Until Spring (10 page)

A welter of good wishes accompanied her discharge. Rosemary tied helium balloons to the wheelchair that they insisted she ride to the door, and an aide settled a bouquet of flowers in her arms. Besides the hand-woven purse, she carried a small donated suitcase that was too big for the meager change of clothes someone had given her.

Dr. Bergstrom had, with great difficulty, found a place for her to stay in the nearby medium-sized town of Apollonia, Illinois, where the department of social services had agreed to help her find a job. But her assigned social worker, a Ms. Bird, whose task it was to pick her up at the hospital and install her at the shelter for battered women where she was to stay, turned out to be a malcontent who was miffed because she would have rather been out shopping for her trousseau.

When they got to the big converted house in Apollonia, Ms. Bird all but pushed Jane out of the car and would have driven away before Jane retrieved her suitcase from the back seat if Jane had not yelped in protest. There wasn't time to grab the bouquet of flowers or Rosemary's balloons. Jane was abandoned at the curbside and left to introduce herself to the shelter's administrator, who stated with some irritation that Jane didn't really fall into the category of women that the shelter was supposed to help but would be allowed to stay anyway, since they had an opening.

Jane felt abandoned, exhausted, worried and confused. She was subject to incapacitating headaches that did not abate even with the strong pain medicine that Dr. Bergstrom had prescribed.

For two weeks Jane lived at the shelter and helped the other women care for their children when she could. The women were grateful but wary for reasons of their own. Jane made no friends.

When Jane went to the social services office for her first appointment with Miss Bird, who was supposed to help her find a job, she was curtly informed that the woman had been fired.

"Is there another social worker I should see?" Jane asked anxiously as she stood at the counter.

A harried clerk looked up from her filing.

"What?"

"Have I been assigned to another social worker?"

"I'll look it up in a minute," the woman said with a sigh.

After a short time, the clerk disappeared into a back room for fifteen minutes. When she came back, she stared at Jane as though she'd never seen her before.

"Can I help you?"

"I was waiting to see if I was assigned to another social worker," Jane reminded her.

"Oh, sure." The woman leafed through a pile of folders. "You're supposed to talk to Mrs. Engel, but she's got appointments scheduled all afternoon. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

Jane did return the next day and was informed that Mrs. Engel was out sick. And that day she was asked to leave the women's shelter. She hadn't seen it coming, and she was feeling very stressed when called to the office.

"It's not that we want you to leave," the administrator told her apologetically. "It's just that we need your room for a woman with two children. Her safety could be jeopardized if she doesn't get out of her home where she's threatened by an abusive husband. Surely you understand."

"Of course," Jane said. With tears streaming down her face, she quietly packed her suitcase.

When she left, she had no idea where to go. She headed for the local McDonald's and sat there for four hours nursing a blinding headache and trying to summon up the nerve to ask for a job. When she did, the manager told her that he was sorry, but he had no openings. She was terrified when she walked out. Where was she to go? What was she to do?

Thus ensued several days and nights when Jane, her head pounding, wandered the street by day and slept in a twenty-four-hour laundromat by night. Finally the night manager at the laundromat told her that she wasn't welcome anymore. She would have to find somewhere else to sleep.

But where? She had no money, and she had no car. She had no identification. She didn't even have a name.

She forced herself to think optimistically and managed to land a job in a small restaurant called the Buttercup Café, slinging hamburgers behind the counter. An advance on her salary made it possible for her to rent a room in a run-down house. At least it was a place to sleep, and she fixed up the room with items that she'd found where they'd been left out for trash pick-up. After she hung a few pictures on the wall and placed artificial flowers in vases on the dresser, the room was almost homey. Her spirits lifted considerably.

Then, perhaps because of the poor nutrition, she caught a particularly bad cold and lost her job when she couldn't work for a week. And when she didn't have enough money to pay her rent, she was politely asked to leave the boarding house.

At her wits' end, she used the landlady's phone to call Mrs. Engel, the new social worker, and asked for an appointment.

"I can't see you until Monday," Mrs. Engel told her.

"But I'm really desperate." By this time, Jane was talking in a monotone. She had no energy to put into her voice. Her head had been aching steadily for several days, and the pain showed no sign of going away.

"I'm so sorry, but I have a full schedule. What time can you come on Monday?"

"I need help now," Jane said, her spirits sinking even further. This was Thursday. Monday was four days away. How would she survive until then?

"Ten o'clock Monday is the best I can do," said Mrs. Engel. She sounded tired herself.

"All right," Jane replied and hung up.

She couldn't think of anyone else who might help her. The people in the hospital in Tyree seemed far away, and after all they'd already done for her, she couldn't expect more help from them. Even the nurse—the helpful one, Rosemary—wouldn't want to hear from her now. Jane was all alone.

That night Jane lingered outside a bar beneath a lamppost decorated with a foam candy cane in honor of the winter holiday season. Finally, summoning all her nerve, Jane stopped one of the patrons when he was on his way out. He bought her suitcase and the clothes in it for ten dollars, squinting curiously at her in the dim light. Jane spent seven dollars and sixty-nine cents on a skimpy hamburger, French fries, and a glass of milk at an all-night diner.

By the time the first angry streak of pink sunrise appeared in the eastern sky, Jane was walking along the highway outside town and hoping desperately that someone—anyone—would offer her a ride.

Finally an elderly couple with a small dog pulled over to the side of the road and beckoned her to get into their Buick. Jane didn't hesitate. She climbed right in.

"You look like you need a ride," the woman said, peering at Jane over the top of the front seat. "You going far?"

