There's something about the term, `boyfriend,' which bothers
me,'' her friend said.  ``It makes us sound like we're still in high
school.''

	``My brother was never the domestic type.  But I am.  I suppose
I take after my mother that way.  I suppose he got some girl knocked
up, and that's why we never saw him again.''

	Her friend sounded bored with the whole conversation.  ``I
sure hated turning out like my parents.''

	``I mean,'' Jeanine said, ``her attitude was, 'put up or get
out.'  My brother Donald got out and never came back.  And the thing
that upset me most was, he always seemed so damned happy about it.
Even after we lost touch, I never figured that out.  But I always
thought my mother was cold and mean to my father.  Even if it wasn't
true.  But I thought she was cold to him.  Worse, he stood for it.
That's what drove me away from both of them.''

	Her possessions were a poor substitute for having children.
Jeanine knew she should never have chosen a mate based on what her
parents might have liked.  All of the powder-room talk in the world
with her girlfriends wouldn't have changed that.  It had been a
mistake to take up with a man who was cold to her and had always put
his wishes in front of hers.  He had done that to the point of
ignoring her desires completely.  But brooding over it was no help
now.  She might regret it, but certainly she couldn't do anything
about it.  She had real business to attend to.  All of her
possessions, including her books and magazines, were still at the old
place.

	The day was going to be clear and warm.  She left the house
and walked unhurried through the quiet streets until she reached the
railroad tracks.  She climbed the bank and paused to rest.  She was
warm already beneath her clothing, and the chill air hurt her lungs
and made her cheeks sting a little.  The burned-out houses on the
other side of the tracks were quiet.  The trees and bushes had
overgrown the railway.  The tracks had become like a small forest
which cut a path across the city.  She opened her coat and kept on
walking.  It was discouraging to think that she had to wear all of her
clothes until she returned home.  She considered shedding one or
perhaps both of her sweaters but didn't want to risk somebody else
taking them before she returned.  It was too hard to find new clothes.
She had long wished for a closet where she could put her things.  A
permanent closet, not some hiding place where she couldn't be sure
that what she had left would be there when she returned.  She wanted
dresses and shoes and handbags again.  She decided that, for now at
least, she had to put up with being warm.  In a week, maybe, she would
be able to settle in.  She still did not feel like she could afford to
be too comfortable or let down her guard.  Besides, she was hungry
again.

	She also had the feeling that she had forgotten something at
the house, but she couldn't imagine what that might be.

	She walked on a little faster, telling herself that she could
pick up something to eat on her way to the squat.  About halfway
there, she saw a small figure approaching.  It was the boy whom she
had seen a week or two ago.

	He was perhaps five paces from her.  ``Good morning,'' she said.

	He stopped walking.  ``Hello.''  

	She thought for a moment and said tentatively, ``It's awfully
early for you to be out.''  

	He didn't answer, but neither did he try to walk away from
her.  She hunched down so that she was at eye level with him.  ``I
forgot your name.''  

	``Timothy.''

	``That's right,'' she said.  ``It seems so long ago that we saw
each other.''

	``I forgot, too.''

	``That's all right.  Are you hungry?  Where's your father?''

	``I don't know.''

	She looked at him with concern.  ``Why don't you sit down?'' She
sat down on one of the rails.  The metal was cold through her
clothing, but she relaxed and patted the spot next to her.  He sat
down and stared at the cinders in front of his sneakers.  This gave
her a chance to examine him.  He didn't look starved.  There was a
healthy color in his face.  But he looked tired and a little hungry.

	``Where is your father?'' she persisted.  

	Timothy was silent for a moment.  ``I don't know.''

	``Did he leave you?''  

	He shrugged.  ``I guess so.  He left.''

	``What have you been doing?  When was the last time you saw
him?''  

	Timothy compressed his lips and stared at the ground in front
of him.  Jeanine didn't want to pry any further.  He was alone but not
too frightened yet.  She didn't want to alienate him by pressing too
much.

	``I was going to get some breakfast,'' she said.  ``Why don't you
come along with me?''  

	``Sure.'' He shrugged again.  She stood up and he did the same.
``It isn't far,'' she said.  ``I have a place, but I'm moving.  Would you
like to help me?''  

	She waited for an answer and didn't receive one.  ``Can you
carry a lot?'' she persisted. ``I'll give you breakfast if you help me
move.''  

	``Sure. I guess so.''

	``Then maybe we'll see about finding your father.''

	``Can we do that first?''

	``Do you know where he is?''

	``No.''

	``It's very dangerous.  We have to be careful.  We don't want
to run into any bad people.''

	``I did that last night.''

	``What happened?''

	``Nothing.''  He paused as if remembering something.  ``But it was
dark.  I didn't see very much.  So I ran.''  

	She couldn't help asking,  ``Someone chased you off?  You didn't
see what they looked like?''  

	``No, I got away.''

	``I see,'' she said. She wanted to enquire further.  ``Did you
see your father since then?''  

	``No.''  

	``Why not?''  

	``He'd get mad at me.''

	``Why do you think that?''

	``Because --''

	``Because what?''

	``Because he always gets mad when something happens.''

	``Something bad?''

	``Anything.  He gets mad at anything.''

	``Really?  Why is that?''

	``I don't know.  We have troubles.''

	"Was he like that when you were at home?  Didn't you say that
you were with your mother?"  

	"I don't think I said that."  

	She sighed and stood up.  She was too frustrated already to
try prying any more details out of him.  He didn't look distressed,
but he obviously had something on his mind.  

	"Why don't you come with me?"  she asked.  He rose also, and
they started walking in the direction of her old place.  

	They went on silently for perhaps ten minutes.  Jeanine
scanned the embankment for the path which led to her apartment.
Timothy walked on the railroad ties and sometimes balanced on one of
the rails, holding his arms out to keep from falling.  

	"You look like you can carry a lot," she said.  

	"No, not very much." 

	It was well after daybreak when they reached the store.  Homer
looked curiously at the two of them when they walked in.  He didn't
comment.  All he knew about the woman was that she didn't spend much
money and that she had never tried stealing anything.  She didn't ask
for credit, either.  Mostly, she got her things while she suspiciously
watched whoever happened to be in the store.  She probably had a place
around here.  It would be a good idea for ner not to attract
attention.

	He had seen the boy with a guy who might be his father.  The
guy had a worrisome, desperate look, like he had too many cares in the
world.  Homer had once caught him trying to steal a can of peaches.
But he didn't want to visit the sins of the father on the son.  He
wouldn't even bring it up when the boy was so young.  It was all Homer
could do to look at him with grave, worrisome pity in his eyes.  He
supposed that the guy had been taking the canned fruit for the boy.
Well, there was nothing wrong with that.  Maybe the woman had taken up
with the kid's old man.  He had seen stranger things.

	Jeanine got half a dozen eggs and some bread.  There should be
enough margarine at the old place to cook the eggs and butter the
bread.  The groceries would be enough for her and the boy, she hoped.
It had been a long time since she had cooked for anyone.  He followed
her closely, guarded and shyly unobtrusive, almost like a shadow.  She
glanced back at him and he looked like he wanted to disappear.  She
smiled kindly but said nothing.  She, too, was unaccustomed to being
with other people.

	When they reached the room she made a quick inventory of the
things she wanted to take immediately.

	"Sit down," she told the boy.  "I'm going to cook some food."

	Timothy settled on the couch without a word and watched her
closely.  She set about to prepare breakfast.  She heated the stove
and sat at the table while it warmed up.  The boy didn't make a sound.
She was content to let him rest.  She glanced back at him and was
amused to see that he had fallen asleep.  She let the stove heat
slowly.  He could certainly sleep a little.  In spite of herself, she
was impressed that he had spent the night in the cold and open with so
little difficulty.

	He looked comfortable now.  He leaned against the arm of the
sofa.  His head rested against the back.  His mouth was open slightly.
She thought about waking him up to make him lie down.  But he had
looked so tired before, that she decided to let him sleep.

	He woke to the smell of frying eggs and watched her quietly.
She put some bread on the oven racks for toast and set two plates on
the table.

	"I have some tea," she said to him.  "Or would you like
water?"  

	"I don't like tea," he answered.  "Water's okay, I guess."

	"How did you get so smart for someone your age?" She smiled.
"I wasn't half so polite when I was young."  

	"I don't know."  

	"It's amazing, whatever happened," she said.  "Come on over
here and sit down with me."  

	"I'm not very hungry right now."  

	"After I've made this?  It's part of the bargain.  You don't
have to eat.  Shoot, I'll eat it, but you'll be hungry later."

	"I suppose."  He got up from the sofa and came over to the
table.  "Do you like this place?"  

	"Yes."  

	"I'm getting a better one."  

	"Can I have this one?"  

	She laughed.  "No, I don't think so.  But the other place is
much better.  That's where we're going."  

	"Where you're taking your stuff."  

	"That's right.  I think you'll like it."  

	"Maybe I should be looking for my dad.  He said he would come
back to the factory."  

	"Why didn't you tell me before?  It wasn't that far to go
back."  

	He shrugged.  "You didn't ask." He picked up a fork and began
to eat the eggs.  

	"Take your time," Jeanine said.  "We've got all day."  

	When they were outside Timothy carried the books, magazines,
and notebooks.  There weren't many, but the bag was still heavy.  

	"Set it down if you get tired," she told him.

	"No, I'm not tired yet."  She guessed that he was excited
about seeing his father.  He became more active as they neared the
factory.  When they were even with it he turned and asked her, "Can we
go and take a look for my Dad now?"  

	"Sure," she said.  "Let's take these things with us."  

	She was the first to notice the huddled, wrapped shape in the
entryway.  Timothy saw the sleeping man, too.  "I'll bet that's him!"
He began to hurry forward.  She did her best to keep up with him.

	"Dad!"  Timothy shouted when he reached the steps.  He dropped
the bag and ran up to the figure and sat down next to him.  "I'm
back!"  

	She reached the steps and the figure stirred and turned over.
"What do you want, kid?"  

	Timothy cried out in dismay, then ran back to Jeanine.  The
man, angered and probably still drunk, stood up and rushed a few steps
toward them, like he was shooing away a flock of birds.  She had the
immediate impression someone who had dressed up to look like a drunk,
as if it were Halloween.  She knew somewhere in her mind that he was
acting frightening.  But there hadn't many times in her life that
Jeanine had felt so alarmed.  Perhaps her panic was a reflection of
the boy's.  

	She turned.  With a glance over her shoulder, she started to
move away.  "Let's go."  

	The man started toward them.  

	Jeanine glanced back at him again.  "It's a mistake.  We were
looking for somebody else."  

	"There ain't nobody here but me," he rasped.  He turned back
toward the entrance where he had dropped his ragged blanket, as if she
and the boy weren't worth the bother.  She had no idea what she would
do if she or the boy were attacked.  Nothing, probably.  She had never
been very competent in violent situations.  But her words seemed to
placate the man.  He stopped following them.  Jeanine stepped back a
few paces and waited until he was wrapped again in his blankets.
Timothy had disappeared.  She hoped desperately that he had not gone
very far.  She quickly scanned the parking lot for him and hurried
toward the railroad tracks.  It was there that she found him, crouched
in some bushes where he could see her coming.

	"I thought I had lost you," she said.  

	"I'm right here."  He was on the verge of tears.  "But where
is he?"  

	"Back where he was, I think.  Maybe he was scared off, too.
We can look for your father some other time."  

	"I want to see him _now._"

	They looked across the parking lot toward the buildings.  The
entry and the steps were not visible from the boy's hiding place.
Jeanine hoped that whoever the man was, he had fallen asleep again in
the shadow of the entryway, and that he had not followed her without
them noticing him.

	Timothy didn't say another word.  While Jeanine gazed across
the parking lot to the factory, the boy climbed the embankment to the
tracks and went on ahead.

	Jeanine wondered what might have happened to his father.  She
climbed the embankment also and caught up with him.  "You can't find
my house without me to show you the way," she said.  He seemed to
ignore her but slowed down so she could keep pace with him.  She was
preoccupied by watching him and didn't realize that she had left the
bag with her notebooks and old magazines behind at the factory until
they were nearly home.


			      Chapter 9


	Timothy waited on the back steps of the abandoned house while
Jeanine climbed through a basement window.  Once inside, she took a
quick look through the downstairs rooms.  She went through the kitchen
and opened the back door.  Timothy stepped inside.  The kitchen was
gray with dust which lay thickly on the counters and floors.  Plaster
lay crumbled on the floor where it had chipped from the walls.

	The boy blinked a few times, in the dimness and murke, away
from the bright sunlight in the back yard.

	Being in the quiet calmed her down.  Jeanine said, ``I'm
taking a nap.  You can do whatever you like.''  She was tired and
irritable and wasn't sure she wanted to fall asleep.  She was
miserable over the loss of the bag with the books and the work.  The
sense of helplessness had made her short-tempered.

	Timothy stood in one corner of the kitchen.  "I'm sorry he
chased us.''

	The boy misunderstood the source of her anger.  She was less
alarmed now that the shock of the attack had worn off, but she was
angry now that she had time to reflect on it.

	``You don't have the slightest idea what I'm upset about.''

	He retreated to the corner.  ``I'm sorry.''

	``I won't hit you.''

	``It's my fault.''

	``It's as much my fault as it is yours.  We both should have
been more careful.''

	``I don't want to go back there.''

	She softened.  ``It was a long morning.  Why don't you go take
a nap?''

	``I'm not that tired.''

	``Well, I am.  I'm going upstairs to sleep.  Can you keep
yourself busy for a while?''

	``Can we go look for my father again?''

	``Not if you don't know where he is.  It'll be hard to find
him.  It's very dangerous, even if he is looking for you.

	``I'm sure he is looking for you,'' she added hastily.

	``I wish I knew where he was.''

	``Maybe I can talk to some people.  Then if he asks, he'll
know where you are and that you're all right.''

	``I want to see him now.''  There was no tone of demand in the
boy's voice, only resignation which bordered on despair.

	``It's only to let him know that you're safe.  Then he can
come and get you if he wants.''

     	``How long will it take?''

	``Two or three days, I guess.''

	``That's too long.''  The boy slumped to the floor and sat
with his back against the wall.  "I want to see him _now._  He might go
away."

	Jeanine was at a loss.  ``I need to get need some sleep before
I do anything else, particularly something like that.  I'm tired right
now.''

	``All right,'' he said.  Again there was that resigned tone.

	Upstairs, she opened a window to let some cool air in.  She
settled on the floor, content that she had accomplished something
today.  This was in spite of Timothy's distress and the loss of the
bag.  The loss of the notebooks bothered her of course, but strangely,
she looked forward to starting them over again.

	She shifted slightly and felt the hard floor against her back.
Through the carpet it felt good against her bones.  Much better than
sleeping on cold, hard concrete.

	She awoke refreshed.  She waited until the warm fog had
cleared from her head and made her way leisurely to the bathroom and
splashed water on her face.  She felt more alert and went downstairs.
Timothy had slumped over sideways and was sleeping on the floor.  She
looked at the angle of the sun and decided to let him sleep for
another hour before going across the freeway to the grocery store.

     There was much to do.  She was mildly surprised that she had a
schedule to follow.  She glanced out back at the garage, and went
outside quietly so she didn't wake him, and crossed the back yard.
There was a lot of junk visible through the dusty windows.  The garage
was rotting away visibly.  It was on the point of being a shack.  In a
year or two the wind would probably be blowing through gaps in the
roof and the walls, if she didn't do something about it.  She did have
too much to do in the immediate future.  She could make out some old
furniture among the stacks of junk.

	The door was padlocked.  She had no tools to pry off the hasp,
and she didn't want to break any of the windowpanes.  She thought
about how it would be better to get into the garage without breaking
anything.  This was a problem which could wait for another day, but
she let it occupy her mind for a while.

	The kitchen door opened and then slammed shut.  Timothy came
down the back steps.  He looked tentatively at her from across the
yard, then sat down and waited.

	``You're not mad at me, are you?'' he asked when she had
crossed back to the house.

	``No, not really.  I'm annoyed at those things I lost.  They 
are important.''  She noticed his look of dismay.  ``But I can still 
replace them.  Not like a little boy like you.''

	He looked at her skeptically, waiting for her to say something
more.

	``The important thing is that you're safe," she said.
"Everything else I can get back.  Are you satisfied?''

	He followed her obediently to the store.  For a few blocks
they passed through the neighborhood.  She didn't look back, absorbed
in her own thoughts.

	Then she remembered him.  ``You can walk up here with me,''
she said over her shoulder.

	He looked like he was trying to think of something to say.  He
stayed behind her.  She constantly looked over her shoulder to make
sure he still followed her.

	The neighborhood ended at the edge of the freeway and she
showed him the path down to the roadway.  He went on ahead of her
without a word.  "Watch carefully," she called.  He waited at the
bottom of the embankment and she came down more slowly and took his
hand while they crossed the traffic lanes.

	``This is neat,'' he said finally, when they had crossed the
median barrier.  He hurried up the opposite embankment.  ``Wait,'' she
called after him.  ``I can't go that fast.''  He reached the top of
the embankment and turned and looked back at her, smiling.

	They had reached the shopping center and were about to enter
the grocery store.  Jeanine noticed that the man in front of the
bookstore across the street had a woman slightly younger than herself
sitting next to him, if she was able to judge her age from this
distance.  She thought immediately of replacing the reading material
she had lost.  She would need to recopy the notebooks anyway.  This
was exactly the excuse she needed to go over there.

	She paused for a moment on the sidewalk.  ``I'm going over
there.  But we need to get some groceries first.''

	The interior of the supermarket smelled of old food.  The
floors were grimy and stained.  Timothy stayed beside her and they
walked leisurely up and down the aisles.  She picked up bread,
sandwich meat, some rice, and peanut butter.  She took a can of soda
for him.

	``Tomorrow,'' she said, ``we're going out and make some money.
You're going to help me.''

	``What are we going to do?''

	``I don't know.  Maybe we'll find a few cans to recycle.  Or
I'll think of something else.''

	He looked at her thoughtfully.  ``My dad collected 
newspapers.''

	``We need help with that.  The newspapers get old and musty.
They're dirty.  And they're too heavy for me.  I'm only an old
woman.''

	They took the groceries to the old, sleepy looking black woman
who stood behind the cash register.  Jeanine put the few items in the
bag which she had brought with her.  She and the boy left the store.
She took him by the hand and they wandered across the street to the
bookstore.  The man and the woman were still sitting in two old
armchairs at the edge of the sidewalk.  They were surrounded by stacks
of newspapers and magazines.  The dark window of the shop served as a
backdrop.  The woman wrapped a strand of dark hair around her finger.
Her hair was beginning to show streaks of gray.  The man looked
rumpled, as if he didn't care about his appearance.  His gray hair was
just short of unkempt and was thinning slightly, which contributed to
her impression.

 	``What we need is a good strike.  When GM shut down, that was
something.  In ten or twenty years when we all die off, nobody is
going to remember it.''

	``Sam, get off your high horse.  You know there's no reason for
any of that.  My mother had a fit when my father came home with a
black eye and bloody knuckles.  It wasn't that pretty.''

	``I know.  Things like that always happen.  The only thing is 
that _nothing_ goes on around here any more.''

     Jeanine reached the sidewalk in front of them.  She wanted them
to keep on talking.  It sounded interesting.  Also she didn't want to
bother them.  They paused instead in their conversation and looked at
her. 

	 ``Can I bring the boy inside?'' she asked.

     	``Sure, no problem,'' Sam said.  ``Only make sure that you look
after him.''

     ``Of course.  Thank you.''

     Timothy looked worriedly at the dusty, dark front window lettered
with gold.  ``I want to stay out here.''

     ``He can do that, too,'' the woman said.  ``We'll make sure that 
he doesn't go anywhere.''

     ``Thank you very much.''  Jeanine stepped into the shop.  There
were old books on the shelves everywhere and piled on the floor in
every available corner.  It was like a decaying library.  There were
books on center tables and desks, and stacks of newspapers and
magazines on the floor, and in old, worn out racks and in corners.
The air smelled of old paper.  Jeanine wondered if she would have
enough money to buy something and decided that she didn't.  She
contented herself with browsing.  Near the bottom in the poetry
section she found a Yeats collection.  She paged through the book
idly.

	The trees are in their autumn beauty
	The woodland paths are dry.

     She read the poem through.  While she read she completely forgot
where she was.  She replaced the book on the shelf.  She could not
afford to relax and forget her surroundings.  It was simply too
dangerous.

	Her thoughts turned to the boy's father.  But she had no way
of knowing that he had been back to the factory to look for the boy,
and that he had gone back to their old house to look for him.

	The truth was, William needed the boy's help.  He hadn't
realized how much he depended on him.  He was frightened of sleeping
without someone around who was awake and keeping watch, and he had not
slept for three days.  He had not been able to find anything to eat,
and he didn't know why.  He had thought that he could get by on his
own.  He stumbled along the sidewalk wearily, knowing that he needed
to get somewhere safe.  The old house was the only place he could
think of, in spite of the fact that it was inhabited by her ghost.

	He woke up.  It took a few minutes to recognize the room.  He
was lying on the sofa.  ``Mary?  Timothy?'' he called.  Maybe there
was a chance the boy was around.  But no, of course he wasn't.  The
boy had run off, frightened away by someone.  Harmless kid, why should
anyone bother with him anyway?

	In the kitchen there was a bag of rice under the counters.
The grains cracked against his teeth when he tried to chew them, and
he had to let the rice lay in his mouth for a few minutes until it
softened.  He revived a little from the starchy taste, and searched
the cabinets for other things to eat.  He didn't know he was so
hungry.

	He wondered if there was any chance he could find the boy.  He
turned and looked over his shoulder, as if Mary herself stood there
behind him.  Except for himself, the kitchen was empty.  It wasn't
like he could raise the dead.  But he sure couldn't raise his son,
either.  William assumed that he was dead, too.  And why shouldn't he
be?  He and his mother must have wanted to be together.

	But no, that wasn't true.  Mary was dead.  The kid was out
there somewhere.  He found the sense of nothingness -- no life, no
nothing -- difficult to grasp.  If he couldn't imagine anything like
that, how in the world could he expect Timothy to understand it?

