The Ex by Freida McFadden(9)

Fear.

I always thought there was a distinct line between me and The Homeless. They did drugs. They were alcoholics. They had mental illness. I was safe from that life because I drank responsibly, said no to drugs, and was sane (more or less). But now, with my rent due in two weeks and absolutely no way to pay it, I realize the line isn’t as distinct as I’d once thought. In two weeks, I’ll be able to take a seat next to this woman on the pavement.

“Spare change?” the woman asks again, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time.

I swallow hard, but a lump sticks in my throat. I think about the money in my purse. It’s not enough to pay the rent on a halfway decent apartment, but it’s enough to help this woman out. I dig out five dollars.

“Here,” I say as I try stuff it in her cup.

Some of the dullness in her eyes fades. “Thanks.” She hesitates, frowning for a moment, then glances at the 7-11 one store down. “Hey, would you buy me a sandwich?”

I blink a few times, surprised by the request. I’ve given money to plenty of homeless people over the years, but this is a first.

“They won’t let me in,” the woman explains.

“Oh.” That makes sense. “Well, what would you like?”

“Let me look through the window.”

She gets to her feet faster than I would have thought, abandoning her sign on the ground. The smell of urine and dirty socks emanates from her coat, and I have to breathe through my mouth. She walks close to me, as if she’s scared she might need my support. This can’t be my future. It can’t be.

She follows me to the entrance of the 7-11, and together, we peer through the glass door of the shop. I don’t know how she can make out anything, but she squints at the sandwich display and finally says, “Chicken salad.”

I walk into the 7-11, feeling slightly indignant that they won’t even let that poor woman make a purchase. I squint in the fluorescent lights as I browse the sandwiches, finding two with chicken salad—one with white bread and one with wheat. I debate over which one to buy for far too long, but then realize it doesn’t matter. If she’s hungry, she won’t care if it’s white or wheat. It’s not like she’ll throw the wrong sandwich in my face.

I take the sandwich to the counter, not bothering to purchase anything for myself. I realize the woman never gave me back my five dollars to buy the sandwich, but that’s fine. I can afford it. For now.

“Four twenty-seven,” the clerk says without glancing up at me.

I reach into my purse to pull out my wallet and…

Wait, where is it?

I just had it out a minute ago, when I was getting out the money to give to the woman. Did I drop it during the walk here? Is that possible?

“Just a moment,” I mumble to the clerk.

I abandon the chicken salad sandwich and hurry outside. I don’t see my wallet lying on the street—and I’d certainly notice it, because it’s red. I walk all the way back to where the woman was sitting on the ground with her sign and… she’s gone.

Well, the sign is still there. And the cardboard. But the woman and all her belongings are gone.

That bitch stole my wallet! No wonder she was walking so close to me.

I stand on the sidewalk, blinking back tears. I can’t believe that just happened to me. As if my day couldn’t be any worse, now I’ve had my wallet stolen by someone I was trying to help.

I’m not sure how much more I can take.





Chapter 4: The New Girl


The only reason Beatrice Muller met Marvin Donovan is that someone nearly pushed her into the train tracks.

Bea was in the subway station, waiting for the train that would take her uptown to her job as a salesgirl at Gimbels. As was a habit with her, Bea had been carrying a novel within her overstuffed purse that she’d gotten from the Gimbels bargain rack at the beginning of the summer. When the train showed no signs of arriving, Bea pulled the dog-eared paperback from her handbag and started to read, squinting in the dim light of the underground station.

When someone jostled her, the paperback flew out of her skinny fingers. To hear Bea tell the story years later, that paperback traveled twenty feet into the air to land on the tracks below. (In reality, it was probably more like two or three feet—tops.) Nineteen-year-old Bea let out an anguished cry. The book was irretrievable on the train tracks. Not only that, but it was her favorite book. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. The greatest love story of all time, in Bea’s opinion.

Bea stepped to the edge, hovering over the tracks, which were littered with food wrappers, coffee cups, and now her beloved paperback. She contemplated lowering herself down there to rescue it.

Then she felt a hand on her arm. She looked up and saw a young man in a white dress shirt. She had always appreciated a well-dressed man, and she also appreciated the way his black hair was combed neatly on his scalp and his green tie matched the exact vivid shade of his eyes. “Excuse me, Miss,” the young man said to Bea. “I’d like to replace that book for you.”

The man led Bea to a bookstore, which was a short two-block walk from the subway station. They chattered brightly as they walked, and Bea learned that the man’s name was Marvin Donovan and that his family owned a used bookstore, where he had worked since coming back from serving in the army.

When Bea walked into Bookland, she fell instantly and hopelessly in love. With the store and with the young man who had brought her there. She gazed dazedly at the rows and rows of books, wanting to sweep them all into her arms. Marv plucked a copy of Wuthering Heights from the Classics section of the bookstore, which then filled an entire bookcase and was not nearly as dusty. Marv later told Bea he knew exactly where it was because it was his favorite book as well. She tried to pay him the ten-cent price of the book, but he refused.