Too Far to Say Far Enough: A Novel (9 page)

“I’m letting the Sisters decide that for now. It just sort of played out that way.”

“Then I guess we’d better get a basin of water.”

Jasmine and Zelda were ahead of us there. When we carried out the still-warm loaf and the chalice of grape juice—in deference to the recovering ones among us—they’d already filled our traditional basin and provided a stack of towels Mercedes had undoubtedly bleached to within an inch of their terry-cloth lives. Ophelia was explaining that a footwashing was our official welcome into Sacrament House, and Foxy, though she pulled her chin practically into her larynx, was rolling up the pajama pants. The legs underneath were approximately the size of curtain rods. And hairless as pears. Huh. Most street girls didn’t have the means to shave their legs.

We each took a turn bathing Foxy’s baby soft feet and telling her what we would offer her as Sisters. Nourishment. Attention to her physical needs. Support. Encouragement. Hope. Some space.

She endured it all without comment until that last one. “Do I get a room to myself?”

“For the first eighteen days you will,” I said. “At my house. Then if you decide to stay, you’ll move in here and Rochelle will be your roommate.”

“I slept in there last night. She snores. What else ya got?”

“Mmm-
mm
,” Mercedes said.

“So are we going there now?” Foxy said to me. “To your place?”

“We haven’t had communion yet.”

Jasmine pointed toward the dining room where Hank and Rochelle had set out the bread and juice and covered both with snowy cloths embroidered by Ophelia with red crosses.

“We do it every Wednesday morning,” Jasmine said.

“Why?”

The question was more an insult than a genuine query, one Mercedes looked primed to address until the door banged open and Gigi rushed in, hair askew and gaze bleary. She was as narrow as Rochelle was wide with the exception of her eyes, which always seemed too large for their sockets. Their constant bulge made me suspect she had a thyroid problem, but the people at the clinic dismissed it as “stress.” Of course, if one of the Sisters were hemorrhaging they’d say the same thing.

“You know what, Gigi?” Mercedes said, “you can’t be showin’ up for Eucharist late with your mind and your heart someplace else. Preparation’s been done for you, and you ain’t prepared
yourself.
”

Gigi’s glare said,
Get off me,
but her mouth mumbled, “I’ll do better.”

“The Lord be with you,” Hank said quickly.

“And also wichoo,” was the group reply.

Except from Foxy, who was watching us all from behind a curtain of red hair and caution. I felt a Nudge, a hard one. A deep one. One that pushed until it bruised me with a pain I’d come to recognize as God’s.

I know. Go another mile.

I felt like I’d gone a hundred already, and it was only eight thirty a.m.

We shared communion, all but Foxy, who refused the elements, though she did watch the faces of the Sisters as they relished every sip and morsel with their eyes closed. I wondered if she got that this was church. I was fairly certain it didn’t matter to her. As eager as she was to move on to the next thing, her only goal was clearly to stay away from herself.
I found it shocking that she
wasn’t
strung out on something.

Afterward, Hank cleaned up, and the others all went off to their jobs except Gigi and Rochelle, who were scheduled to work in the Sacrament One garden with Owen that morning. He showed up clad in plaid Bermuda shorts and white socks pulled up to his knobular knees, with a floppy sunhat for each of them. Rochelle grunted and put hers on without further comment. Gigi looked at me, bug eyes pleading.

“Do I got to work in the garden?” she said, out of a small hole she formed with the sides of her lips. “I promised I’d do better, but does it got to be this?”

Although I was sure Owen didn’t hear her, his timing was precise. “Come along, ladies,” he said. “We have to toil in the soil before anything’s going to grow. If we stand and weep, we will not reap.”

“If I work with this
guy,
I’m gonna
die
,” Gigi muttered.

“I like the similes better than the poetry,” Hank said when Gigi and Rochelle had followed him out the back door.

“Will you watch to make sure Gigi doesn’t go after him with a hoe or something?”

I left Hank in the kitchen and found Foxy stretched full length on the couch, legs extended straight up. She was in the process of pulling her feet toward her forehead when I sat on the table to face her.

“Impressive,” I said. “Have you studied yoga?”

“No.” She let her legs flop to the cushions. “But don’t try to trick me into telling you things about myself. Not gonna happen.”