	He had tried to shelter the boy from the hardness of the
world.  But he had to face the truth, even if facing the truth was as
difficult as if the ghost of his wife herself stood in front of him.
He had failed.  His wife was dead, and the boy was missing, and
probably dead, too.  If he wasn't, he would be soon.  Life out there
was too rough for one person alone.

	There wasn't much left in the kitchen.  He took the bag of
rice and went into his old bedroom.  The bed was gone.  He didn't
remember what they had done with it.  It had been sold off, or taken.
In Timothy's room there were only the scraps of posters and pictures
he had drawn lying on the floor.  He sat down in the middle of these
and picked through them, flattening them out and trying to fit the
torn pieces together.  It surprised him how much of the work he
remembered.  Mary had insisted that the boy show his homework to his
father.

	``My father was a god to me,'' she had said once.  ``You
should be the most important thing in his life, but don't you think
you could be his friend once in a while, too?''

	She had said this decisively.  She didn't want to discuss it
further.  What had she been so unsure of?  It was unlike her, to be
wary of talking about the boy.

	He had tried to put her at ease.  He didn't feel like he was
the boy's father.  No, he was more like a friend, or maybe just an
acquaintance.  The boy seemed to get along just fine as long as he
minded his own business.  So he wasn't sure how badly he should go
looking for him now.

	He hadn't told Mary that.  She certainly would have disagreed.
``The boy needs his father.  He's too young to know what he needs.
You're not.''  William had to admit that he hadn't seen the wisdom in
this.  He was lacking somehow.  Mary would have insisted that Timothy
needed him in order to survive.  So he had to figure out some way to
find him.  But he could think of nothing.  Not unless the boy returned
to one of their usual places.  But William certainly wasn't up to
going anywhere right now.

	He fell asleep on the floor.  It might have been the next day
when he awoke, but he wasn't sure.  The only thing he remembered was
waking up briefly in the darkness to wrap himself in the poster paper
so he could stay warm.  He was hungry again and put a few more grains
of rice in his mouth.  The boy certainly was starving by now.
Thinking about that, he was cold.  He stood up, shivering, and went
into the kitchen.  In one of the drawers he found a book of matches.
He returned to the boy's room and struck a match to one of the papers.
He dropped it to the floor before the flames reached his fingers.  The
flames were about to die, and he touched another piece of paper to it,
and then another.  Soon the fire did not weaken.  He realized that the
floor underneath had started to burn.  He backed out of the room
before the flames filled it.  Then they were in the hallway.  Soon
they were in the living room, and he had to leave the house by the
front door.  He stood a little distance away from the house while it
burnt.  The black smoke billowed upward.  He stood just far away to be
safe, and to be warm himself.

	Jeanine wanted to read something which brought her back to her
past.  There were many books by people whom she had never heard of --
anyone who had ever thought they had a poem inside them.  She wanted
to take a long look through some of them, but she couldn't stay very
long, not with Timothy waiting outside.  Once she started back home,
she would need to be as alert as she had ever been.  It was a fine
pastime to browse through poetry in a bookstore, but nobody she might
encounter on the street would give a damn.  The cause of reading what
someone else had written would not be served if she was killed because
she was distracted.

     She was about to emerge from the store.  Sam and the woman 
were talking again.

	``How many children have I seen like that?'' the woman asked
rhetorically.  Jeanine was annoyed at their temerity to discuss the
boy in his presence, but she held herself still.  She wanted to hear
what they said.

	The woman continued, ``He's fortunate to have a mother.  Most
of these kids are killers by the time they're as old as he is.
They're animals, they're dirty little things, attacking anyone who
looks vulnerable.  At least the kids I've seen are.''

	``But what can you do, Gerry?'' Sam said.  ``They don't have
school any more, or even homes, or even parents.  If you want to take
a few of them in, go ahead and do it.  But you remember when they
destroyed the store a few blocks over?  And that was only a half dozen
or so with chains and pipes.  I saw them smash through the windows and
break apart everything inside in about five minutes flat.  There was
nothing left of that store.  _Nothing._  Imagine what they would do
if they had real weapons.''

	``Or if they were grown up.''

	``They probably won't make it that far.''  Sam lowered his
voice.  Jeanine strained to listen.  ``I never told you, I found the
body of one kid, over by the tracks.  I never saw anything so bloody.
All of his insides were hanging out, and his hands were missing.''

	Gerry sounded shocked.  ``You're making this up.''

	``I'm not.  I just never told you.''

	``Why in the hell not?'' she demanded.  ``We could have done 
something.''

	``Like what?'' he asked.  ``I didn't want to upset you.''

	``Well, you have, and at the worst possible time.  When you
have this child here, and with his mother in the store.''

	Jeanine craned her neck to see if Timothy was listening.  At
the same time, she laughed inwardly.  She and the boy were enough of a
pair already that they could get by.  Timothy was out of sight
somewhere down the sidewalk.  Jeanine stepped outside.  "I'll take
them all.''

	``Of course, the books.''  The woman laughed briefly.  ``Your
child's wonderful.  Bring him back any time.  This is Sam.  We have no
manners.''

	``And you --''

	``My name's Gerry.  We'll try to be more polite next time."

	``Don't worry.  I didn't want to disturb you.''

	She and the man seemed content that they were wrapped in their
memories.  They seemed to have a vastly different view of the city and
its past than Jeanine did.  She realized how limited her perspective
was, contrary to what she had believed.  But it was almost unavoidable
in her situation.  She decided to return and speak with them again.

	``I'm forgetting too.  My name is Jeanine.  Maybe I'll do
that.  This place is fascinating."

	Gerry turned to Sam.  ``You see?  Business isn't so bad after
all.''

	``This is one person,'' he said.  ``Only one person.''

	``This is how it starts.''  

	She turned to Jeanine.  ``Please excuse him.  He's like this all
of the time.''

	``We all have our bad days.''  Jeanine glanced at Timothy, who
sat on the curb and leaned against a parking meter stanchion.

	``Sam has lots of bad days.  But he's really nice to talk to.
Even though he sounds like a soap opera which has gone completely into
reruns.''  She laughed at Sam affectionately.

	``It's the economy that's the soap opera,'' Sam said.

	Jeanine said, ``I've had a lot of those days, too.  Otherwise,
I'd buy something from you.''

	``We still do have times like that, unfortunately,'' Sam said.
``What am I supposed to tell Detroit Edison?''

	``I know,'' Jeanine said, ``You can't eat a book, though.''
She said to Gerry, ``I'd give anything to show the boy a soap opera on
T.V.  Something besides this old place.''  She looked up and down the
street.

	``Sure, wouldn't we both?'' Gerry said.  ``But the old days
weren't all that good either, were they, Sam?''

	Jeanine finally decided to be honest with Gerry.  Afterward,
Jeanine always questioned the wisdom of this decision.  She returned
to the bookstore a week later. Gerry remembered her and said, ``Did
you bring the boy with you?''

	``Not this time, unfortunately,'' Jeanine said.  ``I'm careful
of watching him too closely.  He's an orphan.  He already thinks I'm
his evil stepmother.''

	``So you're not his real mother.''

	``No, I picked him up along the way.  Or he picked me up.''

	``You didn't know her?''

	``No, this is what I gathered from him.  It hangs together.''

	``It was an act of kindness.''	

	``It was like finding this place.''

	``Don't say things like that.  There's no comparison.''

	Gerry said nothing more.  She was not in sight when Jeanine
departed

	The next time Jeanine went there, Gerry was sitting again with
Sam in front of the store under its torn and faded green awning.  They
were talking and Sam didn't seem to notice Jeanine.  She didn't join
them right away.  While she rested inside, Sam went to the old desk in
back.  He was ignoring her.  But she wanted someplace to go so badly
that she paid him no attention.

	She stared dreamily out the window like a schoolgirl.  ``That
sounded like an interesting conversation,'' she said to him when he
walked past her again to go outside.

	``I don't want to talk about it,'' he told her.  ``Don't take
it personally.  I've seen a lot of people come through here.  After a
while you sort of feel like a relic yourself.''

	She realized, and Sam confirmed, that he didn't do much more
than sit among the stacks of old books and newspapers.  There was no
getting around the way things moved so slowly.  If he could only get
hold of something more recent -- Romance novels that he could sell for
a quarter each, or _People_ magazine.  But he didn't have money now
for those things.  He didn't see much possibility of having any money
in the future, either.  Without some more recent books, he said, his
store was the equivalent of a museum.

     He had read many of the books on the shelves and could recommend
them to anyone who stopped in.  It was one of the best things about
owning a bookstore.  All of the free reading material.

	``But the electric company doesn't care,'' Gerry said.  ``We
should have gone under like everyone else.''

	``Some luck we've had,'' Sam agreed.  ``I could have put
myself out of business and my misery a long time ago.''

     ``Well, I hope you don't close,'' Jeanine said.  

	``There aren't many places like this, so far as I know,'' Sam
said.  ``And not many people come in here.''

	``Maybe people would come in here if you put in a coffee 
maker,'' Gerry said, ``as a service.  And cleaned the place up.  Not 
everyone can afford those books.''

	``I'm not going to run a charity.''

	``You could charge them _something._''

	Sam said later to them both, ``If I had known what this would
lead to, I'd never have let you inside.''

	``It's all for the better, Sam.  You know that I'd stop in
even if no one else did,'' Jeanine answered.

	``You can send the boy over any time,'' he said.  ``He minds
his own business.''

	``Sam, I didn't mean to change everything around.''

	He stood to one side while she and Gerry moved a magazine
rack.  

	``You're not going to help?'' Gerry asked him.

	``I liked it the way it was.''

	Jeanine still went through her daily routines.  She collected
old cans and whatever else she could sell.  She looked for clothes,
and especially old blue jeans.  She collected enough cans, with
Timothy trailing behind, to get some books.  She had collected enough
over the course of a few days, she reminded herself, for at least one
book.  Rummaging through the trash for scrap metal wasn't as futile as
it seemed.  She even rummaged through the trash bins behind Sam's at
daybreak, and found a dollar's worth of old cans there.

	Gerry smiled at her.  ``You can read to the boy in the
evenings.''

     Jeanine didn't mention the cans to Sam, although he certainly 
made it back in what she spent there.

     "Sam, clean those windows," Gerry said to him.  "The dirt makes
the place look too gloomy."  She had insisted that Sam clear the books
from one of the tables near the front of the store.

	``Now we have a cafe,'' she said to him.  ``Don't be so
stubborn.''

	``We have to change everything around,'' he said.

	``It's one table, Sam.  Even if no one comes in, we can't sit
on the sidewalk all winter.''

	``A few other people do come in here, too.''  She told
Jeanine, ``There aren't really that many, but a few people who we've
seen on the street or going into the market.  They mostly come in here
to warm up.''

	``I didn't want to start a restaurant,'' Sam said.

	``What did this cost you, and how much have you gotten out of
it?''  Gerry demanded.  She turned to Jeanine.  ``All credit to you
for suggesting it.''

	``I still say I'm innocent,'' Jeanine said.

	``I can pay you in books, and that's about all,'' Sam told
her.

	``I'd take it,'' Jeanine answered, ``if I was interested in
the money.''  But Sam seemed upset if she didn't take something.  She
began to accumulate a stack of books at home, a small library of her
own.  She found time to rummage through the garage and uncover an old
oak bookcase, a real treasure.  She could sell it if necessary.  There
was enough furniture to make the sitting room comfortable, so that she
or Timothy could sleep on the sofa once in a while, instead of always
on the floor.

	It was the middle of December.  She watched the first, light
snow of winter through the kitchen windows.  Things had changed in the
last few months.  She no longer worried when Timothy was outside all
day, nor did she count the hours until he came back home.  Time was
passing for her, and she had enough to worry about herself now that
she was living in the world again.

     The house was half furnished and tolerably comfortable.  They had
discovered two old mattresses in an alley a few blocks away.  They
dragged them home in the morning and wrestled them up the stairway
into two of the bedrooms.  The job exhausted her for the rest of the
day, and her muscles ached when she awoke in the evening from an
afternoon nap.  It was too late to do the marketing or anything else.
Timothy was in the kitchen, drawing on some scrap paper at the table,
sitting on a chair which she had improvised from milk crates.

     The sky outside had deepened into night under the heavy, gray
clouds.  It was the kind of evening which signalled the onset of
winter.  She wanted to do something to make the house more pleasant
still.  She did not want to be tempted to leave in the next several
months, driven out by sheer boredom.

     Timothy seemed quite content.  He looked up at her briefly 
and then went back to his work.

     "I think I can find something to make for dinner," she said
quietly.

     "I ate some bread," he said without looking up from his work.

     "You're not hungry now?"

     "No."

     "But maybe later."

	She looked through the things in the cupboard.  There wasn't
much.  She might be able to cook some potatoes.  That would be enough
for dinner.  She now thought automatically about providing for Timothy
and herself.  There wasn't enough time to do all the things she needed
to do in order to live and still look after him.  She wondered if she
wasn't robbing him of his childhood.


			      Chapter 10


	She needed to collect her things from the old place and would
not be at the bookstore for a while.  That's what she told Leonard.
Perhaps she wanted to avoid him.  She wasn't sure.  He had visited her
at the house, but she didn't know if he had told Gerry about it.
Jeanine wanted him to break the news to Gerry and not be in the way
herself.

	``I won't allow you to be anything but up-front with her.  If
you can deceive her, you can deceive me, too.''

	Leonard looked wary.  ``Maybe it's time for a change.''

	``I don't mean you were, only that I won't let it happen to
me.''

	She felt under pressure which wasn't due only to him.
Collecting her things from the squat became urgent.  She had gone back
quite casually to look for a few things.  She was shocked by what she
saw.  The neglect was obvious.  The one room had fallen into chaos.
It was like discovering that an old friend was aging and she had been
oblivious to it.  Already the room looked like she had never lived
here.  The words, ``garbage pit,'' occurred to her when she stepped
through the door.

	The hinges were loose.  At least the door didn't fit as
tightly as before.  The uneaten remains of a meal were scattered
across the floor.  An old, dirty blanket lay on on the sofa.  Someone
had been using the place while she was gone.  

	It was bad enough that the run-down, near-West Side
neighborhood was little more than a slum.  Simply making the trip was
depressing enough.  She couldn't be in two places at once, and the
house took all her time and energy.  She was still glad to leave this
place behind.  She supposed it was human nature, but she would have
killed for the room when she had lived on the street.  Debris seemed
to move in and fill the spaces which the absence of her things had
left.  But it took a while to adjust to the decay.  It meant she was
abandoning the squat.  She had survived here and had made it her home,
and had gotten back on her feet here.  She was losing another tie with
her past.

	She felt violated by the break-in, even though she had no
sense of proprietorship.  Inside, the squat was as cold and neglected
as the lowering, late autumn sky.  She had already made the trip
several times.  The weather made the journey difficult now.  The low,
dark clouds threatened rain.  The gathering pools of water in the
gutters had glistening ice on them in the morning.  The feel of
approaching snow was unmistakable.  Soon she would not be able to come
back here at all.  But it was unconscionable to leave behind the
clothing, the cooking pots, and the food which was stacked on the
shelf above the old stove.  Fortunately, none of that seemed to have
been touched.  It took her the next several weeks to make the
half-dozen trips between the squat and the house.

	She brought Timothy.  He, at least, didn't seem to mind the
decay of the squat or the cold weather.  His preoccupation with
whatever happened to be in front of him provided exactly the diversion
she needed.  She made moving into a kind of game where he tagged
along.  But there was also the serious business of looking for his
father.

	``Where do you think he is?''

	``He's probably where we already were.''

	``Why don't you take me there?''

	The first place he led her was the old GM plant where she had
first seen him.

	They walked around behind the building.  ``We stayed here
once.''  Timothy pointed to a doorway far back in an alley.  At the
head of the alley was a deep pit below a conveyor.  They walked to the
edge of the pit and looked down into it.  ``We could have stayed here,
too, if we wanted,'' Timothy said.

	The bottom of the pit was littered with garbage.  ``What a
horrible thought,'' Jeanine said.

	``It's cold.  I've been down in it.''

	``How did you get down there?  And how did you ever get back
up?''

	``That's a secret.''

	They turned away from the pit.  Farther on, in the recess of
the building, was a doorway in the blank wall.  They approached it.
To her surprise, Timothy easily pushed open the door.

	``Let's go inside.''  He went through the doorway before she
could stop him.

	She breathed deeply and followed him inside.

	``Do you think he would be here?'' Timothy asked in a whisper.

	``I don't know.''  The interior of the factory was vast.
Ducts and catwalks, shelves and pieces of metal, reached from the
floor to the ceiling.  They could not see across the entire space.  It
seemed like the whole city could fit inside this one building.
Crumbling, rusted machinery and twisted wiring lay on the floor.  In
some places the debris blocked the narrow corridors and was tangled in
the catwalks and skeleton of the building.  Sunlight came through the
skylights in the roof.  Most of the windows still had glass in them.
It was cold, as though the concrete floor and echoing walls had
already stored an entire winter's chill.

	``I don't think there's anyone here at all,'' Jeanine said.
``I sure hope there isn't.  I don't think I could stay here.  But we
have other things to do.  Let's go!''

	They walked along the railroad tracks toward the squat.  ``Can
you think of anywhere else your father might be?''  Timothy shook his
head but gave no answer.  ``Are you sure we're looking for the right
man?''

	At least the small, grimy grocery store had not changed.
Homer was standing behind the cash register when they walked in.  He
looked at her and Timothy suspiciously until he remembered seeing her
before.  She had been hesitant to ask him about the boy's father.
There were two or three people hanging around.  She had been here
several times and had not had the courage to bring him in, then muster
the courage to ask Homer if he had seen Timothy's father.

	She glanced at Timothy, who stood next to her.  ``Even finding
someone who saw his father would be helpful.''

	She turned to him.  ``What does he look like, Timothy?''

	``I don't know.''  Timothy was uncomfortable under the gaze of
here and the storekeeper.

	If Homer thought anything was wrong, he didn't say.  ``I think
I know who you're talking about.''  Then he fell silent.

	Jeanine pressed him.  ``What's wrong?  Have you seen him?''

	``I couldn't say without knowing who he is.  At least, I hope
it's not him.  Because if it is him, he won't last long.  He looks
like he's in bad shape.''

	If Timothy had understood, he didn't let on.  Jeanine wanted a
few moments to think.  ``Go and get two loaves of bread,'' she said.

	He was out of hearing.  She said to Homer, ``I doubt it's his
father, but thanks anyway.  At least it's not my imagination.''

	``You can't be angry with him.''

	``We only want to find the kid's old man.''  She didn't want
to explain everything to Homer.  How should she act?  She had no
experience with this.  Should she be sad?  Or hopeful?  She wasn't
sure what she was supposed to say, but a little drama couldn't hurt.
Having the proper attitude would be easier on Timothy.  It was easy
enough to rationalize all that.  If she seemed excited about finding
the boy's father, maybe it would work on other people, too.  There
wasn't any harm in trying to find him more quickly.

    ``You aren't going to be so hard on him,'' Homer said.  ``Maybe he's
had a tough time.  If I see him, I'll be sure and tell you.''

	``I see.  It's a habit to act tough when I'm here.''

	``Well, this is a rough place.''

	``I guess I'm out of practice.''

	``There's no need to be shy.  There aren't many worse places
than this.''

	``You don't need to tell me this is a step up for you.''  They
both laughed.

	``You are looking good today,'' he teased her.

	``Well, thank you.  I usually dress down a little, but I'm out
of practice.  I've already forgotten how to fit in, it's been so long
since I've been here.''  She was conscious of him watching her.
``It's like a different world.''

    She shuddered at the garbage in the streets, the buildings which
had broken-out windows, walls and boarded-up windows which were
covered with graffiti hieroglyphics, the still-shiny razor wire which
lay coiled along the tops of the fences.  She never wanted to live
here again.

	Timothy told her it was about half a mile from the grocery
store to his old house.  Jeanine followed him.  ``You're not getting
us lost, are you?''

	``This is the way.  I know.''

	He had made at least one wrong turn, she decided.  But the
detours were no more dangerous than the rest of the area.  She was
only getting tired, no worse than that.  They walked west for perhaps
an hour.  The neighborhoods were more barren.  There was no one about.
Many of the lots hadn't been cleared of the ruined houses which had
fallen in on them.

	``We shouldn't have brought all of these groceries if we were
planning to walk so far,'' Jeanine said.

	``I think the house is close to here,'' Timothy answered.

	``I do hope you're right.''

	They rounded a corner.  ``I thought it was here,'' the boy
said.  In front of them were the remains of a house which had recently
burnt to the ground.  ``I'm sure this is it.  We had all of our things
in the back yard here.''

	He was pale.  He stood motionless at the edge of the sidewalk,
as if the ground fell away beneath his feet.

	``You're sure this is the house?''

	``Uh-huh.  But there's nothing here.''  He looked confused.

	Jeanine was at a loss.  They stared at the house for a few
minutes.  She decided there was nothing they could do but go back.
Timothy must have agreed, because he followed her.

	``I thought we'd find him this time,'' Timothy said.  They
walked back north along the railroad tracks.  He seemed a little
downcast but not terribly upset.  He didn't look anxious to be
anywhere, and he didn't seem to be worried.  She asked him to stop
frequently so she could set down her bags and rest.  She wondered how
he had been able to form a new attachment so quickly.  It must be his
age.

	They reached her house and went inside.  ``You miss your
father, don't you?''  she asked.

	He sat down at the table and was looking out the window.  ``I
suppose so,'' he answered.

	``Can you think of anywhere else he might be?''

	``No.''

	``Well, why don't we go again and look in a couple days?''

	``I don't want to.''

	``No?  Why not?''

	He turned and glanced at her, as though frightened, then
looked at the floor.  ``I don't know.  I just don't want to see him.''

	``Because he left you behind?''

	``He didn't leave me.''  Timothy jumped up and hurried past
her and out of the kitchen.  She heard him run up the stairs.  After a
moment's thought, she decided to leave him alone.

	He came downstairs and into the kitchen an hour or so later.
Jeanine looked up from her reading.  ``Did you have a good rest?''

