The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(34)
Abigail awoke with a start – she suddenly understood why the question about her father’s forgiveness had never been answered. It was because there was no forgiveness, there never would be. Any thoughts she’d had about going home were no more than foolish daydreams. She’d made her decision the day she stepped on a train bound for Richmond. Now, there was nothing for her in Chestnut Ridge – nothing but the collision that would reduce her to a fragment of hopelessness. There was no going back now, there never had been.
On April thirtieth Abigail closed the door to Miss Ida’s house and turned back only long enough to slip the key beneath the doormat as she’d been instructed to do. She trudged across town to a small flat on the third floor of an apartment building. A flat that had one tiny window overlooking an airshaft and a narrow bed left there by a previous tenant. It was only temporary, she told herself as she handed the landlord seven dollars for the month’s rent. Abigail planned to get a job and move on to a better place, a place where sunlight sprawled across the floor and the scent of night blooming jasmine drifted in on the evening breeze. It’s only temporary she reminded herself as a stream of tears rolled from her eyes.
The following morning Abigail tugged a black wool suit that had belonged to Miss Meredith from the bottom of her valise – it was a bit dated and heavier than the season warranted but she smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt, dressed herself in it and left the building. Once out on Cleary Street, she crossed over to Hansen Drive and turned left toward the business district, choosing to walk rather than spend the money for a trolley. She tromped in and out of every building on Central Boulevard inquiring about employment, but there was no work to be had. “Sorry,” they’d say and squash the door closed in her face. That night she returned to the flat exhausted and soaked through with perspiration.
The next day Abigail marched herself downtown again; this time she inquired at the newspaper office, the hospital, the bus company and every doctor’s office in town, but everywhere she went it was the same mournful answer – “No jobs.” After a week of searching, she began to ration the remaining bit of foodstuff she’d brought from Miss Meredith’s house. She found she could make do with one meal a day and a sparse one at that. A can of sardines could be stretched out over three days and a small size muffin over two. She found a bakery that sold perfectly good two day old bread for three cents. When there was nothing but a can of black pepper left in the cupboard, she bought a jar of peanut butter and a tub of grape jelly, and lived on those sandwiches for a full month.
Abigail was down to her last dollar when she met Gloria Polanski.
It happened on a July afternoon, in the full heat of the day, when she was sitting on a bench in the park across from the GovernmentServicesBuilding. “Fill out an application,” they’d said, “We’ll let you know if something turns up.” But Abigail understood that this was something people said to be polite – nothing would turn up, nothing ever did, which was why she was crying.
Gloria plopped down on the same bench and started eating a foot long sausage sandwich. “You hungry?” she asked, then broke off a good-sized piece of the sandwich and held it out. “Go ahead,” she said, “I already ate a big breakfast.” Gloria had a broad smile and the curvaceous body of a person who seldom skipped meals.
Abigail paused amid a snuffle, “You sure?” she asked.
Gloria nodded. “You’d be doing me a favor. I probably ought to lose some weight, but I got terrible will power.”
Abigail took the piece of sandwich and chomped down on it. “Oh Lord, this is so delicious!” she said, licking a spot of grease from her hand. “I haven’t had a piece of meat in months!”
“You out of work?” Gloria pulled a banana from her purse, broke off a section and passed it over to Abigail.
“Uh-huh.” Abigail shoved a chunk of banana into her mouth and kept right on talking. “I’ve been everywhere and there’s not a single job in this entire city. I can even type – got my own typewriter – but that doesn’t make a bean of difference. ‘Sorry,’ they say, ‘we don’t have any jobs – not even for men.’ Like it would make a difference if a man was starving to death!”
“You really know how to type?”
Abigail nodded as she was swallowing the last of her banana. “Miss Meredith taught me. She’s the woman I used to work for.”
“How come you quit?”
“I didn’t. She died.”
“Rotten luck.” Gloria pulled out two chocolate cookies wrapped in wax paper and passed one to Abigail. “You got family?”
“In Chestnut Ridge. Not that I could lay claim to them since I ran off. Papa wouldn’t let me back even if I had the train fare, which I don’t have.” Abigail wrinkled her nose and grimaced at the thought. “He’s not the forgiving type,” she sighed.
“What about your Mama?”
“She died almost five years ago.”
“Whew. You got bad luck coming and going!”
“I suppose. Some I brought on myself. I probably should of married the Keller boy, like Papa wanted. Henry, he was a fine young man with a rich Daddy, I’d have had things pretty easy if I’d of married him.”
“You love him?”
Abigail paused for a moment, as if she was tallying up the good and bad points of Henry before deciding, then she answered. “Not in a do or die sort of way.”