stores.
“I told them about the obscene phone calls and the stolen credit cards,” Allie said.
“I gathered that. Why don’t you get out of those wet shoes and sit down. I’ll fix you a cup of hot chocolate.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I want anything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; you’ll catch pneumonia or worse.” She rested a hand on Allie’s shoulder and pushed and guided her to the sofa, like the stern guardian of a recalcitrant child.
Allie let herself be pushed. She was tired, she missed Sam, and a cup of hot chocolate
While Hedra was clattering around in the kitchen, Allie sat and stared at the rain that was falling hard again and reflecting distorted light as it flowed down the windows. It was a perilous world out there beyond the glass. She’d been blind, preoccupied since she’d come to the city, and hadn’t realized how very hostile and dangerous it was.
Hedra was back with the cup of hot chocolate for Allie and one for herself. She sat down next to her on the sofa. The steady patter of the rain made the apartment seem smaller, cozier. “So what’d the cops say?”
“They were nice, but not very helpful.”
“They’re busy,” Hedra said. “Too much crime in this city. Too much evil.”
“That’s more or less the impression I got. Obscene phone calls, stolen credit cards—these things happen every hour, so they don’t get excited about them. They concentrate on more important crimes. Until the person who got the phone call becomes one of the important crimes.”
“Don’t worry so,” Hedra said. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.” She sipped at her chocolate. She’d put marshmallows in both cups. Thoughtful. “By the way, Allie, I hope you don’t care about me wearing your sweatshirt.” She used her thumb and forefinger to stretch the gray material of the FORDHAM shirt she was wearing. Allie had bought it at a street bazaar two years ago. “I looked through my closet and didn’t have much to lounge around in. I’ll wash it for you when I’m done with it, I promise.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Allie said. She took a long, painful swallow of the scalding chocolate, burning the roof of her mouth. Lowered the cup and wiped melted marshmallow off her upper lip, leaving her hand sticky. She looked up at Hedra. “I opened your closet door, Hedra. I saw how you bought so many clothes exactly like mine.”
Hedra’s lower lip quaked.
Allie said, “Don’t do that, Hedra, please. Both of us can’t be basket cases.”
“You mad?” Hedra asked.
“Not exactly mad. Puzzled.”
“Well,” Hedra said, “I saw how good your clothes looked on you, and I figured if they only looked half as good on me, it’d be an improvement.”
Allie sighed. She didn’t feel like coping with this unabashed admiration, not right now. “Don’t buy any more duplicates, Hedra. Borrow whatever you want from my closet.”
Hedra beamed as if she’d been pronounced royalty. “Thanks! And you’re welcome to borrow anything in my closet.” Her expression sagged. “‘Course, you’re not likely to wanna wear any of my stuff.”
Concerned, mothering Hedra was gone; deferential Hedra was back. Allie didn’t know what to say. She finally mumbled, “Lucky we’re about the same size.”
“Lucky,” Hedra agreed. “Want some cold milk in that chocolate to cool it down?”
“No, thanks,” Allie told her. “I’ll wait for it to cool. Then I think I’ll rest awhile.”
“Sure, rest’ll make everything seem better.”
Allie seldom went out of the apartment during the next week. Sam phoned several times and sensed her despondency. He tried to cheer her up, told her he loved her and would be back soon. After talking to him she usually felt better, for a while. The few acquaintances who called her soon caught on that she wanted to be left alone. Oily Billy Stothers, probably on the make with Sam out of town, called several times, but he stopped when she made it plain that she preferred loneliness to his company.
And she couldn’t help it; she found herself wondering about Sam, so far from her arms. Was that part of the reason for her depression? The Lisa factor?
She was alone most of the time. Hedra went out every day to a temporary office job. She had to dress well for it, she’d said, and usually left the apartment wearing a duplicate of something of Allie’s. Allie sometimes lent her clothes. She didn’t care; she had no place to wear her nice clothes now. The ads she’d placed in the classified columns brought her no business, and the resumes she’d sent around garnered no replies. Work was scarce for computer programmers; colleges were churning them out by the thousands. And she was sure Mike Mayfair, his male vanity bruised, had spread stories about her so that prospective clients would be scared away. She should hate Mayfair, but that required effort. The acidity of hate was in her, but not the energy.
Sometimes she thought she was becoming a hermit, not going out, not concerned about her appearance, not taking care of herself. What made one a recluse by definition? Leaving shelter only once a week? Twice? Did recluses have roommates? From time to time she wondered if she might be lapsing into a clinical depression. Endorphins in decline.
After watching a Donahue program on agoraphobia, and seeing a woman interviewed who for years had been terrified to leave her apartment, Allie became frightened. She’d never been the type to pull the walls in around herself, yet that was what she was doing. What was happening to her?
She put on her old Nikes, struggled into her jacket, and immediately went out. Breathed deeply. Walked for miles.
She fell into the habit of walking every day, and every day brought Sam’s return that much closer. He’d phoned and told her the conference would be longer than originally planned, and to expect him when she saw him.