	``No.''

	``Did you have a good cry?''

	``I didn't cry.''

	``Should we forget about him?''

	``Yes.''

	``Where is he, do you think?''

	``I don't know.  Nowhere.''

	``We don't have to go to look for him if you don't want to.''

	``I don't want to find him.''

	``Maybe you'll change your mind.''

	``No, I won't.''

	``Well,'' she said, ``it's all right if you do.  People change
their minds all the time.''  She looked around the room.  ``I never
thought I'd come back here.''

	``You lived here before?''

	She laughed softly.  ``Didn't I explain that to you?''  He
began to look hurt again. ``Maybe I'll explain that to you again
another time.''

	``But I'm not at home here.''

	``Oh, yes you are, if you want to be.''

	``Can we still look for my dad?''

	``Of course.  Let's give it a couple days and see if we can
think of anything else we can try.  Don't forget, it's getting cold
outside.  We can't sleep in doorways all winter.''

	``I wasn't going to.''

	``What were you going to do?''

	``I don't know.''  Timothy thought for a minute.  ``If I stay
here, is this my home?''

	``If you'd like it to be, yes.''

	She managed, with Leonard's help, to bring a small, wood-fired
stove to the house.  She had discovered it while she was poking
through the debris of a factory.  It was a boxy thing, but it would
do.  They installed a chimney through one of the windows.  The stove
and its attachments didn't look too ungainly.  It blocked one of the
north-facing windows.  She decided to paint the chimney rather than
have the kitchen look like a factory.

	She made Leonard a cup of tea after she had fired up the
stove.  ``The first,'' she said.

	``This is some place you have here.''

	She preceded him into the living room.  ``I can tell you where
all the furniture was.''

	``You could have used it for firewood.''

	Jeanine took a breath and went on.  ``Except that, I grew up
and left here.  It wasn't anything traumatic.  We all could have been
closer if we had worked at it.  But we drifted apart and none of us
seemed to notice.''

	``I don't have a family, either,'' Leonard said.

	``Don't be sentimental about it.  My parents are long gone.
The house is still perfectly good.  I never expected to live in one
place all of my life, allowing for a few comings and goings.  I
certainly didn't expect to come here in my old age.''

	Timothy walked into the parlor.  Leonard was amused.  ``I was
never sure how long the bookstore would last.  Now it's been a long
time.  I don't know if I could possibly shut it down.''

	Jeanine said to Timothy, ``Why don't you go outside?''

	``We wanted to talk,'' Leonard said.

	``About what?'' Timothy asked.  He stared at Leonard.  ``This
isn't the same man.''

	``What?''

	``This isn't the man from the store.''

	``We aren't talking about anything.'' Jeanine laughed.  ``Just
adult things.  It's called relaxing.  And why shouldn't I have more
than one men friend?''

	``Oh.''  Timothy left the room.  He disappeared into the
darkening kitchen.  She listened to his footsteps on the floor and
then heard the back door open and close.

	``That's a job, trying to raise the kid alone.''  Leonard's
face was ruddy in the late afternoon light.  The house had a lightness
and warmth which she had forgotten existed.

	``How else would you do it?''  She decided to level with him.
``The kid isn't mine.  He's a stray.''

	Leonard didn't look surprised.  ``How long has he been with you?''

	``Only a month or so.  His mother's dead, I think.  His father
disappeared.''

	``Were you looking for him?''

	``We're still looking for him.  We don't know if he's alive.
I still don't know if he really has a father, not one that's still
alive.''

	``I hope you find him,'' Leonard said, ``at least for your peace
of mind.  Would you be able to give the child up?''

	``I must look maternal,'' she said.  ``I don't really know.''

	``I thought he was your son.''

	``I wanted one, but the circumstances....  There never was an
opportunity to have a child of my own.''

	Leonard looked at the angle of the sunlight.  ``I have to go soon
before it gets dark.''

	``I'm sorry.''

	``No, I really must be going.''

	She saw him to the door.  ``I'll come around tomorrow.''  He
waved and went out, and disappeared around the side of the house.

	She poured herself another cup of tea and returned to the
sofa.  The child seemed to fill a void within her.  What would it have
been like if she had raised her own child?

	Leonard was interested in her, Jeanine was certain of that.
She doubted he would give up his life with Gerry for her, though.  She
wondered if she was presuming too much.  Things had always seemed so
certain.  But here she was, rebuilding her life.  Not that she had not
done anything wrong before.  She desired stability, as everyone else
did, and the ability to pin down some of the whirlwind of life she had
found herself in.  She hoped she would be successful this time.

	Leonard came over to the house one last time.  ``Do you
know,'' she asked him, ``how long it's been since I had a man
around?''

	He had been there most of the afternoon, but it seemed like
they hadn't spoken of anything until then.  Timothy ran in and out of
the house.  The diversion kept their conversation from flagging.

	``No, I don't know how long it's been,'' Leonard answered.  ``And
you don't need to tell me if you don't want to.''

	``I don't mind telling you if you're interested.  I want you
to know where I'm coming from.  I'm not justifying or explaining
anything.  You just should know.  It's like a drug, being alone.  It
keeps me from remembering too much.  Or maybe it keeps things at a
safe distance.  Then I don't have to explain everything.  I don't
know.''

	``You don't want me here,'' Leonard said quietly.

	``You just should know,'' she repeated.  ``I remember
everything that's happened to me.  But it isn't often that I can sense
things changing.  They're like the seasons.  Sometimes I notice them,
sometimes I don't.  It must be my age.  Or maybe I take them for
granted.  But I want to make sure I get off on the right foot with
you.  Just having you around means something is changing again.  No,
that's not right.''  She looked around her.  ``Just think of the
house, and now I have a child around.  Jesus, Leonard, don't you think
that things have changed for me?''

	``I don't know.  Everything looks fine to me.''

	``I want some space,'' she said.  ``I want to make sure I
don't fuck anything up.''

	``Over something as trivial as me,'' Leonard said.

	``At least, I don't want an excuse to blame you.''  She placed
her hand on his arm.  ``I'm bitter enough to do that.  You need to
sort things out with Gerry.''

	``I'll think about that,'' he said, and turned to leave.

	``Don't think too hard,'' she said behind him.

	She leaned against the wall and shut her eyes.  Thank goodness
Timothy was outside and playing.  She was having a lot of funks like
this.  She was witnessing the innocence and self-absorption of youth.
If Timothy were grown up, he would have been concerned about her, and
that would be intolerable.  She had come to distrust other peoples'
interest.  People seemed to want her to change.  She had never figured
out why she had asked for anything except to be left alone.  She had a
bad enough time finding herself again after her life had fallen apart.

	Whenever she talked to people, she found herself explaining
away her actions.  People seemed to demand an explanation.  They
worried if their image of her did not match the way she really was.
That was the reason she worried about Leonard.  He was different.  He
had demanded nothing of her, only her company.  That was the problem
with romance, the need to explain why she was different from someone
else's conception of her.

	Maybe Leonard didn't care enough.  She wanted to make as
certain as possible that she wasn't going to burden him with guilt.

	When she had last had a lover, she discovered herself becoming
more relieved when he was somewhere else.  This was when she had
worked at the university.  Her career had been steady, his was on an
upward climb.  At first she thought he was trying to get away from
her, but no, it was his ambition.

	``The way I see it,'' he said, ``you're trying to hold me
back.''

	``I am not.  I like it here.  Why don't you just keep doing
what you're doing?''

	``Can't we take this one day at a time?'' 

	``I need some stability,'' she replied.

	``We have stability.''

	``No!'' she exclaimed.  ``I want _real_ stability, not some
day-in, day-out association where all I can be certain of is that we
go to work together in the morning, and sometimes we come home
together at night.  I want to feel like it's more than a job, you
know.''

	The next month she missed her period.  Two weeks later the
doctor confirmed what she had feared: She was going to have a child.
They had the usual arguments over whether they should marry, whether
they would give the baby up, whether she would have an abortion.  He
was with her constantly, dutiful at least, caring, she thought.  But
gradually she was aware that beneath the show of concern he saw his
career flash before his eyes.  She had the baby seven months later.
He was at her bedside when she awoke from the anesthesia.  They
stopped seeing each other not long after she had left the hospital.



			      Chapter 11


	It was several weeks before Jeanine had the courage to see
Leonard again.  He was in the back of the store, unpacking some boxes
which smelled strongly of old paper.  He looked like he had not slept
at all.  ``You're back,'' he said wearily.  There was no bitterness in
his voice.  

	``Why don't you make some coffee and see if anyone comes in?''

	``That's fine with me.  I'd rather stay busy and not think too
much.''

	He seemed put off by her.  This was what she had been afraid
of.

	``I won't stay if you don't want me to.''  She was not sure
how direct to be with him.  She didn't have any problem confronting
him now, before things went too far.  Her main fear was that he would
leave things hanging between them.

	Leonard glanced up from his work.  ``Sure, I want you here.  Gerry
will be gone all day.  I don't want to close up the place if I have to
go somewhere.''

	``Then you might start paying me.''

	``I can make the coffee myself.''

	``I'm joking, of course.  You don't even have to pay me books.
What do you pay her?''

	He smiled thinly.  ``We're partners in life, if it's any of
your business.  It's not that easy for either of us to leave.''

	``It's not as if I'm sitting in front of the store and talking
with you all day, is it?'' she said.  ``Our company might very well be
enough compensation for each other, but I doubt it.  But I don't want
you to feel as if you owe me.''

	Leonard put aside the box he had been rummaging through.  He
opened another box.  He stood up and looked directly at her.  ``Why
don't you read for a while?  Gerry will be here in the morning.''

	Jeanine's heart went out to him in spite of herself.  ``I'm
not trying to take her place.''

	``I've seen lots of people come and go.  She's been here
for a long time.''

	``Are you saying that I'm a transient?  I thought I made a
difference to you.''

	``She's been here for a long time,'' he repeated simply.
Jeanine had nothing to say.  She started toward the front.

	He continued, ``You can't expect to change things overnight.
And, face it, I don't know what you want.''

	``The sooner you and I settle these things between us, the
better.  I like being where I am.  I want to stay settled in my house.
Beyond that, I'm not planning anything.  I'm not sure anything is very
important these days.  Certainly this relationship is not worth
jeopardizing my life for, is it, Leonard?''

	``I wouldn't answer that if my own life depended on it.''

	``My life might very well have depended on it, under other
circumstances.  I don't mind waiting and minding my place, and taking
things as they come.  I can't see myself taking her place, relaxing in
a chair under the awning out front for the rest of my days, with you
next to me.  I'm more active than that.''

	``Frankly, I don't think of you as her, either.''

	``But you didn't say anything to her.''

	``You're right.  I didn't think it was a good enough reason to
leave her.''

	``That suits me fine.  I won't sneak around behind her back.''
	
	Jeanine started the Mr. Coffee.  She sat down and paged
through old copies of the _News_ and _Free Press._ A few of the
events she remembered.  After all these years, they seemed like
different stories.  She wished she had understood their significance
then.

	She didn't want to take Timothy for granted.  She had asked
him earlier, ``Do you mind me leaving for the day?''

	``Where are you going?''

	``To do some grocery shopping, and to the bookstore.''  She
tried to sound offhand about it.  She saw no point in telling him that
she wanted to spend all day there.

	She had not exactly planned to read the old newspapers,
either, but she calculated that with the whole day before her, she
could afford to take her time.  She focused on the columns of names
and dates, births and deaths, weddings and divorces.  But the child
would not be listed.  She had stayed up late last night thinking about
it.  Giving the child away had made its birth into something which
needed to be hidden, something shameful.

	She wished someone would come into the store.  She needed the
distraction.  She still had a perverse desire to convince Leonard to
pay her.  Not that she needed to be paid, that would be the icing on
the cake.  It was enjoyment enough to be able to relax in the dusty,
contemplative store.  When people came in, it was rarely for the
books.  She wished Leonard realized that.  They enjoyed the atmosphere
and indulged in it, even if they didn't know where it came from.

	There was no need to be watchful, neither for her nor anyone
else who happened to be around.  She was still aware of the danger of
dropping her guard, but she couldn't help it.  It was too pleasant to
live like a person again.  The customers felt that way too, she
sensed.

	``Do you know,'' said one of them to her, ``that this is the
only place around here, where you can just _sit?_ And nobody
_bothers_ you?  It's not like a store where you have to _buy_
something.''

	Jeanine smiled.  ``I can take an awful long time to finish a  
cup of coffee.''

	``Me, too.  What is it about this place?  Why is it so 
comfortable?''

	``Well, you don't have to buy the books.  You can even read
them.  I don't think Leonard would object.  The coffee is only an
excuse to get you in here.''

	``You would think that only bookworms would come into
bookstores.  Who cares?  I like the atmosphere.  It's old, but it's
not stuffy, like a library.''

	``We're not librarians.  We'd like people to buy this stuff
and read it, not keep it under lock and key.  Leonard runs a good business
here, as well as he can with the way things are.  He knows how to keep
customers.  But people don't _read_ any more.''

	``They should.  If I had the money I'd get something.  I 
really would.''

	`I know,'' Jeanine said.  ``I'm in the samee situation.  But I 
can dream, can't I?''

	In her garage at home she had found several dozen old books
which she hadn't recalled seeing before.  Over the course of a couple
of days she took them to Leonard's.

	``Fresh stock,'' he said gleefully.

	``Can I trade them?'' she asked.

	``Sure, go ahead.''

	She met the same woman in the supermarket.  She greeted
Jeanine warmly.

	``I don't feel like such a gutter person any more,'' the woman
said.  ``It's nice when everyone isn't a stranger.''

	``You know where you can find me,'' Jeanine answered.

	She herself was suprpised by the clientele.  Without putting
out any signs or using advertising of any sort, Leonard had begun to
acquire customers, and they identified her with the place.

	``All credit to you,'' Leonard repeated to her.  She was
flattered.  It had been a long time since she was identified with a
place.

	She went through the articles in the garage again.  There 
wasn't much that was useful.  She wondered if she might sell or 
trade the junk.  The problem was that there weren't many outlets 
where she could get rid of the stuff.  But she kept the idea in 
the back of her mind.  Some of the old scrap metal and engine 
parts would certainly bring something.  But she knew no one with a 
vehicle; it would be impossible to haul the things around until 
spring, now that the snow was collecting.

	Leonard was in the sitting room again late one afternoon.  The 
sunlight slanted through the windows.  The warmth in the room
was a pleasant contrast to the chill air outside.

	``I'd go out and try to find the kid's father,'' Leonard said.
``You don't know what you might get into later.''

	``We go out and look whenever we can,'' she answered.  ``It
isn't always possible to get over there to that part of town.  It's a
lot more dangerous, and besides, I'm losing my street sense.  And who
knows if his father is still there anyway?  He certainly doesn't
know.''

	``That must be very upsetting to him.''

	``I think I'm more upset than he is.  Either he doesn't
realize how hurt he is, or he doesn't want to admit it.''

	``Or that wasn't his father.  You've become attached to him?''

	``Yes, I have,'' she said almost defiantly.

	``Then what will happen if his parents come for him?  How will
you deal with that?''

     ``What's more important is how he'll deal with it,'' she said.
``I'll give him up, of course, but for Christ's sakes, his father
abandoned him.  Timothy prefers to think of his father as dead.  His
mother is dead, though, he says.  He hasn't talked about her very much
at all, even when we went looking for the house.  If that was his
house.  Jesus, there's nothing there.''

     ``You _have_ gotten attached to him,'' Leonard said.  He touched
her hand lightly.

     ``Well, think of what might happen to him if I hadn't taken him
in.''

     ``I haven't forgotten that.''

     ``Timothy was willing to come with me because I was like a mother
instead of a father to him.  Maybe it was because he never had a
mother figure in his life.  What he doesn't realize is that I'd be
willing to give him up, too.  I've given up plenty of things in my
life.  I'd be able to survive.''

     ``Of course.  But think what a loss giving him up would be to
you.''

     ``It would be.  I'm too old to have children now.  He's like a
stepson.  It isn't the same as losing a blood child, but at least I
know what I'm missing.''

     	``Do you really?  You haven't said anything about that.  What
happened?''  

	``I don't want to talk about it yet.''

	``If ever.  It was probably a long time ago.''
	
	``It was.  It doesn't mean anything any more.''

	Leonard looked thoughtful.  ``I suppose the kid you have now has
to find his own place.''

	``Just like I did.  When he's old enough.  It isn't a crime to
help someone.''

	``It could hurt you.  Then you'd be in trouble.  You need to
settle in.''

	``As I said, I'm quite nicely settled now, thank you.''

	He rose to leave and kissed her on the cheek.  ``That's from
me.  I'd like for you just to stay around here.''

	``I will.  You can count on that.''

	``I'll see you tomorrow, then.''

	``Bring Gerry around, why don't you?''

	``Somebody has to look after the store.  She gets paid for 
it.''

	``You've known her a long time.''

	``All of my life.''

	``Did you ever think of marrying her?''

	Leonard looked embarrassed.  ``We went together for a while when 
we were young.  Just out of high school.  Then she got married.  
Her husband's dead now.''

	``You've had a pretty steady life, haven't you?''

	``I've had the books and the store.  A few companions.''

	``_Female_ companions,'' Jeanine said.  ``I haven't had
much of anything.  Not in the long run.''

	``You have memories.''

	``I haven't had a steady life to enjoy them.  But things are 
changing for me,'' she said.  ``You get more, you want more.''

	He took her hand.  ``Every year it gets harder to be 
satisfied.''

	She allowed her hand to relax in his.  ``I feel the same
way.''  She thought about her and Leonard's growing intimacy, and his
schoolboy ineptitude.  She decided that she didn't mind.

	``Where is the boy?'' he asked her thickly.

	``Outside.  He won't be back for a while.''

	Leonard sat down again and placed his arm around her shoulders.
She allowed herself to sink into his warmth.  She felt herself
relaxing slowly, oh so slowly, as she worked at the buttons of his
shirt and let him come into her own space.

	When she awoke, she lay up close to him under a blanket on the
sofa.  She listened for a few minutes to hear whether Timothy was
inside.  There was only the sound of her breathing and Leonard's.  She
rose and dressed, then arranged his clothes in a neat pile on the
floor next to the sofa.  In the kitchen she started some water to
boil.  It was comforting to have him in the next room.  She had not
had the secure feeling of someone under her roof for a long time.
Outside, there was no sign of Timothy in the gray, dusky light.  The
late autumn sky was lowering.  It must be chilly out there.  He would
be back soon.  She thought about the nest she had created, after all
she had been through.  She smiled to herself.  Her instincts were
still there.

	In the next few hours Timothy had not returned.  Leonard was 
leaving.  ``Be careful,'' she said to him.  ``There's not much 
daylight left.''

	``It's safer than you think.''  He kissed her lightly on the 
forehead.  ``Hell, I've been out lots of times after dark.''

	``Yes, but I'm worried about Timothy.  If you see him, will
you send him home?''

	``There's nothing to worry about yet.  He's an independent
kid.''

	``Shit, Leonard, I feel like I should worry,'' she said.  ``He's my 
responsiblity.  You're probably going to be my responsibility, too.''

	``I thought it was exactly the opposite,'' he said.  ``But I
think you're overwrought.  He's probably in the garage or somewhere.
Just playing.''

	``Maybe you're right.  But where would I be if I didn't worry
about him, and now you, too?''

     When Timothy still hadn't returned after Leonard had left, she
debated whether to go outside and look for him.  The smoky light from
her candles cast a warm glow over the sitting room.  She thought about
going out into the cold night and shivered.  To her mind, there was
nothing she could do.  Even if she searched all night it wouldn't make
a bit of difference.

     She wasn't able to sleep.  She resigned herself to waiting,
wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, bathed in the warm light of the
candles of the coffee table, and sipping on cups of tea which she
replenished with the hot water from the kitchen.  At first she relaxed
in the solitude.  Then, as the night passed slowly, she wanted more
and more for someone to be there.  Timothy or Leonard, even if they
were asleep, would have been a welcome relief.  It felt even worse
when she looked outside at the snow, lit softly by the clear, night
sky.  The stars glittered like hard, cold diamonds through the
branches of the trees.  She felt herself slipping from the company of
the living, back into the sort of purgatory which she had existed in
before.  She wondered what had caused this change.  Was it some
craving, some animal need within her?  Was it a chance occurrence, a
pattern as random as the soft shadows of the tree branches against the
snow?  For a few moments she saw her life in all its clarity, as if
the mesh of her existence had been on display before her eyes.  But
when she tried to examine its edges, and discover where her life ended
and the world began, the scope of this vision faded into banality.  It
seemed to mock her: Why bother with such trivialities when she needed
to provide herself with food and a place to stay?  Focus on the next
problem, and the problem after that.  There is no other way.  Think
about what you depend on, and who depends on you.  She thought of
Leonard, and Timothy.  They wanted different things from her, but
neither of them asked for nothing she couldn't provide and was happy
to give.  The one thing that she wanted to give them, security, was
beyond her grasp.  She had to content herself with providing them what
they wanted.

	And still Timothy was not here.  She was alone.

	When she awoke it was late morning.  Timothy was in the
kitchen, reading.  He looked guilty when he saw her.

	``Where were you last night?'' she asked.

	``Outside,'' he said.

	``Why didn't you come back here?''

	He shrugged.  ``That guy was here.''

	``No he wasn't.  And anyway, how can you stay out there all
night?''  She examined him from head to foot.  ``It's too cold to be
outside all night.''

     He shrugged again.  ``I walked around.''

     ``Were you with someone?''

     ``No.''

     ``Are you sure?  Were you at the bookstore?''

     ``The lady closed it and went home.  Then I walked around.''

     ``Where did you go?'' she demanded.

     He began to look uncomfortable.  ``I don't know.  Around.''

     ``Were you looking for your father?''

     He kept his eyes on the pages in front of him.  ``No.''

     She watched him silently for a few more minutes.  ``I don't 
want you doing that again,'' she said.

     ``Sorry.''

     ``If that happens again, you ask her if you can stay there.  
You can't be out on the street all night.''

     ``It isn't bad.  You were at that store all day.''

	``How do you know?''