“No tricks. No games.” I exposed my wrists. “Nothing up my sleeves.”

She appraised my denim jacket. “Why are you dressed like that, anyway? Aren’t you hot?”

“I always dress like this when I ride my Harley. You’re going to need a jacket. Do you have one here?”

“Why do I need one?”

“Because that’s how we’re getting to my house.”

“On a motorcycle?”

Her eyes bulged out further than Gigi’s could ever hope to, a feat I hadn’t thought possible with that amount of eyeliner and mascara. It was the first sign of fear this woman had shown that was visible to the naked eye. I could almost hear her pulse go into high gear.

“That doesn’t sound like fun to you?” I said.

“No. It sounds like you’re trying to get me killed.”

“Never killed anybody yet. Seriously, are you scared? We can always take the van and I can come back for my bike later.”

“Mercedes and Jasmine took the van,” Hank called from the kitchen. “They had to pick up some stuff Erin dropped off at India’s.”

Foxy jerked her head in Hank’s direction. “Can’t she take me?”

“She rides a Harley too.”

“What is
wrong
with you people?”

“We’re crazy,” I said. “But it’s the good kind of crazy. I peeled off my jacket and handed it to her. “I have an extra helmet. It’s my son’s, but I swear he doesn’t have head lice. We’ll use the back roads, and I absolutely will not freak you out.”

She stuck out her china chin. “I don’t get freaked out.”

“Good,” I said.

At least now I knew one thing about her. She was a really rotten liar.

CHAPTER FIVE

Foxy was like her predecessors in one respect. Once I got her settled into the room at my house that had been occupied by Geneveve, Zelda, Ophelia, and Gigi before her, she went into a virtual coma. But there all similarities ceased.

Before that she did take the suggested bath, but she didn’t need my help. She also didn’t luxuriate in it nor did she wash the makeup from her face as far as I could tell. I was going to have to replace the pillowcases.

None of the sleep pants and tops we had on hand would fit her, and she didn’t hug the smallish T-shirt I unearthed as if it were from Abercrombie and Fitch the way the others had done just because they had something clean to put on their bodies. She examined it with lip curled and asked if she could just sleep in her underwear.

“You can sleep however you want,” I said. “As long as you’re not under the influence. That’s the one thing we do insist—”

“Under the influence of what?”

“Illegal drugs. Alcohol. Any controlled substances.”

“I tried pot once and I hated it. I don’t like not being in control.”

Imagine that.

I didn’t say anything, though, because her lips were now clamped together so hard the space under her nose went white. She obviously hadn’t intended for that much to escape and she was making sure it didn’t happen again.

She conked out until after I got back from picking Desmond up at school. By the time he and I heard her on the second floor getting up from the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted we were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen finishing up my prelude to his meeting this new addition to the household.

“I done this ’bout a hundred times before, Big Al,” he said, as he slyly palmed his third Oreo from the plate between us. “I know I got to give her space and don’t ask questions and don’t go poppin’ my eyes out if she look like she just done crawled outta the gutter.”

“You don’t have to worry about that part. She’s not an addict.”

“Then how come she was hookin’?” he said.

I felt the pang I always felt when my thirteen-year-old came out with something he’d learned from living in the gutter himself. Only this time the Mosquito came to mind, buzzing about his community of origin.

“’S wrong, Big Al?”

I pulled the lid off of my second Oreo and lied, “I was just thinking that that’s a good question.”

“And I ain’t supposed to ask it ’cause itta come out when she ready. What’s her name again?”

“Her street name is Foxy.”

His brow puckered. “What kinda name is that?”

“You don’t know the expression
foxy
? Like foxy lady.”

“That some ol’ tired thing they use to say in the old days?”

“It wasn’t tired then. It meant the person was very attractive.”

“Like hot.” The irrepressible grin swallowed his face. “Then they musta called you that back then. Imma start callin’ you—”

“No, you’re not. So look, it’s just business as usual with Foxy. Love and respect.”

“Got it.”

“Even if she doesn’t show us any.”

“We got to be the model.”

“Right.”

The door from the dining room swung open and Foxy appeared wearing the T-shirt. That was it. It came down just to the top of her thighs, which was right where Desmond’s eyes went.