"Chicago," Jane said.

"So are we," the man told her. "Then we'll be traveling on to Milwaukee."

"We're going to visit our son in Chicago for Christmas and to our daughter's house in Milwaukee for New Year's," the woman supplied. "Are you going visiting, too?"

"No, I'm looking for a job," Jane said.

"Seems like if we're going to be riding all the way to Chicago together, we ought to be better acquainted. We're the Fosters—Betty and Herman. Our dog is Trixie. What's your name? " the woman asked.

"Jane," Jane said reluctantly. She didn't want to give her last name as "Doe." They wouldn't believe her, and her head hurt so much that she wasn't up to elaborate explanations.

"Jane what?" the woman asked.

A moving van hurtled past in the other lane, and on the side of it was emblazoned Rhodes Moving and Storage.

"Rhodes," Jane said. "Jane Rhodes."

"Well, Jane Rhodes, would you like a doughnut?" The woman reached over the top of the seat and waved a box of freshly baked doughnuts under Jane's nose.

"Thank you," Jane said gratefully and took two when the woman insisted. Trixie clambered into the back seat and licked one of the doughnuts, so Jane ended up sharing it with the dog, and afterward Trixie curled up with her head on Jane's lap, which was somehow comforting.

When they arrived in Chicago, the Fosters exchanged puzzled looks when Jane wasn't sure where she wanted to be dropped off, and finally they let her out of the car on Sheridan Road near an elevated station around the corner from where their son lived.

"Are you sure you don't want us to take you somewhere else?" Betty Foster called out the open car window, looking askance at the papers blowing around in the gutter and a few questionable characters hanging out in front of a store where all the signs in the window were printed in a foreign language.

"No, this is fine," Jane said, thanking them with a confident smile.

After the Fosters' car pulled away from the curb, Jane looked hopefully around her at the tall buildings, the traffic-clogged street and the people streaming in and out of the CTA station. A Salvation Army Santa stood on the pavement, energetically clanging his bell. From somewhere floated the tinny strains of a Christmas carol. Across the street were two restaurants, and the structure on the corner looked like an office building.

This was clearly a city where lots of things were going on. There were many places to work, and one of those jobs could be hers. Maybe, just maybe, she'd find the luck that had eluded her so far.

She lifted her chin and headed directly into the wind, not minding that the bite of it nearly took her breath away. She had made it to Chicago, tomorrow she would find a job, and soon everything would be all right. It was, after all, a season of hope. This New Year would be a new beginning in her new life.

* * *

There was more to her story, but Jane had to pause for a moment to catch her breath. The only sounds were the steady tick-tock of the clock on the mantel and the throaty rumble of Amos's purr.

"I think I'll put on the coffeepot," Duncan said. "Would you like a cup?"

She nodded, and he studied her for a moment before he stood and went into the kitchen. Amos stretched, got up, and followed Duncan.

What was Duncan thinking? she wondered. Did he believe her story, or did he think she was making it all up? It did, now that she thought of it, sound pretty fantastic. But it was true, all of it, every detail. She wished with all her heart that it wasn't.

She sighed and wiggled her right foot, which had gone to sleep. When the feeling returned, she went into the kitchen, where Duncan was refilling the sugar bowl.

"I thought I'd fix sandwiches," he said. "Neither of us has eaten, I suspect."

"I'll do it," she said.

He pressed his lips together. "All right," he said. "I guess you know where everything is."

Jane found sliced roast beef in the meat drawer of the refrigerator and piled it high on rye bread, the way she knew Duncan liked it. It was funny how many things she knew about him after living here during the past week. How he liked his coffee strong, for instance, and that he liked to check his email at lunchtime. He also knew many things about her, as evidenced by the way he ran a bit of cold water from the faucet into her coffee because she didn't like it either too strong or too hot.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he demanded when he saw that she had made only one sandwich.

"I'm not hungry," she murmured, setting the plate with the sandwich on it on the kitchen table at the place where he usually sat.

"Don't be silly," he said. He took another plate out of the cupboard and deposited half of his sandwich on it.

"Sit down and eat it," he directed. When she saw the stern expression on his face, she sat. She still wasn't sure that he wouldn't turn her over to the local sheriff for stealing his money.

He didn't speak before he took the first few bites of his sandwich, but after that he set the sandwich on the plate and leaned back in his chair.

"I take it things didn't work out for you when you got to Chicago," he said abruptly.

Her mouth was full of food, and she shook her head. That was an understatement.

"So you're going where?" His eyes pierced her.

Jane swallowed. The food sat like a lump somewhere in her chest, but she decided to continue the fiction she had started when she first arrived.

"California," she said. "I told you that I'm going to California. I want to start over there."

He stared out the window, apparently lost in thought. Though his face remained still and expressionless, his eyes were dark and gleamed with—what? She was reminded of a fire, damped and believed quenched, but with a glowing coal at its heart.

"What's your girlfriend's name?" he asked, shooting the question at her abruptly.

"Elizabeth," she said, lifting her chin and daring him to dispute this.

"Elizabeth
what?"

"Elizabeth... um, Elizabeth
Maxwell
," she said, glimpsing the coffee container on the counter.

"Maxwell? Are you sure about that?" he asked, sounding dangerously skeptical.

"Well, she just got married," Jane improvised, worried that he might try to trace an Elizabeth Maxwell and not sure how common that name was. "Her name is Smith now."

"Right. Elizabeth Smith. You've already told me how you made up your own name. Do you expect me to believe this—this
bull
about an Elizabeth Maxwell Smith?"