	``The lady said you were.''

	``Did she seem angry at you?''

	``We didn't talk very much.''

     ``I still don't want you staying out all night.  It isn't safe 
for you.''

     ``It's boring here.''

     ``Why don't you go out to the garage and look around?  Maybe 
tomorrow or the next day we can go out and look for junk.''

     ``Okay.''  He slid off the chair and picked up his coat which had
been hanging over its back.  Without a word he opened the back door
and stepped outside, letting the door slam shut behind him.

	She sat alone at the kitchen table and mused at his
restlessness.  It was unreasonable to expect that a young boy would
stay inside all winter.  Yet she didn't want to confront him.  He was
beginning to settle in.  Would it be better to resolve this in some
manner or hope that he would forget about his natural family?  She
wasn't sure.  She decided to watch him and then decide what should be
done.

	He returned several hours later.  He looked subdued, tired
from being outside.  ``Should we go back to the factory tomorrow?''
she asked him.

	``I suppose so.''

	``Do you think he'd be back there?''

	``I don't know.  But I like going over there.  Do we have to
go over there just to look for him?''

	``I don't like it.  But there's some things at the other place
which I need to pick up.''

	``Can't we just go there?''

	``You shouldn't be there alone.''

	``I can take care of myself.''  She had no idea how he could
shrug off her concern so easily.

     ``I have some things that I need to take care of,'' she said.  
``We'll go in the morning.''

     ``Can't I stay here?''

     ``No, I'm tired of worrying about where you are.  I want to 
know that you're safe.  But who knows what we'll find tomorrow?  
Why don't you get some sleep?''

	``All right.''  He left the kitchen and she listened to the
sound of his footsteps as he went upstairs.

	The night came again.  Once more she felt alone.  She resolved
not to keep a vigil, but the urge to be out and moving around in the
morning, or even before sunrise, had descended very strongly upon her.
Mentally she made a discouragingly small checklist of the items which
she would be able to take with her immediately.  She knew in her heart
that she should not become dependent on the things which she had
accumulated, and that the house would be no comfort or protection to
her in a crisis.


			      Chapter 12

	The weather settled in to winter.  Jeanine kept the stove
lighted and had rearranged countless small things to make the house
look more comfortable.  It had the lived-in quality of constant use.
She spent most of her time indoors except when she went to the grocery
store or stopped at the bookstore.  Her friendship with Leonard and
Gerry had become almost routine.  Jeanine hadn't made love with
Leonard since the first time, but she felt guilty about it.  It was
amazing that Gerry hadn't noticed her discomfort.

	She felt the need to return to her old neighborhood as
strongly as ever, even though she had already recovered most of her
possessions.  The inch or two of snow on the ground was enough to keep
her from going.  She stayed warm inside, or went to the bookstore
every two or three days.  She didn't make it into a fixed routine.
That would have been too much of a commitment.  She went over
casually in the morning or afternoon, to lend a hand or give Leonard a
break.

	More often, she found herself relaxing and staring out the
window while Gerry busied herself in the back of the store.  Gerry had
been watching the place recently.  Leonard was often out somewhere
else.  Jeanine wondered if he was avoiding her.  But Gerry did not
seem to be hedging.  It seemed that his absences were genuine.

	``I want to get out of here for a while,'' Gerry said, ``if
you can watch things for me.  I've been stuck here for two days.''

	``This is where I keep from going crazy,'' Jeanine said.  ``I
get out of the house by coming over here.  Where is Leonard, anyway?''

	``He's off doing other things.  He won't tell me.  Some man.
He can get out of here, but I have to stay confined and go nearly
crazy.  I was going to ask you where he was.''

	``No, of course not.  If you don't know, I certainly wouldn't,
either.''  The thought settled between the two women.  Jeanine said,
``I can't imagine being out when it's cold like this.  I'd rather stay
inside where it's warm.  Maybe you can ask Leonard if I can watch the
place, since he put you in charge.''

	Timothy spent a lot of time out of doors.  Although Jeanine
had warned him not to stray too far, he disappeared for hours on end,
then appeared late in the afternoon, worn out and hungry, as the sky
darkened.

	The next day, there was a snowstorm.  She and Timothy stayed
inside and watched the pale, gray surroundings outside while the snow
piled up.  There was at least four inches of snow on the ground, which
was enough to make the going miserable.  Fortunately, she had managed
to put away some food, and there was no need to go to the store.  She
would have liked for Leonard to come over so she could make him
dinner.

	Timothy had not brought up the subject of his father since
they had looked for their old house.  Jeanine decided to break the
subject to him again.  She said, ``We should wait until the snow
clears before we go looking for your father.  He's probably indoors
anyway, out of the weather, like us.''

	Timothy looked at her non-committally and said nothing.

	``Would you like to go out and do something?'' she asked.
``Go to the cafe, or to the store?''

	``I can just read,'' he said.  ``I don't want to do
anything.''

	``Then let's just stay in,'' she said.

	It was too much to expect that he would stay still.  She
wished she could spend all day outside like he did.  She couldn't
tolerate the weather.  She might be able to make a few trips if she
tried, but she needed her boots and clothing to last until spring, at
the very least.  It was probably a blessing -- she didn't want to feel
trapped at the bookstore.  She realized that staying at the bookstore
could be just as tedious as staying home.  She didn't want to take her
anger out on Leonard.  The bookstore wasn't her place, anyway.  She
still wanted to invite him over.  She couldn't help thinking of him as
a schoolgirl would.

	After a few days, she couldn't stand being cooped up any
longer.  She decided to make the trip.  The weather broke.  The sky
was clear.  A warm breeze blew from the south and made the air hazy
with the vapor of melting snow.  She wandered around a little without
her jacket and then removed her sweater because she was beginning to
sweat.

	She went to the back door and called Timothy.  ``I'm going to
the stores.  Do you want to come?''

	``No,'' came the answer from somewhere inside the house.

	``I won't be long,'' she said.

	The paths across the freeway were clear.  She made it to the
bookstore without difficulty.  Leonard had propped the door open.  A
warm breeze wafted through the building.

	``I wanted you to come over,'' she said to him.  ``It's been 
boring these last few days.''

	``In that weather, how would I manage the trip?''

	``Well, you have no excuse now,'' she said.  ``Why don't you
come this afternoon?''

	``If I can manage it.  I can't just come and go the way you
can.''

	``How about this evening?''

	``I'd have to spend the night.  What about the boy?''

	``He'll be fine,'' Jeanine said.  ``I can move some of the
furniture this afternoon.  We'll be alone then.''

	``Gerry won't be here.''  They were the only two in the
building.  ``Can you stay?''

	``Sure,'' she said.  ``I'll just figure out something to do.''

	There was no one else in the book store.  Leonard sat at his
desk at the back of the room, making countless, repetitive pencil
calculations on small slips of paper.  Jeanine sat at the table in
front, reading and sipping cups of hot coffee with lots of sugar and
milk.  The sunlight warmed her.  Despite the coffee she felt drowsy.
She turned the pages of the book she was reading more slowly, and let
her eyes close and her head drop to her chest.  It took Leonard's
coming to the front of the store just before lunch to share some
coffee with her to wake her up. He looked depressed.

	``There is no way I'm going to make it through this winter,''
he said.  ``I don't even know if I'll be able to keep us in coffee.''

	``There must be some way to raise money,'' she said.  ``Is
this what you've been doing, spending your days trying to make
money?''

	Leonard said nothing.

	``Can't we sell cookies also, or cake or something?  That
might help.''

	``I don't want to get into the food business,'' he said
gloomily. ``I don't have the money to get started.  I wouldn't know
where to begin, either.  It's a lot of work.''

	She followed him back to his desk.  ``Can't we at least look
into this?  There has to be something to sell.''

	He sat down wearily in his chair.  She sat on the edge of the
desk.

	``Complaining about it won't get us anywhere,'' she said.

	``If I think of something I'll let you know.  Until then, I
have to watch every penny.''

	``Poor Leonard,'' she said.  She leaned over and touched his
shoulder. ``I would sell even my body for the store.''

	``You aren't doing that.''  He looked angry.

	``I was joking.''

	``I'm sorry.  I'm not in the mood for humor today.''

	``What are you in the mood for?''

	``Hmmm, nothing,'' he said.  ``Maybe I'll go out for a walk.''

	``Nonsense,'' she said.  She took his hand.  ``Come over
here.''  He stood and she led him to an alcove to one side of the
desk.

	She put her arms around his shoulders.  Automatically he put
his arms around her waist.  ``We'll think of something,'' she said.
``Something always comes up.''  She kissed him until he pulled away a
little.

	``The door is open,'' he said.

	``Forget the door.  Just relax, because no one is coming in
right now.''

	``I can't think while the door is open,'' he said.  ``Just one
minute.''

	``You don't have to think,'' she said.  ``Consider this place
as our little playground.'' 

	He went to the front.  She heard him close the door and turn
the dead bolt to lock it.  She glanced idly at the titles on the
shelves.  History and business, although they seemed to be in no
special order.

	``I want you to forget about all that,'' she said.

	``I can't.''  He leaned over her gently until her back was
against the bookshelves.  They moved their hands over each other.  She
felt herself becoming lost in him, then being lowered to the floor.
She didn't even notice when they bumped a pile of books which tumbled
to the floor around her.

	``Just forget everything,'' she whispered.  ``There's nothing
that matters right now.''  But she did forget where she was, and
allowed herself to merge with him.

	She curled up in the corner like an animal in its nest after
she had rearranged her clothes.  The springlike air washed over her
and she fell asleep.  When she awoke, the air was chill again.  It was
late afternoon and the sun no longer angled through the windows in
front.

	``Why did you let me sleep?'' she asked groggily when she saw
him sitting at his desk.

	``I don't know.  You looked comfortable.''

	She sat up and pulled on her boots.  ``I was.  I must look like a
mess now.''

	``It's all right.  You look fine.  Why don't we try that
again?''

	``No,'' she said, standing and tugging at her clothes.  ``I
have to go soon.''

	She was almost at the door when she turned and said, ``Should 
I rearrange the furniture when I get home?''

	``Yes, if you like.  I'll be along after a while.''

	``As long as you get there.  Don't spend all your time
worrying about this place.''

	She returned home and found Timothy sleeping on the sofa.  He
looked peaceful.  She did not want to disturb him.  She went upstairs
quietly and took inventory of the two rooms.  There was not much
furniture to move.  Maybe some things that needed to go in the closet,
but not much more than that.

	Leonard arrived perhaps an hour later.  She still had the
kitchen windows open to let some of the heat from the cooking escape.
He sat at the table and watched her.  ``That's my spot,'' Timothy said
when he came in and saw Leonard.  ``It's where I usually sit.''

	``I'm going to use it for a while, if you don't mind.''

	Timothy said nothing and left the room with an air of
propriety.

	He returned only after she had called him several times in the
other room.  He was taken aback by Leonard's shyness.

	``Just think of him as though he's in the store,'' Jeanine
said to Timothy.

	``Can I go over there tomorrow?'' Timothy asked her.

	``If you like.  There's something else I wanted us to do.''

	``What's that?''

	``Do you want to go downtown and look for your father?''

	Suddenly he was uncommunicative.  His cheerful look
disappeared.  ``Yes, I suppose so,'' he said.

	``Don't you worry about him?'' Leonard asked.

	Timothy didn't answer.

	``It is a sensitive subject,'' Jeanine told Leonard.

	``Of course it is.''

	She looked fixedly at Timothy.  ``But we need to find him,
don't we?''

	``I don't know,'' he said.

	``It wouldn't be right not to.''

	Leonard looked uncomfortable.  ``I suppose you need to find
out what happened to him.''

	``It's for the best,'' she answered.

	Leonard looked cautiously at Timothy.  ``I suppose it is for
the best.''

	``We don't know where he is,'' Timothy explained to Leonard.
``He might be dead.''

	``Do you really believe that?''

	Jeanine looked sharply at him.

	``Of course he's not dead,'' she said to Leonard.  ``I have to
look after both my men.''  She turned to Timothy.  ``We'll find him.''

	``If you want to,'' Timothy said reluctantly.  He got up from
his seat and left the room.  Leonard looked at her gravely.  She
silently watched Timothy go.

	``I don't know what to do about him, Leonard.''

	Leonard quieted her with a look.  ``Don't talk about him while 
he's listening.''

	They ate, and then she said, ``I have the furniture rearranged 
upstairs.''

	``I could have helped you.''

	``Don't be foolish.  No, most of it is already where it
should be.  It wasn't much work.''

	``I've been wondering,'' he said, ``just where this is
going.''

	She stared fixedly at him.  ``You're wondering about this
_now?_''

	``I'm set in my ways,'' he said.  ``I have the shop to think
about.''

	``Have you ever felt the need for some change?'' she asked.

	``Not recently.  I'm not young any more.  Neither are you.''

	``That's true.  But I've been thinking a lot about this since
moving here.  This was my parents' house, you know.  And since Timothy
and I took up with each other.  And meeting you.  If you had asked me
six months ago, I never would have thought that anything like this
would happen.  Never would have guessed it.  If I had suspected
something I wouldn't have had the nerve to do it.''

	``I feel about the same.  Events caught up with me.  Much as I
worry about them, I can't control them.  Sometimes that isn't so
good.''

	``There's something which makes me want to control my
destiny,'' Jeanine said.  ``I don't know where it comes from.  I
sure don't know how successful I've been at it.''

	``You shouldn't worry about what you can't control.''

	``And never try to get anywhere?  Where would I be if I didn't
at least try to gain some control over my life?''

	``You can't really control it.''

	``But the parts I can control remind me even more of the parts
I can't.''

	``Would you have taken me in if I were destitute?'' 

	``I'm still prepared to do that for Timothy's father.  I
suppose it depends on the circumstances.''

	``It's the boy, isn't it?''

	``I suspect you're right.  There is nothing wrong with wanting
to help someone.  You know that, and with the way things are....
Wouldn't you have taken him in?  You sort of took me in.''

	``I don't know.  I'm set in my ways.''

	``Change is good.''

	``Yes, but I have the shop to think about.  I can't simply
pick up and move if things aren't going right.''

	``I didn't think you would.''

	``It's you I worry about doing that,'' he said.

	They finished eating in silence.  After she had cleared the
dishes from the table and left them in the sink, they returned to the
sitting room.  ``We need a radio or something,'' she said.
``Something to keep us occupied.''

	``What did people do before television?  I'll see if I can
find a radio.''

	``I don't think I could talk all night, to save my life,'' she
said.

	``Then there's nothing else to do but make love and sleep,''
he answered.

	``I was waiting for that.''  She smiled gently, and got up and
went to the window.  ``Have you noticed how clear the sky is?''

	``No.''

	``Get on your coat.  Let's go outside.''

	Their footsteps creaked in the dry snow.  He took her hand and
they wandered around the yard a little.  Halfway to the zenith in the
southern sky, Orion's Belt glittered like a strand of diamonds hanging
by an invisible nail.  She thought she might try to string some beads
along the wall, if she could find any.  Below Orion in the southeast,
Sirius shone brightly.

	``It is chilly out here,'' he said.  

	She placed his hand with hers in her coat pocket.  ``No, I'd
rather stay outside a while longer, if you're not too cold.''

	``No.''

	``But my feet might be cold later,'' she said.  ``You'll have
to warm them up.''

	``I have trouble with that.''

	``To bad.  It's part of the bargain of sleeping with me.  She
leaned against him.  ``Anyway, I'm warm enough.  Let's stay here for a
while.''

	They stood silently in the backyard for perhaps 15 more 
minutes.

	``Jeanine, my feet _are_ getting cold now.''

	``Then let's go back.  We can warm our feet by the stove.''
The moment she said this, the image of the men on the West Side came
to her, and how she had watched them from a distance, huddling around
the fires in the old trash cans at night, keeping warm.



			      Chapter 13


	Leonard looked almost annoyed to see her when she stepped into
the kitchen the next morning.  Timothy glared angrily across the table
at him.  She asked, ``Would you like something besides coffee?'' She
wasn't sure how much help Leonard would accept from her.

	``I have to go soon.''

	``Timothy, do you want some toast?''

	The boy looked at the table in front of him.  ``I'm not
hungry.''

	``Well, I _am_ hungry.  I'll have something to eat if you
won't.''

     They watched her sullenly.  She put some bread in the oven and
waited, sipping her coffee.

     ``I don't want to sit down with either of you.''  She removed the
toast from the oven.  ``You two aren't very good company this
morning.''

     She finished eating, then slipped on her coat over her sweater,
and stepped outside and breathed deeply.  The temperature was in the
40s already.  There were bare patches of soft, damp earch where the
snow had melted away.  But she was prepared for another freeze.  The
winter was not over yet.

	She pondered going back inside and decided not to waste the
weather.  It was too pleasant.

     She reached the end of the street where it overlooked the
freeway.  The path down to the concrete was a trail of damp earth.
She couldn't think of any reason to go across.  The weather had simply
made her want to think of getting out and moving on.  It it reminded
her of what she had been missing.

     She strolled home at a leisurely pace.  Once inside, she found
Leonard on the sofa.  Timothy was nowhere around.  In response to her
questioning look, Leonard said, ``He went outside.''

     ``Didn't you ask where he was going?''

     ``He didn't say anything.  He just went out.''

     ``Damnit can't you to keep an eye on him while I'm gone?  I can't
always watch him.''

     ``You never told me that.  What am I, a mind reader?''

	``I look after him as much as I can.''  Leonard looked sharply
at her.  ``Only he won't let me watch him very well, either,'' she
said.

     ``I have to go to work,'' he said.

     ``Will you come this evening?''

     ``Sure,'' Leonard said.  He stood and put on his coat.  ``I'll
come over unless something happens.''

     ``I'll be waiting for you.''  She thought for a moment.
``Timothy might be at the store.  He likes it there.  Is it all right
if he comes over?''

     ``I'll look after him if he's there.  Even though he isn't my 
responsibility.''

     ``He's my responsibility, which would make him your
responsibility, too.''

     ``You're assuming an awful lot, so soon.''

     ``You seem to forget that it goes with the territory.  I may be
over there later.''

     ``There won't be any lunchtime napping if he's there.''

     ``I can't allow that.  I'm stuck between two men.  How would I
cope with it?''

     ``Not by leaving him home alone, I'm sure.  Only, please try to
show up later.''



	Gerry had gotten up early.  It was long before daybreak.  She
dressed and went downstairs and started a pot of coffee.  She sat at
the table, concealed by the shadows of the bookshelves.  Finally, the
morning light filtered through the front window.  She pondered what
she would tell Leonard when he came in.  Would she say she was
leaving, that she wanted nothing else to do with the place?  That
wasn't what she wanted.  She liked working here and liked him and
liked living with him.

     She had nowhere else to go.  But if the kid showed up later, she
felt like she would scream.  She wasn't going to watch another woman's
child.

	She had given her tacit permission that Leonard and Jeanine
could have a relationship.  She had turned her back on them.  Her
silent shame should have allowed no room for misunderstanding between
she and Leonard.

	There was little chance of that.  On early mornings she
worried about him.  She had no idea of where he was or what he was
doing.  She didn't know whether he was safe or not.  She hoped he was
staying with Jeanine on the nights he didn't come home, because then
he was all right.  It hadn't yet become a regular thing.  She didn't
like being alone in the upper flat on cold winter nights.  She slept
on the sofa in the parlor half of the time anyway.  When she and
Leonard felt affectionate toward each other and she did come to bed,
all they did was sleep.  There was no passion any more, only normalcy.
Maybe she wasn't such an important part of his life, after all.

     She couldn't bring herself to use the bed while he was gone.
Until recently, it had been a long time since she had spent the night
without having him around.  It was lonely.  The overflow of books and
magazines from the shop below lined the walls of the sitting room.
The apartment looked more like a dusty, grimy attic than a living
space.

     At daybreak, she overcame her fear that someone might try to
break in to the building.  Nothing had happened so far.  Even though
someone could get into the lower floor and not the upper, she didn't
know what she would do if someone was downstairs.  It was the same all
year, only the reasons to worry changed. In the winter she worried
about the homeless, in the summer, vandals.

     She watched the light gather slowly outside while she listened to
the silence in the shop.  There was no doubt that the place had grown
dusty with age.  She and Leonard were turning into museum pieces like
the books on the shelves.  Maybe Jeanine would do something about
that.  Gerry felt too comfortable with the furnishings of the store to
change them. The only thing she would object to was if Leonard spent
too much time with Jeanine.  Gerry didn't want to be stuck doing all
of the work herself.

     She made a second pot of coffee -- not that she would tell
Leonard, he would charge her for it -- when he arrived through the
back door.  Her hands shook and she spilled some of the coffee grains
on the countertop.  She must have been more upset than she
thought. How could he possibly leave a partnership like theirs, after
all of these years?

     A little later, she heard him moving through the rooms upstairs.
He was probably changing his clothes.  She heard the water running in
the shower and was glad that she was nowhere near while he cleaned up.

     ``Have some coffee,'' she said, when he had come downstairs and
was within earshot.  ``I made it up fresh.''  She didn't turn to look
at him, but continued to look out through the window.

     ``Did you?  Thanks.  If I knew that, I would have come downstairs
first.''

     ``I was waiting to see if I needed to open the shop, and to make
sure that you were all right.''

     ``Thanks, I appreciate that.  I don't need anything this 
morning.  You can go out if you like.''

     ``Thanks, I'll do that.''

     ``We'll see if it gets busy this afternoon.  It depends on who 
comes in.''

     ``Right.  Don't take my pay for this.  All the nice weather and
here I am, stuck inside.''

     ``It's going to freeze again.  You'll be glad of the warmth.''

     ``Think of the extra five dollars you'll save next month.
Really, Leonard, if you don't want me around, why don't you say so?  I
feel like an appendage, like the furniture.  I haven't done anything
useful since I don't know when.''

     ``We're both fixtures,'' he said.  ``Can't you just relax about 
it?''

     ``I don't want you disappearing with that woman.  What would
happen to me and the shop?''

     ``Jeanine knows better than to come between us and the 
business.''

     ``Have you talked about it?''

     ``No, she's mostly worried about the boy.''

