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Now . . .
It was up to her. She couldnt save that girl, certainly; it wasnt her place to do so.
But maybe she could find a way to help her.
IT ALL CAME DOWN TO FATE. THAT WAS WHAT ANGIE thought on Monday morning as she stood in front of the Clothes Lines display window.
There it was, right in front of her.
A dark green knee-length winter coat with faux fur around the collar, down the front, and encircling the cuffs. It was exactly what the girls were wearing this year. In fact, Angie had had a coat very much like this one in fourth grade.
It would look beautiful on a pale-skinned, red-haired girl with sad brown eyes.
She spent a nanosecond or two trying to talk herself out of it. After all, she didnt know the girl and this was none of Angies business.
The arguments were weak and didnt change her mind.
Sometimes a thing just felt right, and truthfully, she was glad to have someone to think about besides herself.
She pushed open the door and went into the small store. A bell tinkled overhead at her entrance. The sound took her back in time, and for a moment she was a pencil-thin cheerleader with Brillo-pad black hair, following her sisters into the only clothing store in town.
Now, of course, there were several stores, even a J. C. Penney department store out on the highway, but back then, the Clothes Line had been the place for Jordache jeans and leg warmers.
"That cannot be Angie DeSaria. "
The familiar voice pulled Angie out of her reverie. She heard a flurry of footsteps (rubber-soled shoes on linoleum) and started smiling.
Mrs. Costanza made her way through the rounders of clothing, bobbing and weaving with a finesse that Evander Holyfield would envy. At first, all that was visible of her was a pile of teased, dyed-black hair. Then thin, drawn-on black eyebrows and finally her cherry-red smile.
"Hey, Miz Costanza," Angie said to the woman whod fitted her for her first bra and sold her her every pair of shoes for seventeen years.
"I cannot believe its you. " She clapped her hands together, palm to palm to protect her long, heart-spangled fingernails. "I heard you were in town, of course, but I figured you would buy your clothes in the big city. Let me look at you. " She latched on to Angies shoulder and spun her around. "Jeans by Roberto Cavalli. A good Italian boy. This is good. But your shoes arent sensible for walking in town. Youll need new ones. And I hear youre working at the restaurant. Youll need shoes for that. "
Angie couldnt contain her smile. "Youre right, as always. "
Mrs. Costanza touched her cheek. "Your mama is so happy to have you home. It has been a bad year. "
Angies smile faltered. "For all of us. "
"He was a good man. The best. "
For a moment they fell silent, staring at each other, both of them thinking about her father. Finally, Angie said, "Before you sell me a pair of comfortable shoes, Im interested in the coat in the window. "
"That coat is awfully young for you, Angela. I know in the city--"
"Its not for me. Its for . . . a friend. "
"Ah. " She nodded. "It is what all the girls want this year. Come. "
An hour later, Angie left the Clothes Line with two winter coats, two pair of angora gloves, a pair of non-name brand tennis shoes, and a pair of black flats for work. Her first stop was the packaging store in town, where she boxed up the coats.
She intended to drop them off at Help-Your-Neighbor. She really did.
But somehow she found herself parked on the girls street, staring up at the dilapidated apartment building.
She gathered up the box and headed for the front door. Her heels caught in cracks in the paved walkway, threw her off balance. She imagined that she looked like Quasimodo, lurching forward. If anyone were watching, which, frankly, the blank, dark windows denied.
The main door was unlocked; indeed, it hung off one hinge. She opened it, stepped into a gloomy darkness. There was a bank of mailboxes to her left, with numbers on them. The only name listed was that of the managers: Dolores Mauk, 1A.
