“My name’s Annie,” her guest had told her last night when she stopped Jilly on Yoors Street just a few blocks south of the loft. “Could you spare some change? I really need to get some decent food. It’s not so much for me ....”
She put her hand on the swell of her stomach as she spoke. Jilly had looked at her, taking in the stringy hair, the ragged clothes, the unhealthy color of her complexion, the toothin body that seemed barely capable of sustaining the girl herself, little say nourishing the child she carried.
“Are you all on your own?” Jilly asked.
The girl nodded.
Jilly put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and steered her back to the loft. She let her take a shower while she cooked a meal, gave her a clean smock to wear, and tried not to be patronizing while she did it all.
The girl had lost enough dignity as it was and Jilly knew that dignity was almost as hard to recover as innocence. She knew all too well.
Stolen Childhood,
I guess I was around three years old when my oldest brother started molesting me. That’d make him eleven. He used to touch me down between my legs while my parents were out drinking or sobering up down in the kitchen. I tried to fight him off, but I didn’t really know that what he was doing was wrong—even when he started to put his cock inside me.
I was eight when my mother walked in on one of his rapes and you know what she did? She walked right out again until my brother was finished and we both had our clothes on again. She waited until he’d left the room, then she came back in and started screaming at me.
“You little slut! Why are you doing this to your own brother?”
Like it was my fault. Like I
I think my other brothers knew what was going on all along, but they never said anything about it—they didn’t want to break that macho codeof-honor bullshit. When my dad found out about, he beat the crap out of my brother, but in some ways it just got worse after that.
My brother didn’t molest me anymore, but he’d glare at me all the time, like he was going to pay me back for the beating he got soon as he got a chance. My mother and my other brothers, every time I’d come into a room, they’d all just stop talking and look at me like I was some kind of bug.
I think at first my dad wanted to do something to help me, but in the end he really wasn’t any better than my mother. I could see it in his eyes: he blamed me for it, too. He kept me at a distance, never came close to me anymore, never let me feel like I was normal.
He’s the one who had me see a psychiatrist. I’d have to go and sit in his office all alone, just a little kid in this big leather chair. The psychiatrist would lean across his desk, all smiles and smarmy understanding, and try to get me to talk, but I never told him a thing. I didn’t trust him. I’d already learned that I couldn’t trust men. Couldn’t trust women either, thanks to my mother. Her idea of working things out was to send me to confession, like the same God who let my brother rape me was now going to make everything okay so long as I owned up to seducing him in the first place.
What kind of a way is that for a kid to grow up?
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I let my brother ...”
Dilly laid her sketchpad aside when her guest began to stir. She swung her legs down so that they dangled from the windowsill, heels banging lightly against the wall, toes almost touching the ground. She pushed an unruly lock of hair from her brow, leaving behind a charcoal smudge on her temple.
Small and slender, with pixie features and a mass of curly dark hair, she looked almost as young as the girl on her bed. Jeans and sneakers, a dark Tshirt and an oversized peachcolored smock only added to her air of slightness and youth. But she was halfway through her thirties, her own teenage years long gone; she could have been Annie’s mother.
“What were you doing?” Annie asked as she sat up, tugging the sheets up around herself.
“Sketching you while you slept. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Can I see?”
Jilly passed the sketchpad over and watched Annie study it. On the fire escape behind her, two more cats had joined the black and white tabby at the margarine container. One was an old alleycat, its left ear ragged and torn, ribs showing like so many hills and valleys against the matted landscape of its fur. The other belonged to an upstairs neighbor; it was making its usual morning rounds.
“You made me look a lot better than I really am,” Annie said finally.
Jilly shook her head. “I only drew what was there.”
“Yeah, right.”
Jilly didn’t bother to contradict her. The selfworth speech would keep.
“So is this how you make your living?” Annie asked. “Pretty well. I do a little waitressing on the side.”
“Beats being a hooker, I guess.”
She gave Jilly a challenging look as she spoke, obviously anticipating a reaction.
Jilly only shrugged. “Tell me about it,” she said.
Annie didn’t say anything for a long moment. She looked down at the rough portrait with an unreadable expression, then finally met Jilly’s gaze again.
“I’ve heard about you,” she said. “On the street. Seems like everybody knows you. They say ...”
Her voice trailed off
Jilly smiled. “What do they say?”
“Oh, all kinds of stuff.” She shrugged. “You know. That you used to live on the street, that you’re kind of like , a onewoman social service, but you don’t lecture. And that you’re—” she hesitated, looked away for a moment “— you know, a witch.”
Jilly laughed. “A witch?”
That was a new one on her.
Annie waved a hand towards the wall across from the window where Jilly was sitting. Paintings leaned up against each other in untidy stacks. Above them, the wall held more, a careless gallery hung frame to frame to save space. They were part of Jilly’s ongoing “Urban Faerie” series, realistic city scenes and characters to which were added the curious little denizens of lands which never were. Hobs and fairies, little elf men and goblins.
“They say you think all that stuff’s real,” Annie said. “What do you think?”
When Annie gave her a “give me a break” look, Jilly just smiled again.
“How about some breakfast?” she asked to change the subject. “Look,” Annie said. “I really appreciate your taking me in and feeding me and everything last night, but I don’t want to be freeloader.”
“One more meal’s not freeloading.”
Jilly pretended to pay no attention as Annie’s pride fought with her baby’s need.
“Well, if you’re sure it’s okay,” Annie said hesitantly. “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t,” Jilly said.
She dropped down from the windowsill and went across the loft to the kitchen corner. She normally didn’t eat a big breakfast, but twenty minutes later they were both sitting down to fried eggs and bacon, home fries and toast, coffee for Jilly and herb tea for Annie.
“Got any plans for today?” Jilly asked as they were finishing up.
“Why?” Annie replied, immediately suspicious.
“I thought you might want to come visit a friend of mine.”
“A social worker, right?”