     ``I hope you're right, because I'm not leaving.''

     ``Please be nice to him.  If he's here when you close, take 
him upstairs.  Don't let him stay on the streets.''

     ``So now I have to be a babysitter, too.''

     ``I didn't say that.  All you have to do is make sure he's safe
inside.  Otherwise, he can take care of himself.''

     Leonard went back to his desk.  Gerry continued to stare outside.
There were people walking around in the warm weather.  She wanted to
get out and about herself.  There was nothing for her to do in here.
She longed for her and Leonard's routine to be like the routine they
had when things were normal between them.  She would have brought him
some coffee, or lunch.

     ``Leonard, would you like some coffee?''

     ``No, I have some.''  He didn't look up from his desk.

     ``Then would you like something to eat?''

     ``No thank you.  I'm not hungry.''

     Gerry kept her voice level.  ``Well, then, I'm getting out of
here.''

     He glanced up at her.  ``All right.  I'm sorry.  Be careful.''

     ``I will, Leonard.  Will you be here this evening?''

     ``I don't know.''

     ``I can't plan anything if I don't know whether you're going 
to be here or not.''

     ``Can't you just plan without me?''

     She needed only one look at him, bent and preoccupied over his
desk, to see that he was worried, probably about Jeanine.

     ``I see that I'm not going to do anything with you.''

     She spun on her heel and left the shop, wondering whether she
would be back in the evening.

     She walked a few blocks until she cooled off, and avoided the
other people outside.  It was easy to imagine that the trees would bud
soon, as they should be in a couple of months.  A few more days of
weather like this, and the branches would begin to put out shoots.
There were people in the park.  It was actually a couple of vacant,
renovated lots.  Children played in the bare earth under the trees
while their mothers and aunties watched them.  She stayed still on the
bench, aloof from them.  She was used to being the only white person
around.  She felt a keen sense of loneliness.  It would never be
enough for her to watch other peoples' children.  She knew suddenly
that she would never have a child of her own.  That fear had been
abstract.  Now she knew it was true.  It had the heavy, numbing force
of a fact.  There was nothing she could do about it.  Who was she,
compared to Jeanine?  Jeanine did not have the education she had, nor
the wit, nor was she as attractive.  Gerry was tougher.  She had been
forced onto the streets to survive.  This was when she was a girl.  It
made her a lot less inclined to take life easy.  She was totally
unable to take things for granted.  She worried about Leonard.  But
Jeanine had a home now -- two homes, when she needed them -- and Gerry
had none.  She couldn't go back to Leonard.  Not like this, if he was
going to ignore her.

     The cold, winter sunlight hurt her.  The springlike warmth in the
air did not cheer her up.  The haze that rose from the damp earth
shrouded the trees in the distance with a silvery mist that was only
temporary.  In a day or two, the air would crack again with the icy
cold.

     Someone was standing behind her.  She stiffened for an instant.
She looked up and saw the pleasant face of a man smiling down at her.
He was black, and older, and had gray hair.  His smile gave him a
fatherly appearance.  His wool overcoat gave him a certain dignity.

     ``I didn't mean to frighten you,'' he said.

     ``It's all right.  I wasn't paying attention.''

     ``Can I sit down?''

     ``It's a free country.  But don't sit too close.  I'm feeling
pricky this morning.''

     ``My name is Ron,'' he said.  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from
inside his coat.

	``It's not a weapon.''  He removed a cigarette and offered her
the pack.

     ``Thanks.''  She took a cigarette.  She bent close to him.  He
struck a match and lit first his cigarette and then hers.  He shook
the match out and dropped it to the ground carelessly.

     She frowned.

     ``What brings you here?'' he asked.

     She slid down a little on the bench and stared directly 
ahead.

     ``I don't know.  The weather, I suppose.  It's a nice day, and I
wanted to get out.''

     ``The same here.  Do you have a place to stay?''

     She nodded but didn't look at him.  She watched the children
racing across the grass, heedless of the adults.

     ``A lover's quarrel.''  He smiled and laughed a little.  ``It
happens to me sometimes.  The old lady kicks me out, and here I am,
out on the street.''

     ``I could go back, but I couldn't bring you with me.''

     ``Do you want to go back?''

     ``No.  I'm sick of staying there.  He's got another woman, too.
Should I have to cope with that?''

     He looked at her closely.  ``He doesn't care about you.''

     ``Who knows?  All he does is work and sleep with other 
women.''

     ``You shouldn't take it so badly.  I've had worse things happen
to me.''

     ``I have, too.''

     ``But I haven't eaten yet,'' he said.  He patted his stomach.
``It's getting on toward noon.  Would you like to come with me?''

     ``At least you have money.  That's a good sign.''

     ``Does it bother you, being seen with a black man?''

     ``No.  As it happens, I have a little money, too.''

     He smiled, but she looked warningly at him.  ``Only a little
money.  Is it far?''

     ``No.  Just around the block.''

     She examined her cigarette.  ``Do you mind if I finish this?''

     ``No, take your time.  I have all day.''

     ``As long as it isn't expensive.  I don't want to go back to 
him for money.''

     ``Maybe I can buy you lunch.''

     ``I have enough,'' she said.  ``I'm not into money.''

     ``Do you want to go?''

     ``Do you mind if I sit here for a few minutes?  I'm enjoying the
weather.''

     She followed him to a narrow storefront, around the block from
the park.  She would have walked right past it.  The dark windows and
faded sign above the door made the place look deserted.  Inside, the
air was warm and steamy.  The foyer opened into a clean, spacious back
room.  A few other people were in there, all black.  ``Nobody notices
this little chicken shack,'' Ronald said, ``unless we show it to
them.''

     ``What is there to hide?'' They sat down.  He was facing her.
Her back was to the wall, his was to the room.

     ``We like to keep the good things for ourselves.''

	They waited for the waitress to come over.  Ron ordered soup
and coffee for them both.

     The soup came in large bowls.  There were thick slices of bread
on the side.  The coffee came in large mugs.  ``This is a good place
to come when the old lady kicks me out.''

     ``She must have a reason.''

     He looked at her sharply.  ``She don't need a reason.  She just
does, no matter what I do.  It's my business anyway.''

     ``Right, sorry.''

     ``Anyway, they don't mind if you sit here for a while.  Sometimes
we get card games going, until three or four in the morning.
Everybody catches it the next day from the women.''

     ``What are you going to do?'' she asked.

     ``I don't know.  Maybe go home eventually.  Or find a sweet lady 
like you.''

     She smiled.  ``I have problems of my own.''

     ``Just relax.  Maybe we'll figure something out.''

     ``They don't mind having a white person in here?''  The waitress
refilled their coffee.

     ``No, as long as they figure you're all right.  I've been coming
here for a long time.''

     ``You've been here too long,'' the waitress said to him.  ``Did
you have a fight with your woman again?''

     ``Everything's fine, Grace.  This here is a friend of mine.
She's one of the bookstore ladies.''

     ``Do you want my opinion?''  Grace walked away without waiting
for an answer.

     ``Do you do this often?'' Gerry asked.  ``I mean, maybe I should
go.''

     He placed his hand on her arm un-selfconsciously, then folded his
arms and leaned toward her.  He said quietly, ``Stick around here for
a while.  What else do you have to do?

     ``I don't have anything to do.''

     ``Me, either.  Why don't you relax?  Nobody's making us go.''

     She glanced at the other people in the cafe.  There didn't seem
to be any cause for alarm.  Over the years she had developed the skill
from the hours she had spent in the shop.

     ``The waitress said we should leave.''

     ``She's only fooling.  We can stay.  It'll be cold out.''

     ``I should go anyway.''

     ``No.  It's just that she takes very good care of me.''

     ``Sure.  I need some more coffee.''  She finished the last in the
bottom of the cup.

     ``Grace!'' he called.  ``Bring some more coffee.  This woman
wants some.''

     ``No, really,'' Gerry said.

     ``Please stay for another cup.''  He smiled knowingly.  ``It's
better coffee than what you all serve at that bookstore, if you don't
mind me saying so.''

	``Why didn't you say that you've been there?''

	``Maybe I'm shy.  That's some place.  It's like our little bit
of culture.  You must have been out while I was there.''

     The waitress came over and looked at him sourly.  She turned to
Gerry.  ``You want some more coffee, right?''

     ``Sure,'' Gerry did not look up at her.  She took the refilled
cup and sipped from it.

     Two men came over and joined them.  ``This is Big Stan and
William,'' Ron said.  Gerry slid her chair to one side and made room
for them.

     ``That lady of yours said you'd be wanting a car,'' Big Stan said
to Ron.

     ``No, I didn't,'' Gerry protested.

     ``Another lady, white girl.''  

	Gerry looked closely at him.  There was a coldness in his
manner which she didn't like.  She supposed that she was out of place
and let it pass.

     ``I don't know why she wants me to buy one,'' Ron said.  ``I
don't have the money.''

     ``She said you did.  She doesn't want you spending it all on some
white bitch.''

     ``It's nothing personal,'' William smiled.

     ``I'd best talk to her,'' Ron said.

     ``Come out and have a look, man.  It's clean,'' William said.

     ``She and I are having our coffee.  We're old friends.''

     ``Why don't you have some?'' Gerry asked.

     ``We don't want any,'' William answered.

     Gerry wanted to leave, but the warmth and the smells of the food
and the coffee made her sleepy.  She listened to the three men talk
among themselves.  She had trouble following the conversation.

     It was nice to be around people, and sit in the warmth of the
cooking smells instead of the cool dust and lonely dampness of the
stacks at Leonard's.  She hoped he was happy alone with them.

     One of the men, Big Stan, elbowed her.  ``You're a friend of
his?''

     ``Yes,'' she said, shaking herself awake.

     ``You'd best not let his lady friend see you.  She's real 
mean.''

     ``Someone tried taking my man away,'' Gerry said.  ``I could 
kill her.''

	``Not his old lady?''

	``No.''

	``So what are you doing here?''

	``Having coffee.  I don't want to talk about it.''

	Big Stan indicated Ron.  ``His old lady kill you if she
finds out.''

     ``I'd tell her myself, if I got around to it.''

     ``That's what he always says,'' Big Stan answered.  ``He never
does seem to remember.''

     ``We're friends.  That's all.''

     ``Maybe you should be careful next time.''  Incongruously, he
smiled.

     ``Maybe.  But I'm surprised you didn't seen me.  I'm from the
bookstore on Mueller.  But me and my guy had a fight.  I don't want to
go back there.''

     ``It's about another lady, right?''

     ``That's right.''

     ``Then you know what his old lady is going to say if she finds
out you're with him.''

     He looked around the room, then turned back to her.  ``We can do
something for you.''

     ``I don't know what.  I'm only going to sit here for a while
longer.''

     ``All right, all right.''

	She was going to stay away from the book store and would need
to start thinking now of finding a place to stay.  Maybe she could
sleep on the floor of somebody's house.

     After a while the men got up to leave.  ``Are you staying here?''
Ron asked her.

     ``I don't know.  Where are you going``

     ``Just out.  I'll be back in a little bit.''

     ``I think I'll stay here.''

     ``It's all right if you come along,'' Ron said.

     ``No, I think I'll stay, if you don't mind.''  Her instinct told
her it was better to put a little distance between herself and the men
for now.

     ``That's all right by us,'' he said. 

     The men left.  She was alone with her coffee.  Many of the people
who had been in the diner had left also.  That was okay with her.  She
wanted to be alone for a while and think.

     The first time she had met Leonard, she simply wandered into the
bookstore.  It was so much like the way he had met Jeanine.  He was a
lot younger then, and a lot more optimistic.  She shouldn't have
allowed him to take her for granted.  But he had given her a
comfortable life.  Maybe she had taken that for granted, and a change
of pace was the best thing.  They had settled into a routine and had
not really thought about it.

     ``Do you want some more coffee?''  Grace said to her.  Gerry
started, then nodded.  She felt in her pocket for some change.

     ``That's all right,'' Grace said.  ``This one will be on us.''

     ``Thanks.''

     ``Your old man kicked you out?''

     ``I left him.  He took up with someone else.''

     ``Oh.  Are you going back to him?''

     ``I don't know.  I doubt it.''

     ``I've been there.  Why don't you stay for a while and relax?
Maybe you'll think of something.''

     ``Did you go back to him?''

     ``Of course!  How long have you been with this guy?''

     ``More than 20 years.''

     ``Lord, Almighty!  You can't just walk out on a man like that,
after all that time.''

     ``I suppose you're right.  I've been thinking this over.''

     ``Don't think too long.  It's cold out there at night.''

     ``Don't I know it?  I've been on the sidewalk a few times
already.''

     ``I know it better than you do.  What is your name?''  Gerry told
her.  ``You just relax, Ger'.  Something will come up.''

     She disappeared into the kitchen and Gerry was alone once more
with her thoughts.  If she was smart, she would return to the
bookstore and have it out with Leonard right now.  But it seemed
easier to relax and let the world go in its own direction.

     She rose to leave.  Grace said to her, ``Why don't you come
around closing time, and you and I will have a drink together.''

     ``All right.  I'll try to do that.''

     ``Just remember.''

     Gerry walked back to the bookstore slowly and thought of what she
would tell Leonard.  Nothing, probably.  He wouldn't pay any attention
to her.  She was resigned to it.  She didn't want to force a
confrontation with him.

     Leonard was at his desk, which was exactly where she expected him
to be.  ``It's a nice day,'' he said.  ``I wish I could have gone
out.''

     ``It was lovely,'' she responded.  ``What are you doing?''

     ``Book work.  The usual.''

     ``I see.  Are you going to Jeanine's house tonight?''

     ``Yes, for dinner.''  He looked up sharply.  ``Why?''

     ``No reason.  I wanted to know if you planned to spend any time
with me.''

     ``I don't know.  I like being with Jeanine.''

     ``You don't mince words, do you?'' she said.  ``If that's the 
way it is, I'm going out, too.''

     ``As long as you're careful.  I don't want you wandering around
after dark.''

     ``Don't worry.  I can take care of myself.''

     She went upstairs to change and take a shower.  The water coursed
some of her frustration away.  She stepped from the bathroom and put
on fresh clothing.  The afternoon had far advanced.

     She met Leonard on the back stairway.  

	``Where are you going?''  He asked her.

     ``Out.  To have a drink.''

     ``With who?''

     ``As if I should tell you!  I want to do something besides sit
around all night.''

     ``All right,'' he said.  ``Be careful.''  He continued up the
stairs.

     ``I certainly know how to take care of myself,'' she called back
to him.  ``How could I have managed otherwise, with all of the times
you've been gone?''

     She stepped through the back door and slammed it shut.  Of course
he hadn't replied.  She stood for a moment in the dusky alley, looking
in both directions for other people.  There was no sign of anyone else
and no sound but the rattle of her keys which turned raspily in the
lock and secured the door shut behind her.



			      Chapter 14


	The bookstore was closed when Jeanine arrived in the morning.
She knocked at the door until Leonard appeared.  He was unkempt and
still in his bathrobe, and let her in silently.  She started a pot of
coffee and went upstairs.  He was in the kitchen and looked as gray
and worn as the Formica table where he sat with a cup of coffee,
staring meditatively outside through the window.

     ``What's wrong?'' she asked.  It was several moments before he
looked up and answered her.

     ``Gerry didn't come home last night.  I'm worried about her.''

     ``Did she say where she was going?''

     ``No, she just went out.''

     ``Did she say why?''

     ``It's because of you.''  Leonard averted his eyes.

     ``I see.''  Jeanine could think of no reason why she should worry
about what Gerry was doing.  ``Should I leave?''

     ``Please stay.  I don't know where she is.''

     Jeanine said, ``May I have a cup of coffee and join you?''

     ``Help yourself.''

     She sat down at the table with the coffee and Leonard said,
``She's been with me all of these years.  I just completely overlooked
her.  I don't know why I had to do that.''  He thumped on the table
with his fist and seemed on the verge of flying into a rage.

     ``I can take care of the shop if you want to stay up here
today.''

	He glared at her.  ``You can do whatever you want.  It would
be even worse for her to come back and see you running things.''

     ``I wouldn't want that.''  Jeanine made to go.

     ``No, don't leave.  Stay here for a while.''

     ``Really, if you want me here, that's fine. But I'm not going to
be wrapped up in your private affairs.  I won't have any part of this
-- I've got enough of my own to do.  I don't need to be concerned that
you can't put your affairs in order.''

     ``Right.''  Leonard continued to stare out of the window.

     ``So what should I do?  Should I stay or leave?''

     ``Stay.  But I can't just let her go, not without finding out
what's happened to her, at least.''

     ``You don't know for certain that she's all right?''

     ``I don't have the slightest idea where she is.''

     ``Have you thought that she could take care of herself?''

     ``Not around here, she can't.  At least, I can't be certain of
it. She hasn't been on her own in years.  I'm afraid that she wouldn't
know what to do.''

     ``You can at least give her credit for having survived this long.
She'll probably walk in today like nothing happened.''

	``That shows what a lot you know.  You don't have any regard
for her feelings.''

	``I think you're over-reacting.  But if you like, I'll open up
downstairs.''

	``No, I'll do it.  I don't want you to be the one she sees, if
she comes back.  When she comes back.''

	``There's every reason to think that she will.'' 

	Leonard said, ``But you don't have to stay.  I'm being
terrible, I know.''

     ``I'll be downstairs.  Then you can come down when you're
ready.''

     ``It's asking for trouble.''  He sighed.  ``If Gerry comes in,
tell her I'm up here.''

     Jeanine went downstairs and unbolted the door, then sat at the
table in the front window.

     Gerry must have come in the back way, because suddenly Jeanine
heard she and Leonard shouting at each other upstairs.  Jeanine
tensed, anxious that Gerry should come down into the shop and fly into
a rage at her. She tried to ignore the noise from upstairs but
couldn't.  Gerry sounded shrill, and Leonard was clearly upset.  The
words were unintelligible, which was probably better.  She didn't want
to know the details.  What worried her was that she, too, would have a
fight with Leonard.

      The noise from upstairs was becoming unbearable.  Jeanine closed
and locked the door and went across the street to the market.

     She wandered through the shelves, unsure of what to look for.
She had simply wanted to get out of the bookstore and had never been
in the supermarket when it was crowded.  A group of people, all black,
hung around at the entrance near the checkout line.  The scene
reminded her uncomfortably of the atmosphere in the little market near
her squat.  She of course wanted to avoid them, but didn't see how she
could do that, not if she were going to purchase something.  Mentally
she made an inventory of the items at home.  There didn't seem to be
anything that she needed.

     Without thinking, she took a bag of spaghetti from the shelf and
wandered slowly around the back of the store, then up toward the cash
register.  The crowd of people at the front of the store were talking
among themselves and didn't seem to notice her.  Jeanine tried her
best not to listen but couldn't help being distracted by their
conversation.  It was a domestic quarrel, she realized grimly.  It
seemed that there were troubles all around.

     ``Grace said that woman better not come back, or else she's 
going to tell my woman.  Then that white girl is going to be in a 
mess.  She was in the Acme all afternoon.''

     ``What does Grace care?  She's got her job and her man.  It isn't
any of her business.''

     ``No, she's just looking after her friends.''

     Jeanine wondered if she would do the same, if one of her friends
was in trouble.

     The Acme Cafe... it sounded familiar to Jeanine.  She had never
been in there.  She sort of half-remembered it but wasn't sure that it
really existed, but was only something that people talked about.

     She ought to be getting back to the bookstore and find out how
Leonard was getting on.  Her instinct told her to go home and forget
about the whole thing. She did need to look in on Timothy, whom she
realized she had neglected for nearly the whole week.  Jeanine had no
doubt that he could take care of himself.  Still she worried about
him, mostly from habit, she guessed.  There seemed to be too many
things going on in her life.  Between Timothy and the house, and
Leonard and the bookstore, she was unable to watch all of the things
which needed looking after.

	There was not much that she could do about he and Gerry, any
more than she could do anything about the domestic squabble being
discussed at the front of the supermarket.  Absently she took the
spaghetti to the checkout line and left the market, not thinking about
what she would do once she was on the street and needed to decide
whether to go home or back to the bookstore.

     As it turned out, going to the bookstore was easier.  Her feet
retraced the familiar path across the street.  She did not relish the
thought of walking all the way home at this hour.  Leonard was going
to need her, if the fight earlier between he and Gerry was any
indication.

     The shop was empty.  She called for Leonard.  There was no answer
from the back of the shop, nor did she hear him moving around
upstairs.  Her voice fell silent among the dusty bookshelves and dim,
late-afternoon light.  She settled in to wait for him, rather than
return home.  It would be dark soon, and she would not be able to go
home at all.  It would simply be too dangerous.  She did not want to
leave Timothy alone. But neither did she want to leave Leonard.

	He shouldn't have to face an empty bookstore, if he returned
by himself.  The silence and emptiness of the shop was sufficient
proof against that. There was no sign of anyone else, nor anything
which might indicate the presence of another human.  Leonard's
presence permeated the store, the desks and shelves, and the rows and
stacks of dusty books.  It brought back to her all of the times she
had felt alone.  She was determined that Leonard would not have to go
through that.  She herself had become accustomed to solitude and knew
how bleak the prospect of a night alone in an empty building could be.
One of the ways she had coped with it was to be constantly on the
move.  It had taken her long enough to realize that.  Leonard had no
such option. He was settled, a creature of 30 years' of habit and old
memories.

     It was becoming dark.  She began to think that Leonard might not
return at all.  She was not really concerned.  Somehow, the
preoccupation with Gerry kept her from worrying that something else
might have happened to him.  It was as if his troubles would shield
him from a greater tragedy.

     She locked the front door and sat quietly in the darkness.  This
made her feel too much like she was snooping.  She went to the back of
the shop and switched on the lamp on Leonard's desk, determined to
wait for him there.  It wasn't like she was prying into his business.
She had never thought about looking at his ledgers or business
correspondence, and even now felt a keen sense of aversion.

     Maybe she should leave and return home despite the risk, and wait
until the whole thing had blown over.  Leonard had been behaving badly
this morning.  Perhaps the night alone would do him good.  But she
decided against it.  The effects of her own guilt and nerves took
their toll.  She was not willing to abandon him, even if it meant
taking him away from another woman.  She had never done anything like
that before.