“Des,” I said, “go grab a pair of your hanging-out pants from the clean laundry basket I put in your room.”

“Huh?” he said.

“Go,” I said.

He fell more than climbed out of the bistro chair and walked backward to his room. The pot rack and the kitchen trash can tottered in his wake.

“That was your son?” Foxy said. “Were you married to a black guy?”

“No,” I said. “He’s adopted.”

“How old is he?”

“Just turned thirteen.”

“What grade is he in?”

“Eighth.” I crossed my arms. “Y’know, for somebody who doesn’t want to divulge anything about herself, you sure ask a lot of questions about other people.”

She shrugged her hair back. “Other people don’t have to be on their guard every single minute.”

It struck me how articulate this young woman was. The fact that she knew what the word
divulge
meant once again set her apart from the newcomers we were used to. She might actually have gone to high school.

“Desmond’s going to bring you a pair of pants to wear until we can get you some of your own. While you’re here, buns, breasts, and navels need to be covered.”

“Why?” Her eyes challenged me. “You think your kid might want to jump me?”

“I think you expect him to want to jump you. I think that’s how you define yourself.”

I turned an ear toward Desmond’s door but he still sounded like he was ransacking every drawer and cubbyhole. Even so, I lowered my voice.

“We’ll help you develop some self-respect here, God-respect actually, so you can discover a new definition. Meanwhile we’re going to go through the motions.”

Desmond appeared before she could answer, carrying no less than four choices for Foxy. Among them were the cotton sleep pants with the Harley-Davidson logo printed on them. If he was offering her those we were already in trouble.

Not surprisingly she passed them up. On our earlier ride on the Harley from Sacrament House she had latched herself to me and shaken like a Chihuahua until we pulled into the garage.

“You can have all of ’em,” Desmond said when she’d selected a plain black pair.

“That’s okay, Des,” I said. “We’ll go shopping later.”

“When?” Foxy said. “And where? I don’t want to go to a mall. Too many … I just don’t like crowds.”

Desmond stared at her as if only a crazy person would not want to go to the mall. He had a point. Most of the women before Foxy had said their first excursion there was like going to Disneyland. And none of them had been ready for it for several weeks, after they had learned how to lie down and sleep, feed themselves, brush their teeth, and do anything without either looking for the next fix or watching for the person who was going to take it away from them.

That did not describe this person, who was about to don the pants right there in the middle of the kitchen until I nodded for her to go into Desmond’s room to do it. I took the opportunity to pull Desmond in by the back of his neck and get directly into his face.

“She has zero self-respect, Des,” I said. “That means—”

“I know.” His voice teetered momentarily out of man-range. “You gon’ be impressed with the kinda respect Imma show Miss Foxy Lady.”

“Yeah, well, start by finding another nickname for her.”

“I can’t call her Miss Foxy Lady?”

“No.”

Foxy reappeared wearing the black pants. I could tell from the bulge under the shirt that she had them rolled down to her navel, but I let that go. One baby step at a time.

“Do you have Wi-Fi?” she said.

“Oh,
yeah,
” Desmond said, brows pointed down. “We only got one computer, though, and you got to ask Big Al can you use it.”

Foxy pulled her hair back with both hands as if she were annoyed with it. “Actually I’d rather use my cell phone.”

“You have a cell phone?” Desmond and I said in unison.

“It’s an iPhone. My next question is, do you have a charger for one? I had to leave mine—I lost it.”

I was astonished that she ever had it, or the phone. She must have been handled by a high-end pimp to have mobile service. The chill made its way up my backbone again.

“Desmond,” I said, “will you excuse us?”

He looked about to protest.

“Take the rest of the Oreos with you.”

Even that didn’t have its usual effect. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the tiny woman who was currently fishing something out of her bra. When she produced the cell phone in question, I just handed him the cookie package and gave him a shove toward the door. He stiffened under my hand but he went.

“Let’s talk in the living room,” I said.

“But do you have a charger?”

“Living room.”

She rolled her eyes, but she followed me and parked herself with a huff in the red chair-and-a-half. I could just hear Sylvia now, telling her to, one, get her smart little butt out of her chair, and, two, to roll those eyes again and see if she didn’t roll her head. I had tried that once as a teenager. She basically did roll my head.

