panhandling between traffic lights. My mother would have offered to shove him out in front of a bus, but Claire cared. She believed in the commonality of the soul.
The hippie man pocketed the money. 'You're a real human being, lady. Most people won't look a man in the eye when he's down.' He gave me an accusing look. 'I don't care if a guy gives me something, I just want him to look me in the eye, you know what I'm saying?'
'I do,' Claire said, in her voice that was cool water and soft hands.
'I worked steady all my life, but I pulled my back out, see. I never drank on the job. I never did.'
'I'm sure you didn't.' The stoplight turned red again. I was ready to pull Claire out into traffic. Everywhere we went, people ended up telling her their sad stories. They could see she was too polite to just walk away. He came closer. She was probably the first normal person who'd listened to him for days.
'Unemployment only lasts so long,' he said. I could smell him. Either he 'd pissed on himself or someone else had done the honors. 'Nobody gives a shit.'
'Some people do,' Claire said. The late afternoon sun was turning her dark hair red around the edges.
'You're a real human being,' he said. 'They're out of style now, though. Machines, that's what they want.' He was breathing right into her face, but she was too sweet to turn her head. She didn't want to offend him. They always seemed to know that about her. 'I mean, how many people they need to fry burgers?'
'Not enough. Or maybe too many.' She smiled, insecure, shoving her windblown hair out of her face.
The light turned green, but we were going nowhere. Stalled in the stream at Sunset and Cahuenga. People walked around us like we were a hole in the sidewalk.
He stepped closer again, lowered his voice confidentially. 'Do you think of me as a man?' He stuck his tongue through the slot of a missing tooth.
She flushed, shrugged her shoulders, embarrassed. Of course she didn't. I wanted to shove him off the curb.
'Women used to like me a lot. While I was working.'
I could see the tension on her face, she wanted to back away, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings. She was twisting the bag of eight-by-ten glossies she'd just paid two hundred dollars for. A black Corvette went by, trailing rap music.
'You're a nice lady, but you wouldn't take your clothes off for me, would you.'
She was bending her photographs, her sensitive face quivering with contradiction. 'I don't.. .' she mumbled.
'I don't blame you. But you wouldn't.' He looked so sad.
I took her arm. 'Claire, we have to go now.'
But she was too caught up in the homeless man who was pulling a mind trip on her. He had her snared.
'I miss women,' he said. 'The way they smelled. I miss that. Like you, whatever you've got on.'
She wore her L'Air du Temps, out of place as a wildflower in a war zone. I was amazed he could detect her fragrance through his own stench.
But I knew what he meant. I loved the way she smelled too. I liked to sit on her bed as she combed and French-braided my hair. I could sit there as long as she wanted, just breathing the air where she was.
'Thank you,' she whispered. That was Claire, afraid of hurting anyone's feelings, even this sad old bum.
'Can I smell your hair?' he asked.
She went pale. She had no boundaries. He could do anything, she wouldn't know how to stop him.
'Don't be scared,' he said, holding up his hands, the nails like horn. 'Look at all these people. I won't touch you.'
She swallowed and nodded, closed her eyes as the man came close, lifted a section of her dark hair gently on the tips of his fingers, like it was a flower, and breathed in the scent. She shampooed with rosemary and cloves. The smile on his face.
'Thank you,' he whispered, and backed away without turning around, leaving her standing at Cahuenga and Sunset, her eyes closed, clutching her bag of photographs of a different person entirely.
CLAIRE TOOK ME to see the Kandinsky show at the art museum. I'd never liked abstract art. My mother and her friends could go wild over a canvas that was just black and white pinstripes, or a big red square. I liked art that was of something. Cezanne card players, Van Gogh's boots. I liked tiny Mughal miniatures, and ink-brushed Japanese crows and cattails and cranes.
But if Claire wanted to see Kandinsky, we'd go see him.
I felt better when I got to the museum, the familiar plaza, the fountains, the muted lighting, the softened voices. The way Starr felt in church, that's how I felt at the art museum, both safe and elevated. Kandinsky wasn't all that abstract, I could still see the Russian cities with their turbaned towers, and horsemen three abreast with spears, cannons, and ladies in long gowns with high headdresses. Pure colors, like the illustrations in a picture book.
In the next room, the pictures were dissolving.
'Can't you feel the movement?' Claire said, pointing out a big angle on the canvas, the tip facing right, the fan left. The edge of her hands following the lines. 'It's like an arrow.'
The guard watched her excited hands, too close to the painting for his liking. 'Miss?'
She flushed and apologized, like an A student who'd overslept once in her life. She pulled me back to sit on