     She wanted Leonard to realize that she would not leave him, no
matter what his reaction might be.  She did not think of Leonard as
her main chance.  But there was something comforting in their
relationship.  She felt justified in feeling that Leonard wanted her
around as well.

     It was well after dark when Leonard and Gerry returned.  Jeanine
heard them talking as they entered through the back door.  They
stopped when they saw Jeanine.  Neither of them looked like they were
in a good mood.

     ``You're still here.''  Leonard said it in a tone which made
Jeanine feel like an intruder.

     ``I was looking after things.''

     Gerry was pale and obviously upset.  She was shaking from anger.
``Leonard, I'm leaving.  Now!  If you want her around, that's fine.
But you don't need me here, too.''

     ``We can talk about this another time.''

     Gerry's temper flared.  ``There isn't going to be another time.
I'm going upstairs for some things.  It won't take me very long, I
promise you, for all of the things you've given me.  Thirty years, and
I have nothing to show for it.  Nothing!  You stay down here with this
whore until I've left.''

     Jeanine half rose in the chair, about to return the statement,
but the pained look in Leonard's eyes stilled her.

     ``I'm right here, Leonard, if you want to talk,'' Jeanine said.

     Leonard walked to the front of the store without looking at her.
He stood at the window, as if to watch the street, with his back to
the two women.

     Gerry started toward the back door.  ``This is it, Leonard!  If
you don't do anything now, you won't ever see me again.  For once in
your life, do something.''

     Jeanine thought bleakly that she was now a homewrecker.  It was
something that she had never imagined doing.  She had no experience
with the role and was at a loss.  It was best, she decided, to say
nothing until things had calmed down a little.

     She was certain they would.  But the sound of Gerry's feet on the
stairs broke the silence and must have been far more damning to
Leonard than anything she could have said.

	He was only half visible in the shadows of the darkened front
window, but with each sound of Gerry's steps, his shoulders seemed to
sag a little further, as if each footstep marked another second nearer
to his last.


			      Chapter 15


	Jeanine waited until Gerry had come downstairs again and went
out.  The door slammed shut.  Even then, Jeanine hesitated, to give
Leonard a few minutes alone.  She was too restless to sit still and
wait.  Delaying would make things more difficult when she went
upstairs to face him.

	She should have left him to sort his problems out alone.  It
was too late now.  She couldn't leave.  Walking home by herself, in
the darkness, would be too dangerous.  Silence settled over the
building, a silence so complete, she was convinced that he had
forgotten about her.

	Then there was Timothy.  She had been neglecting the boy but
had decided that he was safe enough at home.  It was more important
that she stay here.

	Even more than that, she was the cause of Leonard's trouble.
She went to the back of the store.  Leonard sat quietly at his desk.
He must have come downstairs silently.

	She said, ``It's too late for me to leave alone.  Would you
like to get out of here for a while and walk me to my house?''

     Leonard didn't look up.  

     ``Are you worried that Gerry will come back?  Won't it be better
to leave her alone?''

     ``Your presence isn't making things easier.''

     ``That's too bad, Leonard.  I would like to stay here, because I
care about you.  I care about her, too, even though she was the one
who went off.''

     ``I can't give up thirty years of my life like that.  I didn't
think she would, either.''

     ``Maybe you both needed a little breathing room.  Why don't I go
upstairs and make you something?''

     ``I'm not in the mood for dinner.  Suppose she does come back?''

     ``Then I'll clear out.  Or I'll have it out with her.  She can't
simply go running off like that.  I don't mind facing her, but I don't
know what I'll do.  I'll find that out when the time comes.''

     His hesitation was wearing on her.  She, too, felt torn in her
loyalties.  She was not caving in to his demands but honestly wanted
to do what was best for all of them.

     Her experience told her to do _something_ and not simply allow
matters to simmer.  ``I'll go upstairs for a while,'' she said.  ``If
you want to come up, fine.  If Gerry comes back, I'll deal with her
then.''

	``No, I'll deal with her.''

	``You can do whatever you like.''  Without saying another
word, she left and went upstairs.

     There was little which she could do if Leonard didn't want her
help.  In the mood he was in, there seemed to be very little which he
would want anyway.  She didn't know how long he would stay depressed.
She was determined to wait it out, however long it took.

     In the morning, she could go home and see Timothy.  The boy was
able to spend the whole night outdoors and survive.  She was sure that
he would be all right at home.

     Leonard's apartment was clean, but felt closed in, because stacks
of books from the shop lined the walls.  In the bedroom, Gerry had
spilled the contents of several dresser drawers in her haste to pack.
Articles of clothing were scattered on the floor and the bed.  It
would be better to let Leonard clean that up, however painful that
might be for him.  She would have felt within her rights to arrange
anything else, but not that.  Not without asking first.

     She stacked the things neatly on the bed anyway, refolding the
articles which had come loose.  She placed them in the open drawers of
the old bureau against the wall.  Everything was as it had been
before.  There was no sign of Gerry's hasty departure.

     Jeanine had just returned to the kitchen when she heard Leonard's
footsteps on the stairs.  She made a quick inventory of the food in
the cupboards and refrigerator in case he wanted something to eat.
She herself was hungry.  The crisis had taken most of the afternoon
and part of the evening.

     Leonard appeared in the door.  ``Would you like some dinner?  I
am hungry, after all.''

     ``I was going to make something,'' she said.  ``If you'd rather
do the cooking, I'll sit here and watch.''

	``You don't need to cook.''  Leonard let out a breath which
was half a sigh of weariness, half sadness.  ``I don't know what I'm
going to make, though.''

 	``I wouldn't worry about it.  Make whatever comes to mind.''

	He began to look through the cupboards.  ``I have to get my
mind off of Gerry.''

     ``I know.''

	``Am I being unreasonable?''

	``I really don't know.  It's not for me to say.  I can
understand that she doesn't want another woman around.  Whether it's
reasonable or not is for you to decide.''

	He stood still and leaned wearily with both hands against the
counter.  His head was bowed and he fell silent.  He looked gray.  She
was frightened that he would faint.  ``Something is going to happen to
her,'' he said.  ``If she isn't all right, I don't know what I'll
do.''

	``I'm sure that she'll be fine.  She can take care of herself.
She seemed to know where she was going.''

	``I know.  Maybe she has some friends which she didn't
mention.  But after all of these years, I should know about these
things.''

	``It amazes me what people don't tell each other.  She never
mentioned any other friends to you?''

	``It makes sense, now that I think about it.''

	``Well, do you think that she's coming back?''

	``I guess I don't have any idea.''

	``Well, is she or isn't she?''

	Leonard slumped a little.  ``Why ask me?  I've never thought
about this before.''

	``People fantasize about stranger things.  Haven't you ever
considered the possibility?''

	``Not since I first met her.''

	``Now it's too late.  Do you mind if I go downstairs for a
while?  You can be alone.  I have to think this over, too.''

	``As long as you don't go.  I'll call you when dinner's 
ready.''

	``It hadn't occurred to me that I should leave.''

	``I wouldn't think of it, either, until you had already
gone.''

	In the doorway she turned.  ``Leonard, has it ever occurred to
you that you haven't been able to do some of the things you might have
done if you didn't own this place?''

	He was silent for a moment and stared at the floor,
considering his answer.  ``When I was old enough to walk across the
street on my own, there was a hobo who lived in some woods near us,
along the edge of the railroad tracks.  He was harmless.  All of us
knew him.  We saw him often.  Then, one day, someone found him lying
in the middle of the street.  They thought he was drunk, which is the
way bums are, right?  But no, they rolled him over and saw that half
of his face had been shot away.  I happened to walk by and see it.
Everybody said what a tragic thing it had been, that he had always
been nice to the people in the neighborhood, sharing what he had,
playing a clown for the children.  They told this to the police who
came to take him away.  But I thought, there was so much that I didn't
know about him.  Seeing his face, what was left of it, made me think
that he had a whole life which none of us had known anything about.
It convinced me, no matter what, that there were some things which I
would never allow myself to do.  Sleeping out in the open was one of
them.  I don't think I realized that in so many words then, but that
was what I felt.  I must have been 10 years old.''

	Jeanine considered his answer.  ``Well, I hope I won't have to
die before you realize that I have a life, too.''  She turned and
started to go downstairs.  She said, ``And I have lived in the open.
It's not something that I like, but I've done it.  And I've survived
it.''

	She started down the steps.  From the kitchen Leonard said,
``I'll let you know when it's time to eat.''

	``I won't be doing anything.  Just call me when you're
finished.''

	Jeanine had expected that dinner would take him a little time
to prepare, but she wasn't ready to spend all night alone in the empty
shop.  When Leonard finally did call from upstairs, it was nearly an
hour later.  She had begun to worry whether he was still at the task
or if he had passed out or had simply given up, and she was on the
point of going upstairs to check on him before he called.  She went
upstairs.  He told her, ``I couldn't decide what to make.  There are
too many things in the cupboard, I suppose.''

	He had Gerry on his mind.  ``Try not to worry too much about
her,'' Jeanine said.

	``I have no idea where she could have gone.'' 

	All through the meal, Leonard tried to search his memory for
anyone Gerry had met.  ``She's lived here for 30 years.  How could I
possibly remember all of the people who wandered in here in that
time?''

	``But don't you?'' she joked.  ``If I were a customer, I would
feel slighted.''

	``I'm just out of my wits.  There must have been someone she
met.''

	``She might still turn up.''

	``But I never thought that she would leave.  After 30 years,
who would think that someone would just up and wander away?  I'm not
blaming you, but I think she is.  You were the person who upset her.
You upset our relationship.  We couldn't have gone on the way we had,
though.  I see that now.''

	Jeanine began to protest.  He interrupted her.  ``I'm not
angry at you.  If not you, it might have been someone else.''

	``I appreciate that, Leonard.  The fact is that it was me.''

	``I have to take some of the blame, too.  I wasn't ready for 
what happened.''

	``You made the choice.  Now you have to live with the
decision.''

	``But who wants somebody's dying on their hands?''

	``You don't even know where she is.  It's all very good that
you're worrying about her, but it's too a little late to do anything.
Do you understand that?  She'll be able to take care of herself.  In
the meantime, you have the store to attend to in the morning.  It's
getting late now.''

	``Would you like to go to bed?''  

	``I think I'll stay up for a while, if you don't mind.''

	``I can leave some blankets on the couch for you.''

	``That's all right.  I'll come to bed when I'm tired.''

	``I don't want to go to bed, either.  I'll only lie there and
worry.  I think I'll stay up for a while.''

	``Have it your way.  As it happens, I'm not sleepy.  One of 
us has to get up early in the morning.''

	``I want to be awake if she comes back.''

	``I think you have no sense of proportion where she's
concerned.  Don't you understand?  It's out of your hands.  There is
simply nothing that you can do about it.''

	``Are you saying that you aren't worried about her?''

	``No, I'm only saying that you should find something else to
do.  In the past, I've done everything, up to and including leaving.''

	``Are you planning to leave, too?''

	``You aren't listening to me.  If I were going to leave, I
certainly wouldn't have told you.''

	``I don't like this line of conversation.  It sounds like a
real possibility right now.''

	``It would have been a genuine possibility, but now I have a
house of my own.  Even if it is only a squat, it was my parents'
house.  And, I have a boy to look after.  I've been neglecting him.
Please don't forget that.  I'll probably have to look in on him
tomorrow to make certain that he hasn't flown the coop, either.''

	``It must be the weather which is causing everyone to be so
restless.''

	``He's a ten-year-old boy.  He would be restless anyway.  If I
wasn't so accustomed to moving around myself, I wouldn't know how to
keep up with him.''

	``It's marvellous, the way you do that.''

	``I do what I can.  But if I had it to do it all over again, I
wouldn't.  It wasn't easy.''  She covered his hand with her own across
the table.  ``Trust me, Leonard.  I wouldn't.''

	``Think of what you would have lost in the process,'' he said.
``Can you say you've been sorry for what you've done?''

	``I've regretted losing a lot of things in my life.  But I
don't worry about what I don't have.  I'm not even sure that I'm sorry
she left, although I'm involved in this situation.  There have been a
lot of times when I've had no control over what happened to me.  They
were simply chance occurrences.  I might have died or been injured,
but they were simply occurrences, all the same.''

	``Are you feeling more responsible, now that you're involved 
in something?'' he asked.

	``Do you mean, `Do I feel like running off now?'  The answer
to that is, `no.'  I have no intention of leaving.  My greatest
concern is to make sure that you don't go off the deep end or let
Gerry's leaving destroy our relationship.''

	``What would you say if Gerry claimed that you had destroyed
her relationship?''

	``Leonard, I didn't!  Is that what she said?  You two weren't
even close!  I wouldn't answer that kind of accusation if she put it
to me.  I certainly won't answer it from you.  I'm here, she isn't,
and that's the end of it.''

	Leonard looked uncomfortable.  ``There's a lot of history here 
that you didn't experience.''

	``But where is she, Leonard?''

	``Who are you to judge the relationship we had?''

	``If I had been interrupting, why didn't you tell me?  You
both made me welcome.  I won't take the blame for something which both
of you turned your backs on.''

	``One of us should have said something.  I was surprised that
she wasn't upset with you.  I wondered why that was.  I should have
thought about it more, instead of letting it pass the way I did.  Damn
it all to hell, why didn't I pay more attention to her?''

	``If my presence had bothered her so much, why didn't she say
something about it?  She can't blame anyone but herself for what she
didn't, or couldn't, do herself.''

	``You're right, you're right.  But, damnit, I at least want to
have the chance to ask her.  That, at least, is better than not
knowing.''

	``Far better, I would say,'' Jeanine said.  ``She'll be back
sometime soon.  You can ask her then.''  She wondered at her own
suspect motives and was mildly surprised that Leonard had not
questioned her more closely than he had.  He had only gnawed at the
edges of her guilt.

	The thing was, she didn't want to confront these feelings,
either.  It didn't help to have Leonard remind her of them.  She felt
her own inadequacy because she wasn't sure how to answer him.

	Right now, the last thing she and Leonard needed were more
evasions.  This particular rationalization could wait.  She wanted
to help Leonard deal with his own problems first.

	If Gerry were to appear and confront her with this accusation
-- it was an accusation and Jeanine would need to respond it -- she
was not certain what she would say.  To Gerry's charge that she was
taking advantage of Leonard, she might answer that Gerry had done the
same thing for 30 years and then had abandoned him.  Gerry would have
no ready answer but to say that people did this all the time.  If
she returned, the point would be moot.

	Jeanine knew that she was speculating, but she could not get
over the feeling that she was wrong about this.  She liked Leonard and
liked being around him and the store.  He seemed happy that she was
here.  She knew it would be heartbreaking if he were left alone.

	He had been alternately watching her and looking outside
through the window.  ``Are you getting tired, Leonard?'' she asked.
``If you are, why don't you go to bed?  I'll make myself at home on
the couch.''

	``There's no need for that,'' he said.  ``I would like to stay
up for a while.''

	``In case she comes back?''

	``I don't see how I can sleep when she's outside somewhere and
maybe suffering.''

	``I don't think she is.  She's too smart for that.''

	``I hope she is.  She doesn't have much experience at being
out on the street, though.''

	``Unlike me, is that what you mean?''  

	He nodded.  

	``How do you know she's out on the street?''

	``I don't.  That's what bothers me,'' he answered.  ``If she
is gone for good, or coming back, I wouldn't have to worry about her.
But the point is that I simply don't know for certain.  That's
probably the worst part of it.''

	``Leonard, what will you do if she comes back?  You can't have
both of us here under these circumstances.''

	``I don't know.  I'm not good in those situations. Probably
come over to your house, if you'd let me.''

	``So you've been in these situations before?''

	``No, nothing ever got this far.  I'm so domestic, and so is
she, that there was never any need for us to have lots of friends.''

	``Speaking strictly for yourself?''

	``Yes, I suppose you're right.''

	``Until I came along and ruined your life.''

	``I wouldn't put it that way.  You may have accelerated
things, but you didn't do anything on your own.''  He paused, and
seemed to think this over for a moment.  ``I forgot to tell you,'' he
said, ``that she's done this once before.  She disappeared for a whole
month.  Just as I was getting over her, she reappeared again.  It was
ten or 15 years ago, which is why I forgot to mention it.  But she had
left on the spur of the moment.  It wasn't until months, maybe a year
later, that she told me that she'd had an affair.  By that time the
shock had worn off, and she had settled in again.  Then she told me
while we were making love.  What was I to do?  It was already done,
and she was back and we were happy.  I meant to tell you, but so many
things got in the way.''

	``You brushed it off.''

	``Kind of.  We didn't make love very much after that.  Perhaps
I should have confronted her, because now she's going to think that
she can walk right back in on me again.''

	``She should realize that the circumstances are different now.
The shoe is on the other foot.''

	``I wouldn't put it past her to try coming back,'' he said.
``She has too much invested in this relationship to let it go without
a struggle.  I think that she will come back.  I simply don't know
when.  My main concern is for you, because I don't want you to be left
hanging.  I'm afraid that you'll be left out in the cold.  You'll feel
too put out to want to come back.''
	
	``I don't think that will happen.  There's too much here for
me, too.  Small as my investment is in you and the store, it's still
too much to give up easily.''  She looked outside through the window
and then fixed her gaze on him.  ``Or, perhaps it's because I've had
fewer things in life.  I appreciate small things more than she does.''

	``You do expect less,'' he said.  ``I don't know whether
that's good or bad.  You won't take anything.''  She couldn't meet his
look, and he, too, glanced at the dimly lit alley outside.



			      Chapter 16


	The few streetlights provided Gerry with little illumination
to see by.  There was a great expanse of dark sidewalk before her.
She remembered an old feeling of claustrophobia, and with sure, quick
steps, she hurried past the grimy, spray-fainted facades of the
storefronts.  Their bases and doorways were strewn with litter.  She
kept to the sidewalk as far as possible from the alleys which appeared
suddenly from the darkness.  Oddly, she felt more crowded outside than
indoors.  The crumbling buildings loomed overwhelmingly close.  When
she had first come here, she noticed how the broken skyline blocked
the morning sun---not that she had gotten outside very often.  She
worked in a factory where the high ceiling shut out the sky.  Days and
nights had no longer seemed to have meaning.

	The main thing that she concentrated on, was how much of a
Goddamned _mess_ she was in.  No matter how hard she tried not to
rely on other people or stay out of their way, something always went
wrong.  She supposed that she deserved to be stepped on again, but she
had counted on finding either Ron or Grace around.

	She did have the sense to watch closely for dangers, even as
another part of her mind raced over these thoughts.  Every doorway or
alley was a possible hiding place.  She hoped that her loud, hurried
footsteps would give the impression that her destination was close.
She couldn't keep up this pace much longer.  It would do for now,
though, to ward off attackers.

	Jeanine later pieced the story together, that Gerry had gone
to the cafe where Ron had taken her earlier that day.  Finding it
closed, she went to the park where she had first met him.  The night
was cold.  She circled the block few times, then went off to look for
Ron again.  She needed a place to stay.  Jeanine was not certain of
the exact sequence of events.  It seemed that no one was.  Ron had
mentioned a place to Gerry in passing.  She tried to remember its
name.  It couldn't have been far, or she wouldn't have tried to look
for it.

	She thought it was nearby.  There was no activity on the
streets, nor sign of any life in the buildings, which were mostly
boarded-up storefronts.  She could only hope to find some place that
was open, so she could be indoors.

	The cold reached all of the way through her clothing down to
her skin.  She began to shiver, and she briefly thought about
returning to the bookstore.  There was no way she should be outside in
the cold, winter night.  But she had resolved that she would rather
freeze than return to Leonard's.  He would simply have to live with
his decision.  She was determined to live with hers.  She started to
walk again, and thought of all of the times in her life when she had
been slighted, from the time as a child when she had been left out of
games.

	The episode with Leonard was another instance of this.  She
had told him, ``I guess that's just the way I am.  Some people are
made to be abused.''

	``I don't know what to say.  Nobody is trying to abuse you, or
get rid of you.''	

	``Now you're trying to get rid of me?''

	``No, of course not.''

	``What should I believe, Leonard?  It was too bad that you
didn't prepare me for this, and a good thing that I was prepared
myself.  First she does more work than me, then she spends more time
at home with you, and then she shares your bed?  It's unbelievable to
think I would let this pass.  I guess there's no way I can prevent
from being slighted, by you or anyone else.''

	``But nobody is slighting you,'' he said.

	``Then why do I feel like a stranger, Leonard?''

	``Do you think you could be wrong?''

	``No, I'm not wrong in this.  I don't know why you encourage
her.  I must have been waiting to be slighted.  It's been a long time
in coming, I see now.  I've been living on borrowed time.''

	``Maybe that's what's wrong.  You're resigned to it.  Are you
sure that you haven't wanted this all along?''

	``That doesn't mean I don't blame her.  If something happens,
she has to share the blame, and so do you.  But it's still me alone,
who must deal with the consequences.''  Gerry wished that she had
thought more about this, when, as now, she was left to wander around
outside in the cold.

	She wasn't worried about freezing to death.  All she needed to
do was keep moving.  There were still steam vents around, or she could
find an abandoned building which would shelter her from the wind.  She
really preferred to sleep in a normal house.  The effects of spending
a night in an abandoned building would be apparent in the morning,
when she appeared looking frayed and grimy.  She wanted to look for
work and another place to stay.

	She was known around the neighborhood and would rely on
word-of-mouth.  Something would always be available.  One couldn't
live in a place for thirty years and not develop some good will among
the neighbors.  She had hung around the upper part of Mack Avenue,
east of the Freeway and not quite in Grosse Pointe, for 30 years, from
the time she had first arrived.  The factory still stood.  Sometimes
she caught a glimpse of its decaying hulk, a gray shell which stood
about a half-mile down the Freeway, like a worn-out memory.  Things
had changed a lot since then.  This was like seeing history in a
time-lapse film.  All of those early days, especially, seemed to have
run one into the another.  She hadn't done much except go to work and
spend her evenings and weekends at home.  Leonard had befriended her
when she walked into the bookstore one afternoon.  The shelves and
fixtures were new and had not yet grown musty.  Leonard seemed much
taller and stood straighter than he did now.