“If you’re going to stay with us,” I said as I sat on the edge of the half part of the chair, “I do need a few pieces of information.”

“I’m not telling you my last name.”

“I’m not asking for your last name. But I do need to know if you think you’re in any kind of danger.”

“From who?” she said, too quickly.

“Your pimp maybe?”

“I do not
have
a pimp. I work alone.”

“And you make enough to pay for a cell phone.”

“Clearly.”

“But not enough to feed yourself.”

She tried a smile on me. “I have my priorities.”

I smiled back. “My other question is: How old are you?”

“Why?” she said.

“Because if you’re underage—”

“I’m eighteen. I was born in 1994.” She brushed a curly tendril away from her face. “Why would you even ask that?”

I gave her a long look. I wanted to say,
Because you’re acting like you’re about sixteen
, but that wasn’t the way we ordinarily approached a potential Sister’s attitude. The bristlier the ’tude, the softer the touch required. It was one of those times when I wondered why on
earth
I had been selected for this. Soft was not my strong suit.

“You have the distinct advantage of looking really young,” I said.

“I’m not. I’ve seen more life than most people twice my age.”

“I’m sure you have, and I’m sorry for that.”

“I don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me.”

“I’m not sorry
for
you. I’m just sorry about whatever it is that got you in this position.”

“You didn’t do it,” she said, once again with the
That was, like, the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard
flounce of the hair
.

“I might not be guilty,” I said. “But I’m responsible. Every person who lives in this sick society is responsible for healing it. That’s why we’re here.”

“I’m not sick. I told you, I haven’t ever done drugs.”

“Then you’re way ahead.” This wasn’t the time to tell her she had about the sickest little soul I’d met up with in months.

“So can I charge my phone?” she said.

“I don’t have an iPhone charger. My phone’s a Droid.”

“Does anybody else over there at Sacrifice House have one?”

“The Sisters at
Sacrament
House don’t have cell phones.”

“You seriously don’t let them?”

“They could have them if they could afford them. Once they start making a real living they can spend their money however they want. We have a guy named Kade who advises them on that.”

“So when do I start working? I need my cell phone.”

“For?”

She stared at me. I was obviously beyond moronic at this point.

“To text people, for one thing.”

I rubbed at my temples with my fingertips. “Okay, here’s the deal. The reason you’re here is because you want to leave your old life behind and enter into a new way of being. So why would you want to contact any of the people who helped get you here? If you have family you need to get in touch with, we can help you with that.”

“No.” I could almost hear her backbone calcifying.

“If you’re going to keep one foot in your old life and one here,” I said, “you aren’t going to make it. That’s a decision you need to make today. Just today. Tomorrow you’ll need to make it again. And the day after.”

“Who lives like that?”

“I do. Some days I have to do it every hour.”

Faint interest flickered in her eyes. “You were a hooker once?”

“No. And by the way, we don’t call the Sisters hookers, and we won’t call you that. That isn’t God’s name for you.”

“Whatev. So why do you have to keep giving up your old life?”

“It was a life I’m not proud of. I gave up who I was for … someone else.”

“Who?”

“You going to tell me who you’ve given yours up for?”

“See? You’re trying to trick me.”

“No. Just playing fair.”

“So if I tell you, you’ll tell me.”

“If it seems like it would help us, yeah.”

She made a sound in her throat that was something between a Rochelle grunt and a Bonner hairball. “I was right. You people
are
weird.”

“So, what’s it going to be today? This life or the old one?”

Foxy looked down at the dead cell phone in her lap. “What do I have to do in the new one?”

“What do you want to do? Really. Deep down.”

As she looked up at me even the makeup seemed to drain of color. Deep down was clearly a place she hadn’t visited in a long time. Maybe never.

“Think about it,” I said. “And meanwhile, let’s get you into a healthy routine.”

“I hate schedules.”

“Me, too. It’s not a schedule, it’s a rhythm.”

And for at least the hundredth time she said, “I don’t get it.”

Foxy definitely
didn’t
get rhythm. For the next twenty-four hours everything I suggested that even remotely smacked of settling in resulted in her looking more and more like the poster child for ADHD.