	Chances were that she would find Ron in the morning, even if
he wasn't around tonight.

	There seemed to be another place which she could go, she
remembered dimly.  Her thoughts seemed scrambled.  She remembered the
place, an all-night cafe, as being warm and safe, but it was some
distance from here---on the other side of the old factory where she
had worked.

	She could wait out the night, and simply ask around for a
place to stay in the morning.  In her haste and anger, she had not
thought to bring blankets.  That was why she needed to get inside.
The hope of finding Ron faded quickly.  It was a mistake to rely on
him.  She couldn't remember the last time she had been outside after
dark.

	

			      Chapter 17


	The tension of waiting for Gerry to return had affected them
all, but it affected Timothy most visibly.  Jeanine tried to believe
that he was merely restless, but she was forced to acknowledge that
the boy, as well as herself and Leonard, felt guilty over Gerry's
absence.  The boy wandered back and forth through the front door, sat
on the curb, and then came back inside.  After a few minutes, he
wandered outside to the sidewalk again.  The next time he stepped
through the door, Jeanine told him, ``Either go out or stay inside.''

	``I don't want to stay here.''

	Leonard appeared behind her.  ``Do you mind watching things
while I go out?''

	``Not at all.''

	``Can't I go out, too?''

	``No, because I have to take care of you.'' 

	The boy looked disappointed.  He was thinking of how to
answer.

	``Go home, then,'' she said.  

	``We don't have a home.''

	``The house, I mean.''

	``I'll stay here.''  He sounded discouraged, and turned and
went to the back of the store.

	Leonard seemed mildly annoyed by the interruption.  ``Why
don't you just let him go?''

	``Please, don't talk about him when he's here,'' Jeanine
replied.  ``I'd like him to learn some manners.''

	But later, she saw Leonard again, and she, ``Don't worry about
him.  I couldn't think of a better place to grow up.  He's too serious
for his age.  I don't want him to know anything but the streets.''

	She really didn't want a scene when Gerry showed up, not in
front of him.  Gerry would return, Jeanine was certain of it, but she
didn't care whether Leonard's old girlfriend returned or not.  After
two weeks of waiting, she wanted to put an end to the tense
uncertainty which had overtaken them.

	It took three days of Gerry's absence before Leonard started
to fret over small things in the shop.  This had started to annoy
Jeanine.

	Finally she said, ``If you're so worried about her, why don't
you look for her?''

	``I would be intruding.  She might never come back.''

	``Do you think she's smart enough to look after herself?''

	``She sure is.  That's the problem.''

	``That's some dilemma, Leonard.''

	``I'm worried about her.  Any number of things could happen to
her.  It wouldn't matter how careful she is.  It would be easy to be
in a bad place, which would make the chances of something happening
that much greater.''

	``Maybe she found another place to stay?''

	``Like, do you mean, is she living with someone else?  That's
what I'm thinking.  I'm not jealous.  But I am disappointed, after all
of these years.''

	``She's probably disappointed in you.  It's because of me.
I'm feeling the strain, too.  Instead of confronting her with this, I
can only confront you.  And myself.''

	``I can't act guilty in front of you.  Do you think she
thought of that?''

	``That's what I would do, to drive a wedge between you and
whoever you took up with.  I guess she really didn't want to leave.
She didn't argue much, if you remember.  I expect that she's probably
happy where she is.  She'll wander back if she's tired of where she's
staying.''

	``What are you going to do when she comes back?''  

	Jeanine sat down so she could think.  ``I don't know.
Probably leave for a while.  But I'd rather settle down and accept
this situation she left us in.''

	``So you expect her to come back.''

	``Yes.''

	``That does make me feel better.  I want to know that she's
really gone.  I simply can't throw away 30 years of my life in a fit
of passion.''

	``I know.  But I should have expected this.  At least, you
trust my judgement.''

	``I trust your passion.''

	``Let me finish what I was saying.  You aren't under any
obligation to her.  She didn't want to be here with you.  That should
be the end of it.  I would let her go her own way.  You still don't
have much obligation to me, either.  Unless you want to have it.''

	``But we're attached,'' Leonard said.  ``What if Timothy runs
off?  Would you feel responsible for that?''

	``I knew I was responsible when I took him in.  I certainly do
have to look after him.''

	``I wonder if Gerry regretted leaving,'' Leonard said.

	``_Jesus,_ Leonard, she would if she was any kind of a person,
but sometimes people have to do other things and put the past behind
them.''

	``I didn't want to think that our life together was over.  I
think of what's going to happen to us.''

	``You can put that thought right out of your mind.  It would
be foolish not to accept this situation.  It's more problematic for
you.  The inevitable is going to happen, whether or not you try to
rush things along.  My leaving is not one of those inevitabilities.''

	``It's not as though things are rushing, things are
dragging,'' he said.

	When she saw the police car parked in front of the bookstore
while she returned from the market a few days later, she felt a
tremendous sense of panic.  Police cars came rarely to the
neighborhood.  Something bad had happened.  She hurried into the store
in time for Leonard to say that he was going downtown with the police.
He didn't say he was going to identify Gerry's body, but she knew.
She waited all morning for him to return and could only nod dumbly
when he returned and told her the news.  She took a breath and told
him to go upstairs and rest.

	It had taken a week to identify Gerry.  She had carried
nothing with her that would tell anybody who she was or where she had
come from.

	``The cops thought she was indigent,'' Leonard said the next
day. ``After all of the time we had lived together, I couldn't deny
that.  What did we have, so that I could tell them that we had lived
together for 30 years, and then she had just walked out?  The way she
disappeared put our whole life into a different light.  She made our
whole relationship look ridiculous.  The police put it down to a
lovers' quarrel, but I told them that she was my wife.  Common law.''

	``She must have thought that everybody knew her.  But I guess
they didn't,'' Jeanine said.  ``Is there going to be a funeral?''

	``How can I afford one?'' Leonard asked.  ``No, they'll just
take her away somewhere.  I have to let them dispose of the body and
forget about her somehow.''

	``Give it time.  Go upstairs, have something to drink, and
we'll sort this out.  In the meantime, I need to go look for
Timothy.''

	``Is he here?''  

	``He's around somewhere.''

	``I'm surprised that you don't worry about him more than you
do, the way the neighborhood is.''

	She felt a momentary flash of anger, which she put down to
pride.  ``I can't watch him all the time.  It isn't as if I have that
much control over him.  This isn't a question of looking ridiculous.
It's a question of obligation.''

	``It must be worrying to have him running off all the time and
not knowing where he is.''

	``Yes, Leonard, I do worry about him.  But any situation where
you have to cope with other people is worrying.  It's simply part of
caring for people.  I take care of him the best I can and don't ask
for much in return.  Maybe I'll get something back later.  Now stop
questioning me.''

	``What do you expect to get back?''

	``That isn't the sort of question that I would ask.  I don't
know what it might be.  Timothy's not old enough yet to appreciate
that.''

	``It isn't worth worrying about other people,'' he said
portentiously, ``not when you're going to lose them in the end.''

	``Leonard, what would you do without them?  You can't always
choose your situation.''

	``Are you certain you're not overwrought, too?''

	``Damnit, Leonard, I'm trying to help you!  It's part of the
reason I'm still here, to be sure that you're all right.  I don't want
to have my motives questioned.  Is that clear?''  After a moment, her
voice softened.  ``I'm here because I want to be.  We still belong
together.''

	``Because you love me,'' he said.  ``I love you.''

	``Get off it.''  After a pause, she added, ``Well, you might
as well say it.  I believe that you do.  But don't think that I love
you.  This has to do with responsibilities.  You keep reminding me
that I have to look after Timothy.''

	``What exactly does that mean?'' he asked.

	``I don't know exactly what it means, Leonard.  But I haven't
seen him in two days.  That's how involved I've been with you and
your problems.''

	``You made it your problem, not me.''

	``Was I supposed to ignore you?  Think of what I'm doing as
getting my priorities straight.  Now I have to go check on him.  Why
don't you stay here?  I'll be back in a few minutes.''

	``I need some time alone to think,'' he said.  

	She left him staring at the table and went downstairs.

	She called for Timothy.  He wasn't in the bookstore, or
outside on the street.  It was late in the afternoon.  She hoped that
he would reappear soon.  She wouldn't be able to go out to look for
him after dark.

	The shop was dim and quiet.  It would be better to leave
Leonard alone with his grief than to press him further.  It would take
him time to heal.  But now, where was the boy?

	It became clear that she needed to find him.  She knew how
badly Leonard felt.  But she could not ignore the boy, if she wanted
to justify herself to Leonard.  She really didn't mind Leonard acting
like a spoiled child himself.  It was understandable in these
circumstances.  On a whim, she wandered across the street to the
market to see if Timothy was there.  He wasn't, and she wandered over
to the park.

	It didn't occur to Jeanine to ask how Ron knew about Gerry's
death.  The man whom Gerry had first met after leaving was sitting on
the same bench where they had sat together.  He looked up as Jeanine
passed.  ``You work at that bookstore, don't you?''

	``Yes.  So what?''  Jeanine was in too much of a hurry to say
something more polite to him.  

	``I'm sorry to hear about the woman.  That's all.''

	``Thank you.  You haven't seen a little boy wandering
around?''

	``White?''

	``Yes, of course.''

	``I can't say that I have.  Is he your son?''

	``Yes, but I don't know where he went to.''  She learned that
she got more out of people by lying than if she told the truth, that
she wasn't related to him.

	``Good luck,'' he called.  She was already halfway down the
block.

	Good Lord, what if Timothy had disappeared, too?  She realized
how futile it would be to search further for him.  She wanted to make
sure that he was all right.  Her conscience wouldn't allow her to lose
another person in her life.

	She went back to the bookstore.  ``Timothy's disappeared.  I'm
going over to the house to see if he's there.''

	``Will you be back?''

	``If I can make it before dark, I will.  If not, I'll have to
see you in the morning.''

	``All right.  I hoped you would stay.  But make sure that he's
all right before you do anything else.''  Leonard didn't look up at
her, just resigned.

	Timothy was not at the house when she arrived.  So he had
disappeared, too.  She wanted to return to the bookstore and see if he
was there.  But it was getting dark, and she didn't want to risk
making the trip.  She would have given anything for a telephone; it
would have been much easier to call Leonard and verify Timothy's
whereabouts.  She was restless and worried, and paced from one room to
another.  Then she resigned herself to making something for dinner.
There was plenty of food, but that didn't mollify her.  Both of her
men were somewhere else.

	She busied herself in the kitchen, half-convinced that Timothy
would come crashing through the door at any moment.  He had done that
in the past.  Doing anything right now would likely prove futile,
given his unpredictability.

	She was worried about explaining that to Leonard: how she lost
the child.  How could she tell Leonard that she had spread herself too
thin, and devoted too much of her attention to him?  He might be
flattered, but he would also be suspicious.  He would expect her to be
able to balance her responsibilities and would suspect her of
incompetence because she hadn't.

	Gerry's death reminded her that she really could be attacked.
She continuously stole glances outside through the kitchen windows,
even though she couldn't see very far in the gathering dusk.	

	She hoped that Leonard wouldn't let the bookstore run down or
alienate the few customers she had managed to attract.  At least he
would have to be at his desk when people wandered in.  She wanted to
be there, too, if only to make certain that he fixed coffee and saw
that people felt at home.  He couldn't afford to spend much time
grieving, because the bookstore would slide into obscurity and
oblivion.

	So far, she had shown herself incapable of balancing the
elements it had taken to maintain the bookstore as a place where
people wanted to visit, keep Leonard mollified, and insure that
Timothy was safe at home.

	Life wasn't fair.  She had never had the opportunity to raise
a family when she was younger, nor did she have the experience of
having people depend on her as some women did.  Or rather, the women
who were different than herself.  The ones whom everyone pointed to as
good mothers and wives.  No, that wasn't right: she never had given
herself time to settle down.  She didn't want to miss anything.
Somehow, managing a household had never seemed important.

	She wasn't young any more and didn't want to appear
spinsterish, spending most of the time alone in her parlor.  One
simply never heard of women like her.
	
	The neighborhood was quiet, as usual.  She had become
accustomed to some noise from outdoors, because the bookstore was on a
fairly busy street.  She was satisfied to have a retreat in the
backwater neighborhood, away from the more crowded area.

	She had also become accustomed to a building which had central
heat, she discovered as the house cooled after sunset.  She lit as
many candles as she could spare, and thought about moving a mattress
into the kitchen, so she could spend the night by the wood stove.  It
wasn't so long ago that she would have had to count every penny in her
pocket before she lit a candle.  She latched the door shut for the
night, knowing that Timothy would knock loudly if he returned.  She
wanted to go back to Leonard's.  After being with people, she was not
happy to spend the night alone.



			      Chapter 18


	Two days later, Jeanine pushed through the door of the market
where she used to live on Michigan Avenue.  She experienced a sense of
_deja vu_ that was so strong she seemed never to have been away.
Nothing had changed in her absence.  She felt that she had imagined
the whole episode with Sam, Timothy, and Gerry.

	Over the smell of old vegetables, the breeze came through the
casement windows high in the wall and stirred the curled, fly-specked
strips of paper that hung from the ceiling.  She hadn't expected to
find Timothy here.  Homer nodded from behind the cash register, as
usual, and acted like she had only stepped out for a breath of air.
For all he -- or anyone else -- knew, she hadn't gone anywhere.

	She stepped up to the counter.  ``Have you seen a little boy
around here, about ten, with blond hair, wearing an army coat and a
lot of sweatshirts?''

	``No, I haven't,'' Homer said.  ``I remember the last time you
were in here.  You were asking about him then, too.  I know who he is.
Still looking for him, aren't you?''

	She said abruptly, ``This is serious.  He was with me and then
disappeared.  I'm frightened that something has happened to him.''

	``Don't throw down in here.''  An expression of pain in
Homer's eyes said that he though her search hopeless and that she
herself was mad.

	``No,'' he said seriously, ``I haven't seen him.''  He turned
quickly to the shelves behind the counter but glanced back at her, as
if to say that she should put the boy behind her, and that she was
living in the past and never had caught up with the present.

	She had started southward along the railroad tracks shortly
after sunrise, making her way back to the near West Side while the
frost thawed.  She walked quickly, driven by her sense of anger and
panic.  Timothy shouldn't die the way Gerry had.  She did not want to
be ignorant of what happened to him.  She tried to slow down and
proceed more carefully but did not know what else to do, except go and
look for him.  She hadn't seriously considered telling Leonard that
she was going.  After the boy's disappearance, there was no way that
she could face him.

	Being in the presence of one distraught person around was bad
enough.  Having two in the same bad mood was unthinkable.

	She had no idea exactly what to do: perhaps wander around the
neighborhood and see if she could spot him.  It was a slim hope.  But
for now she wanted to do everything possible to find him.  And if
anything were to happen to her in the meantime, she would have it
coming.

	She had awakened alone yesterday with the feeling that he
would never come back to the house unless she were to go out and look
for him.  It felt completely empty.  Her spirit seemed as dry as the
autumn air when they had first come to the house.  There had always
been her family here, or at least Timothy.  She had never stayed here
alone.  After Gerry's death the idea frightened her.  But what could
hold the imagination and the loyalty of a boy that age?  She couldn't
blame him, even though she was upset that she was worried so much.
The only thing she could think of was that he was somewhere near the
place where she had found him last fall.

	If he was far from the house and something happened to him, it
was likely that she would never hear of it.  He was, after all, simply
another indigent with no visibile ties or home.  Since they had met,
she had taken pains not to tell anybody that she had taken him in.  If
he was near the bookstore, someone might think to summon her or
Leonard, but down here there was no one who would know anything about
him.  He, or his body, would be taken away by the police, and that
would be the last she or anyone else saw of him.

	It chilled her to think that this was going to be her own
fate.  Gerry had not even been indigent.  Jeanine shuddered when she
thought of how impersonally the police treated her murder.  For
someone with no family or friends, it would be even worse.  If
something were to happen to her, Leonard probably wouldn't hear of it.
What, then, would become of a little boy wandering alone through this
part of town?

	She was glad that she had brought the key to her old
apartment.  She would settle in for a while, to see if Timothy was
staying around here.  There was no cooking gear there, it was all up
at the house, but on a whim she had put some bread and cheese in the
string bag which she had in her pocket.

	Homer looked at her with mild surprise.  ``Come into some
money, have you?  Be careful how you spend it, all right?''

	``'Course,'' she smiled.  ``I've been around here long enough.
I wasn't born yesterday, you know.''

	``Where have you been?  I didn't know the kid was yours.''

	``I took him in, to tell you the truth.''  She gazed levelly
at him.  ``His father... well, it's better not to talk about him.''

	``You've done an act of kindness,'' Homer said.

	``Thanks.  I hope it was enough.''

	``He's disappeared?''

	``Yes.  It's my fault, too.  I didn't know what I was doing.''

	``You took him in.''  He grinned to leaven his seriousness.
``He's your responsibility.  Nobody's going to expect that you'd know
everything.''

	``I never had children of my own.  I didn't know how much
trouble it would be.''

	``Same here,'' Homer laughed.  ``My friends, they ask me if I
want to take their kids off their hands -- for a day or an evening,
you understand, and I say, `Sure, it's a pleasure,' and they look at
me like I'm nuts, and they're so damned _happy_ to get away from
the kids for a while.''

	Jeanine laughed.  ``I've seen that, too.  I probably haven't
done as much babysitting as you have.''

	``Probably not,'' he sighed through his laughter.  ``But you
see, I own this here store, and people know they can count on me.''

	``I'm certain they can.  You've been here a while.''

	``I'm not a bum that's out on the street,'' he said.  ``People
know it.  But if I hear about your kid, I'll certainly let you know.
I'll let people know that they should be on the lookout for him.''

	``Thanks, I appreciate it.  I'll be around.  I live further up
north now.  I get over this way a lot, now the weather's warmer.''

	``You found a new place, that's good.  That's good to hear.''

	``It's up toward MacNichols,'' she said.  ``Grew up there.''

	``It's quite a step down here, ain't it?''

	``It's not far,'' she said.

	``Good.  Am I going to see you more often?''

	``I believe so, as long as I think the boy is around here.''

	``At least say that you came down here to see me.''

	``But I don't think I could face myself without knowing what
happened to him.''

	``It's sad,'' he said.  ``The best thing you can do is wait
around, ask people, and hope that he turns up.''

	``I never was close to any of the people around here,'' she
answered.

	``There's no chance that he could come home?''

	``I'm not sure about that, but he's good at taking care of
himself perfectly well if I wasn't there.''

	``You could have left a note.''

	``You're right.  But I didn't think of it.  It's hard to think
of all the things a little boy might do, especially when you get to be
my age.''

	Homer laughed.  ``I know what you mean.  I have the same
problem with some of my customers.''

	She asked seriously, ``Is there any place around here a little
boy could go to find shelter?''

	He thought for a moment.  ``There's a couple of churches.
Maybe one or two people, like you, who would take him in, but I can't
be sure of it.''

	``You're right.  I wouldn't want to depend on it.  So you'll
see me around here a lot.  But I think I'll go back home.  I have
people up there who are wondering where I am.''

	It was nearly noon.  If she were to go back home, it would be
evening before she reached the bookstore.  That would mean a walk of
ten or a dozen miles today.  She had not been on her feet that much
lately.  If she were to return tomorrow, she would be severely taxing
her endurance.

	But there was nothing she could do about it.  She said
good-bye to Homer.  As she stepped down to the sidewalk, she slipped
in a puddle of water which had been formed by melting snow.  She shook
her head clear as she lay on the sidewalk.  Her side was wet with the
water from the puddle.  Homer had seen her from his place behind the
counter, and now he stood over her.  ``I'm sorry this happened.''  His
face was full of concern.  He held her by the elbow as she tried to
rise.  There was a sharp pain in her left knee and she grimaced.
``You sure don't need this kind of thing now,'' he said.

	Her leg gave way beneath her.  If Homer had not been
supporting her, she would have fallen again.  ``Come back in and sit
down.'' he said kindly.  Leaning on him, she limped back into the
store.  He guided her to a dusty chair behind the counter.

	Jeanine held her knee lightly and winced.  ``I don't think I
can walk home now.''

	``You just sit there for a while, until the pain goes away.''

	``I hope it does.  How am I going to get back home now, and
back to my guy?  I'm really worried about the child.  But I don't want
my friends to worry about me, either.''

	``You don't need to go anywhere,'' Homer said.  ``You just sit
there and relax for a while.  Maybe watch the people who come into the
store.  That might be a good way to spot the kid, because if he's
around here, he almost has to come in.''

	``That's true.  But I don't want to impose on your time.''

	``It's all right.''  Homer smiled.  ``Just stay here for as
long as you need to, even come back tomorrow.  You might give this
place a little class.''

	She laughed in spite of herself.  ``Thinking about it now, I
guess staying around here tonight would be better.  Then it will be
easier for me to go home tomorrow and let people know where I am, and
still come back here in the afternoon if I can.''

	``You have a place to stay, don't you?''

	``I haven't been here for a while, but it will be all right
I'm sure.''

	``You don't need to feel rushed,'' Homer said.  ``Stay here
for as long as you like, at least until I close up.''

	``Thanks.  I have to leave before dark, though.  I'm worried
what my boyfriend will say about this.  If I ever get back there.''

	``Where does he live?''

	``It's toward Grosse Pointe.''

	``Sure, you'll make it there when you can.''  Homer smiled
sweetly.  ``It's a nice area.''

	The bell attached to the front door rang lightly.  Someone
stepped into the store.  He was not quite a street person, from what
Jeanine could see.  Homer watched him for a few moments.

	``Is that the only reason you came down here?'' he asked.

	``What?''

	``For the boy.''

	``Oh, yes, sorry.  I'm afraid so.  It was last fall when I
moved up there and found the place.  I didn't plan to return, but
things changed.''

	``Well, I'll keep an eye out for him.  When I see him, or his
old man, I'll tell you.''

	``I just think I'll try my knee here.''  She stood and
grimaced, and sat back down.

	``It still hurts?''

	``It sure does.''

	``You said that place wasn't far from here.''

	``Only a couple of blocks.  I'm sure I'll manage, once I've
had a chance to rest a little bit longer.''

	``The reason I'm asking, is that maybe I could work something
out if you can't get there.  The church up a ways takes in people
sometimes.  Especially people who do good works, like you.''

	``I never took you to be religious.  Do you think I need a
priest?  Really, I can make it home fine.''

	He laughed.  ``A reverend.  An old friend from our street
days.  He won't give you any problem.''

	``There's still a lot of time before it gets dark.''

	``You just relax and rest for a while.''

	Not many customers entered the store for the remainder of the
afternoon.  She kept an eye on things while Homer went in back.
``Sometimes it's busy in here, sometimes it isn't,'' he said.  ``If
someone wants to buy something, you just holler.''

	Jeanine thought that she might have asked some other people
about Timothy, but the few people who did enter the store looked like
they wouldn't remember the boy even if they had seen him.  There was
no other way she could think of to find him.  But she knew the value
of spending the afternoon maintaining a vigil over the cans and boxes
on Homer's sparsely stocked shelves.

	So quiet was it in the store that she began to feel drowsy,
lulled further by the scratching of Homer's pencil from the back.  She
caught herself falling asleep once or twice.  Each time she caught
herself and tried to stand up to test her knee.  The pain was still
there but had subsided to a dull ache.  She thought it would be all
right to walk the few blocks to her old squat.

	In another hour or so, Homer emerged from the back of the
store.  ``What did I say?  Sometimes there's a crowd in here,
sometimes there ain't.''

	``I would hate to think I was keeping away business,'' She
answered.

	``Hell, no!  Most of the people who hang around here anyway
don't spend anything.  All they want to do is talk.''

	``Then I _was_ keeping away business,'' she replied.  She
told him about the bookstore, and how they had tried to get people to
come in and stay, and their modest success.

	``That's a different situation,'' Homer said.  ``Here, people
just barely get the things they need.  In, out.  Zip, zip, like
that.''

	``That's not how I remember it.''

	``That's what you do, too.''

	Homer paused and said, ``That's a good situation.  How did you
manage to come up with that?''

	``I fell into it.  It's my boyfriend's store.''

	He smiled.  ``I wish you all the luck.''

	``Thanks.  That's very kind of you.  But it doesn't help very
much right now.''  She stood.  ``The pain isn't as sharp now.  I think
I can walk on this.  What time is it?''

	``About quarter to four.  I'll close in about an hour.''

	``It will be getting dark,'' she said.  ``I think I'll go
now.''

	``Are you sure?  I wouldn't want you to try walking unless
you're sure your knee is all right.''

	``I'm reasonably certain I can get there,'' she said, smiling.
``But please keep an eye out for the boy, will you?  I'm certain that
he'll turn up soon.  Unless, that is, he's back at my boyfriend's
place.''

	``It sounds possible,'' Homer said.  ``Now, why don't you go
home and get some rest?  Maybe I will see you tomorrow.''

	``Yes, I should get an early start.''

	``Then, or the next day.''

	Once outside, she glanced in both directions.  No one was
about.  Her knee seemed to be all right.  It didn't give her too much
pain.  She had to think for a moment of the best route to return to
her old apartment.  She felt some trepidation.  In the old days, she
would not have hesitated even this long in such an open place.

	The shadows grew longer.  The sun was behind the store, and
they reached across the street to the opposite sidewalk.  She felt
chilled.  It was still winter, after all.  Although the weather was
warmer than it had been, the air was still cold in the late afternoon
shade.  She would probably have to sleep wrapped up in her coat.
There would be no blankets at the squat.

	She turned left, away from Michigan Avenue, and proceeded to
the alley.  She had forgotten how much trash lay in the gutters and
abandoned doorways.  She hadn't realized how clean her new
neighborhood was in comparison with the old one.
	
	Once in the alley she narrowed her eyes against the wind that
blew from the west and pushed debris and dust before it.  She looked
to either side for bums who might be resting in doorways.  There
didn't seem to be any about.  She walked as quickly as she could to
the next block, then to the next, always keeping before her the narrow
slice of freight rails which were visible between the buildings.

	Across the street, a few people huddled under the marquee of
the theater as usual.  It was easy to imagine them spending the entire
winter there.  One glanced up at her from the smouldering trash can.
She stooped over a little more in order to seem feeble, and slowed her
walk a little bit.  He seemed to lose interest in her and turned his
attention back to the fire.

	She walked under the railway bridge and then up the sidewalk
to her old building, and wondered why there were no shelters under the
bridge.  As before, the door was unlocked.  She cast a glance over her
shoulder and went inside.

	The hallway was the same as she remembered it.  She stepped
through the debris on the floor, over some rotting wood and bricks.
At the end of the hall and climbed the stairs slowly.  Her footsteps
were soft and steady on the bare wood.  She reached the top hearing
nothing.  Upstairs was only the sound of her boots on the hallway
floor.  Timothy would have liked to have come here again, she thought.

	Light filtered through the window at the end of the hall and
through the skylights.  The door to her old room was ajar.  The hasp
hung loosely from the frame.  She pushed the door open and stepped
inside, then waited for her vision to adjust.

	Something hard exploded against the side of her head.  She
fell back against the door frame.  Her vision cleared just in time to
see the shape of a man above her.  Then, another pain exploded in her
right knee.  She gasped, too startled even to cry out, and she
staggered back into the hallway.

	The black man towered over her, his knees bent and his left
hand loosely grasping a two-foot length of pipe.  He stared down at
her as she regained her footing.  She didn't dare to remove her eyes
from his.  As she backed away from him, she felt her back against the
balustrade, and he watched her silently.  He didn't move as she backed
down the stairs.  She cried out in pain and hurried down the stairs,
looking over her shoulder to see if he would follow her.  She was on
the first floor, and he was out of sight.  She had a sense of
unreality about the whole attack, but she tried not to think of him
coming down the stairway after her or panic.  She stumbled the length
of the hallway, and listened for the sound of his footsteps. She
nearly slipped again on the step outside.  She slammed the door loudly
behind her.

	She leaned against the side of the building, trying to clear
the tears which had gathered in her eyes from the pain.  _Let him
come after me if he wants,_ she thought in despair.  She placed a hand
against the wall to steady herself and hobbled the length of the
building.  She stepped gingerly to avoid the pain in her injured knee,
and looked over her shoulder to see how much daylight was left.



			      Chapter 19


	She sat behind the counter while Homer put away the receipts
from the day and counted the money in the cash drawer.  A few people
wandered in, looked around, then wandered out, when Homer gave them a
warning look or told them he was closing.  ``They always want to come
in here just before dark.  Nobody wants to stay outside at night.''

	``Of course people want to stay inside where it's light and
warm.''

	``But you, what are we going to do about you?  With that knee,
I wouldn't be out hobbling around in this neighborhood.  In fact, I'm
trying to think of a place that we can put you for the night.  In
fact, I was hoping that one of the people from the church would wander
in, and maybe they would put you up.  They've done that before.''

	``Thank you.  I certainly do appreciate it.''

	``What I'm going to do is close up.  You can stay here.  I'm
just going out to see if I can look up a couple of people.''  

	``I'm worried about what's happening at home.  I have people
up there who are worried about me.''

	``This happens.  I've seen people who get a little comfortable and
then lose their edge.  It's tough, staying on your toes all the time
when you don't have to.  But this is a dangerous place to be wandering
around in.  You know that yourself.''

	``I sure do.  And I was aware that might happen.  But
something like this always happens when you least expect it.''

	``I'm going now.  But I'll be back soon.''  He shucked into
his jacket and disappeared through the back.  The lights in the store
dimmed and she became absorbed in the quiet and solitude.  She thought
back on all the things that Timothy had said about his father and
mother, his vague recollections of having a family.  She suddenly
realized that Timothy's old house was not far from here.  She wondered
if he had returned there.  What if he had found his father?  She hoped
that he had, for his own sake, but she was also concerned about the
life the old man led.  

	She considered what she would do when she found them.  The
best thing would be to take them back to her house.  The boy could
certainly keep the old man in line.  Sam might disagree at first, but
she could easily mollify him.  It was implausible that there should be
any hint of jealousy between them.

	But what she had encountered in the street made her want to go
home, and sit perfectly still, and enjoy the privacy and silence and
safety of her own place.  I was not likely that she would ever be able
to have a family.  What if she were turned out on the street, to
wander around, and be killed?  Sam would get over her.  He was still
mourning over Gerry, but they had been together for 30 years.  She had
not been with him that long, and the magnetism between them, at their
age, what was that?  It was another interlude in the direct route to
senility.

	Still, she had every right to be happy and satisfied with him,
and if it were feasible, to have a partnership where they both could
make some money, and be satisfied doing things with their own hands.
She would like that.  But Homer's store was a long way from Sam's.
All she could do was wait.  And in her present circumstances she might
not be alive to see tomorrow.

	She was able to see, through the dirty windows, that it had
gotten dark outside.  There was only the dim illumination of some
streetlights outside.  She wondered if Homer had forgotten about her.

	It must have been an hour she sat there, listening to the
occasional noises from outside and the sound of the building settling.
She was falling asleep in the chair.  She was surprised at how tired
she was.  Homer was not coming back.  He had simply decided to leave
her there for the night.  But that was all right.  She had slept in
worse places before.

	She removed her coat and wrapped herself in it, and then lay
down on the floor.  Cradling her head in her arms from the bare wood,
she thought about tomorrow and how she would go about finding Timothy.
Her knee should be better, and she would have no trouble wandering
around this neighborhood, looking for him.  She would find him again,
wandering, hungry, grimy from sleeping in doorways, and she would take
him home and things would be the same as they were before.

	But then she thought, what if he had taken up with someone
else?  She would never be able to find him then.  And, even if she
did, he wouldn't want to come back.  She knew that she would lose him.
Just let him be wandering around on the streets, she prayed.  Let him
come back to me.  

	Homer awoke her by shaking her shoulder.  It was a moment
before she realized where she was.  ``How long have I slept?''

	``I've been out scouting around,'' he said.  ``Had a few
beers, talked to some people.  Haven't seen the boy.  But I think we
found a place for you.  Are you up for a little walk?''

	``Sure,'' she said.  ``I think so.''

	``It isn't far,'' he told her.  She started to rise, and he
said.  ``Take it easy.  Just be careful with that knee.''

	She stumbled out the door behind him and took a few halting
steps along the sidewalk.  ``Can I lean on your shoulder?'' she asked
him.

	He halted and allowed her to catch up with him.  ``Sure.  We
can just walk real slowly.''  He looked around them.  ``The two of us
should be safe enough together.''

	They walked past her building.  Her _old_ building.
Jeanine wondered if she should tell Homer about it.  He should
probably know anyway.  She decided to trust him.  ``This is where I
was assaulted.'' 

	``Nearly killed, it sounds like.''  Homer examined the place.
``How is it I never noticed this before?''

	She smiled.  ``That's just the point.''

	He smiled in return.  ``Anyway, it isn't far.  Just on the
other side of the tracks.  The reverend's an old friend of mine.''

	``I never realized that you were such a pillar of the
community.''

	Homer laughed.  ``I never thought of it like that.  We just
did what we had to do.  It happened that we ended up with our
own places.''

	``I feel so far away from mine.''

	``You'll get back there, I'm sure.  It's hard letting the old
ties go.  I never even bothered to try.''

	They had passed the railroad tracks.  Jeanine's limp had
subsided a little, but she still needed to steady herself on Homer's
shoulder.  ``It's two blocks ahead, then around the corner,'' Homer
said.  ``This isn't so bad, is it?  How's that knee?''

	``It still hurts.  But at least I can walk, sort of.''

	``Just be steady.  It isn't that far.''

	``I'm wondering about that boy.  Do they usually take people
in?''

	``That's a big if around here.  But if James found him, he
definitely would take him in.  He does that all the time.  Sometimes
he can feed them, too.  It's a service he provides.  Not like me.  All
I do is sell things.''  Homer smiled.  ``Of course, I have more money.
But he'll get to heaven first, I expect.''

	``I wasn't planning to go anywhere.''

	``Neither am I.  But I've been listening to him all these
years, and I'm starting to believe him.''

	``It would be hard if he didn't believe in those things
himself.''

	``That is certainly true.  He's good at getting people to
believe in things.  Maybe he'll want to talk with you.''

	``I can't imagine why he would want to do that.''

	Homer smiled.  ``There aren't many white folks around here.
He likes to practice when he sees one.''

	``I'll bet.''  

	At the corner she looked back and saw the moon beginning to
come up over the horizon.  To the east, the steel frames of the
buildings blended into the dark sky.  A few of their lights showed
like beacons.  A woman with three small children hurried across
Michigan Avenue to the block where she and Homer had just been.

	They stopped at a white, one-story building.  The windows were
boarded.  The door was shut fast.  She never would have thought that
the place was inhabited.  Even the sign above the door, Reverend
James' Church of Hope and Light, looked like it hadn't been tended in
years.  The building looked like a converted warehouse.  The old,
graying paint was peeling away from the wooden facade.  The building
extended back from the street to the other side of the block.  She
should have known better than judge any building around here from the
way it looked on the outside.

	Homer knocked loudly on the door.  After a few moments it
opened a crack and a woman's face was visible.  ``Oh, it's you,'' she
said.  ``Did you bring someone?''

	``This here's a friend of mine,'' Homer said.  ``She was
attacked.  This is a one-time thing.''

	The woman opened the door wide.  Jeanine stepped inside.
Homer followed her.  Jeanine was surprised at spaciousness of the
interior.  There was a wide, open space on the floor, and opposite the
door was a small cloth-covered table that served as an altar.  She
looked upward.  The last of the sunlight filtered through a series of
skylights in the ceiling.

	``I have to sit down,'' she said.  

	The woman was leading Homer to a room at one side.  She turned
her head.  ``You go right ahead and do that.''

	Homer followed the woman.  Jeanine limped to a chair in an
empty corner and sat down.  A woman with a group of children clustered
on the floor in front of her sat along the opposite wall and tried to
shussh them.  None of them was Timothy, of course.  Jeanine allowed
herself to relax into the chair.  

	She had no sense that time was passing.  There was only the
dimming of the daylight outside.  The room faded into darkness and was
lit only by the exit signs above the doors.  She couldn't see the
woman and her children across the room.  There were the soft rustlings
of sleep from the darkness.

	She was so absorbed in the solitude that she didn't register
the footsteps of someone approaching until he sat down beside her.
``I'm Father James,'' he said.  ``I can't give you any food, but
you're welcome to sleep here.''

	``I have my own food,'' she answered.  ``And I could sleep in
this chair.''

	``So it's no problem,'' he said, laughing.  ``You see, we have
a shoestring operation here.  But I think we could find a blanket that
you can use.''  

	``I very much appreciate that.  Homer has been kind to me.  I
mean, I couldn't go wandering around with my knee like it is, could
I?''

	``Would you like to have one of our people look at it?  Some
of the sisters are very good at first aid.''

	``I don't think it's broken.''  She stretched her leg.  ``No,
I'm sure it will be all right by morning.''

	He laughed softly.  ``Most of them are asleep now, anyway.  We
have a few cots in back where they sleep.  If you ever think of
staying.''

	She nearly laughed also.  ``You are most kind.''

	``Why don't you tell me about this boy you're looking for?''
	
	``Excuse me?''  Jeanine was caught momentarily off-guard.
``Oh, Homer mentioned him to you.  He's about ten years old,
towheaded, rather thin.  I don't remember what he was wearing.''

	``He won't be too hard to spot if he's white,'' James said.

	``He hasn't been around here, then.''

	``No, he hasn't.  But I can tell you, if he does show up,
we'll let you know.''  He paused and thought.  ``But how do we get in
touch with you?''

	Jeanine thought for a moment.  ``Through my boyfriend.  He
runs a bookstore 'way up on the East Side.''  

	``Does he have a telephone?''

	``No, you'd have to write.  And I remember the address.  I've
forgotten how to do a lot of things, I suppose.''

	Reverend James sighed.  ``This is the way it happens
sometimes.  It's hard to make connections between people who don't
have any place to put down.  I have so many requests from people who
are looking for someone they lost.  There's a whole recipe box of them
on my desk.  Would you like to see it?''

	``Me?  What good would it do?  I'm just worried about
Timothy.  That's his name.''  

	``Maybe if you thought about how you would find some of these
other people it would help you to find him.''

	``I don't see how,'' she interrupted.

	``Think it over.  It would be a good way for you to meet
people.''  

	``But I already do that.  We have a lot of people who hang
around the bookstore.  And I can't be in two places at once.''  She
lowered her head.  ``But I have a responsibility for this little
boy.''

	``Is he yours?''

	``No, I found him wandering around one day.''

	``Then I would take that with a grain of sand.  How do you
know what family he had?''

	``His father didn't take care of him very well.  He told me.''

	``Are you sure?''

	``From what I saw, yes.  They were indigent.  And I have no
idea what happened to his father.  They lived on the street.  That's
probably where Timothy is now.''

	``Have you ever thought that he returned to your place?''

	``That's what I'm hoping for,'' she said.  ``But, as you can
see, I wasn't in any condition today to go back there.  I was going to
stay at my old shelter anyway.''

	``Homer said it's nearby.  How is it we didn't see you?''

	She smiled.  ``I didn't want anyone to see me.''

	``So, are you just beginning to rejoin the world?  What
happened to you that was so traumatic?''

	She thought.  ``Nothing, really.  Life caught up with me.
That's all.''  

	``That's what happens.  The world sneaks up on you, and poof!
you're gone.  I see that happen a lot.''

	``What you're doing is a kindness.  How come that never
happened to you?''

	``Can't say,'' he said.  ``Who can?  I had my time in the
seminary.  I'm a real minister, you know, with the Baptists.  Learned
how to preach the word, conduct the choir, do a little family
counseling... I learned the works.  Had some strong ties there.  Still
do, as a matter of fact.  A lot of people don't have that.  In Homer's
case, who knows?  That ol' boy's just very good with money.  Some
people are that way.''

	``I wish I were.  I have trouble enough remembering what I
purchased for breakfast the day before.  I have to keep notes on
everything.''

	James looked over that the woman with the children.  The
sounds of sleep came from the shadows on the far side of room.  ``How
do you expect a woman to watch over those children all the time?''
James asked.  ``She has to sleep, too.  That's why people come here,
so they have someone to look out for them, if only for a little while.
That's what the sisters do, you know.  They watch out for people.''

	``You're making me feel guilty, not being able to look after
Timothy.''

	``There are limits to what one person can do.''

	``But I'd like to do something.''  She smiled.  ``You're not
Catholic are you?  Then at least I might have some penance.''

	``If you can't sleep you might at least listen for anyone who
wants to come in.  If you hear someone knocking, you just let us
know.''

	``I can do that.  It depends on how long I stay awake.''

	``Most of the people who are coming are here already.''  He
indicated the room, the people settled in chairs along the wall, the
moonlight that lanced in through the skylights.  ``As you can see,
there aren't that many.''

	``I never was in a church at night,'' she said.  ``This is
kind of frightening, just to sit here and be alone with myself.''

	``I never thought of it that way,'' he said.  ``I've been
hanging around churches for as long as I can remember.  This is what
I've been doing since I was a kid.  Not that I was any sort of Holy
Fool.  The reverends didn't mind me slipping out once in a while to
play basketball.''

	``It probably helped you learn how to cope with people like
these.''

	``At least I didn't have to spend my childhood tripping over a
choir robe.  I've been doing the same thing for 20 years.  Maybe in
another 20 years I'll be good at it.''

	He didn't look especially melancholy.  ``I didn't learn
anything when I was growing up.  I wonder if I'm trying to make up for
it now.''  She laughed.  ``Isn't it ridiculous?  A person in my
situation trying to save other people.  I have enough trouble taking
care of myself.''

	``When I was a boy,'' James said, ``I had a friend named
Jackson.  Jackson was especially good at taking the hubcaps off a car.
Even before he was 13 years old, he could remove the hubcaps from all
four wheels of a car in less than ten seconds.  Of course, he didn't
stop there.  He started taking gas caps, and mirrors, and radio
antennas.  Of course, people figured out what was going on.  Man found
him one night, prying the mirrors off of his car.  He started running
after Jackson, screaming and shouting to wake up the whole
neighborhood.  But that wasn't what got everyone's attention.  Jackson
was dropping the hubcaps, and the other mirror, as he ran.  The
clatter was so loud that someone called the police.  Meanwhile, the
man had chased him into an alley -- Jackson thought he was getting
through, he was beginning to pull away from the man -- and suddenly a
squad car, its lights flashing, blocked the other end of the alley.
So here Jackson was, stuck between the guy who owned the car and a
group of people with him -- they'd followed the chase -- and the
police.  Jackson chose the police.''

	``You must have made that up,'' Jeanine said.  ``The way you
tell it...''

	``No, I didn't.  The police took Jackson away and he spent
five years in the reformatory, which was a lot longer than he would
have lasted with that mob.  He came back, and I saw him once, then he
disappeared.  I don't know what happened to him after that.''

	``It's a marvellous story.  But what made you think of it
now?''

	``I suppose I was thinking that there needs to be some order,
but not too much,'' James said.  ``Not so much that you can't do
anything.  Just think what things would be like if Homer was running
the neighborhood!  But he isn't.  I try to be here for people when
they need help, but no more than that.  They appreciate that.  And
it's good for business, in the long run.''

	``You're preaching to the converted,'' Jeanine said.  ``Which
can't be all that difficult.''

	``I wonder who was changed more, them or me,'' he said.  ``But
it's getting late.  You rest here, and if you do fall asleep, there
won't be any harm done.''

	He said goodnight to her and walked softly across the room.
When he had disappeared and softly shut a door opposite her across the
expanse of floor, the stillness settled over her once again like a
warm, dark blanket.  The moonlight had shifted its position ever so
slightly on the floor.  She settled more comfortably in the chair and
took an orange from her pocket.  She thought about giving it to the
children, but she was comfortable where she was and didn't think they
would notice it when they woke.


				 End