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She felt stronger now, no longer operating in a barely controlled panic, but at the same time she was alert. She had slept, and she had forced herself to eat a peanut butter sandwich at least once a day. Eating was still difficult, and her jeans were even looser now than they had been before. The belt she wore, bought at another Kmart, was a necessity. She had even washed the jeans in hot water in an effort to shrink them, but any shrinkage must have been in length instead of width, because they still hung on her. If she lost much more weight, even the belt wouldn’t help. She didn’t intend to spend any more of her precious store of money on new clothes, so what she already had would have to do.
She had formulated a plan. Rather than living off her cash until it was all gone, she had to have a job. There were underground jobs in Chicago, washing dishes or cleaning houses, and those suited her perfectly. No one would become concerned if one day she didn’t show. On the other hand, those types of jobs would be low-paying, and while they would tide her over for now, she would soon need something better. For that, she would need to develop another identity, and back it up with documentation.
Being what she was, a researcher, that was the approach she had used to find out how to establish a new identity. In this instance, the Eau Claire library had provided her with the information she needed.
It seemed relatively simple, though it would take time. First she would need a dead person, someone who had been born about the same time she had, but who had died young enough that there wouldn’t be a job history, school records, or traffic violations to follow Grace around after she assumed the girl’s identity. Once she had a name, she could write to the proper department at the state capital and get a copy of the birth certificate. With the birth certificate, she could get a social security number; with that, she could get a driver’s license, establish credit, become a new person.
She stored the duffel in a locker and carefully tucked the key in her front pants pocket. Then she located a phone book and flipped through the directory until she found the listing for cemeteries. After jotting down the names, she stopped a maintenance worker and asked which cemetery was the nearest, then went to someone else, a ticket agent, and asked for directions.
Two hours later, after having ridden on five different buses, she arrived back at the bus depot.
She bought a newspaper, found a seat, put on her glasses, and began looking through the tiny, densely printed classifieds for a place to stay. She didn’t want crummy and couldn’t afford comfortable, so run-down was the best alternative. By comparing prices, she eliminated both ends of the scale, and that left several places that fell in the middle. Two were boardinghouses, and she put those at the top of her list. Two phone calls later, she had a place to stay and directions on how to get there, including which El train and buses to take.
The best thing about a large city, she thought as she walked toward the El station, was the intracity transportation system. The buses had made getting to the cemetery easy enough. She could have walked to the boardinghouse; a week ago the distance would have daunted her, but now five miles seemed like nothing. She could easily walk five miles in an hour and a half. But the trains and buses were cheap and fast, so why should she? Half an hour later she got off the train, walked a block just in time to get on the bus she needed, and five minutes after that was walking down the street looking at house numbers.
The boardinghouse was a square, lumpish three-story building that hadn’t seen a new coat of pain in several years. A three-foot-high picket fence, sagging in places, separated the scraggly, minuscule patch of lawn from the broken sidewalk. There was no gate. Grace walked up to the door and pushed the buzzer.
“Yeah.” The voice was the same one that had answered the telephone: deep and raspy, but somehow female.
“I called about the room for rent—”
“Yeah, okay,” the voice interrupted brusquely. Grace waited, and heard heavy steps clomping toward the door.
Grace had put on her sunglasses again as soon as she’d finished reading the classifieds, and was deeply grateful for that protection when the door was unlocked and swung open to reveal one of the most astonishing creatures she’d ever seen. At least the woman couldn’t see her gawking.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” the landlady said impatiently, and in silence Grace entered the house. Without another word the woman—and now Grace wasn’t so certain of the gender—closed and locked the door, then clomped back the way she’d come. Grace followed, bag in hand.
The woman was easily six feet tall, rangy and loose-limbed. Her hair was bleached lemony white, and cut in short spikes. Her skin was a smooth, pale brown, like heavily creamed coffee, hinting at some exotic ancestry. A huge sunflower earring dangled from one ear, while a row of studs marched up the outer rim of the other. Her shoulders were broad and bony, her feet and hands big. Her feet looked bigger than they probably were because she was wearing hiking boots and thick socks. Her ensemble was completed by a black T-shirt with a loose yellow tank top layered over it, and tight black bicycle shorts with narrow lime-green stripes on the sides. She managed to look both ominous and festive.
“You a working girl?”
The question was fired at her as the landlady led her into an office so tiny it had to be a converted closet. There was a small, scarred wooden desk, an ancient office chair behind it, a two-drawer filing cabinet, and what looked like a kitchen chair. It was scrupulously neat, the two pens, stapler, receipt book, and telephone lined up like soldiers for inspection. The woman took a seat behind the desk.
“Not yet,” Grace replied, taking off her sunglasses now that she had her reaction under control. She would have preferred leaving them on, but that would look suspicious. She sat in the other chair, and placed the bag beside her. “I just got into town, but I intend to look for a job tomorrow.”
The landlady lit a long, thin cigarette and eyed Grace through the billow of blue smoke. Every finger was decorated with an ornate ring, and Grace found herself watching the movements of those big, oddly graceful hands.
Suddenly the woman snorted. “I guess not,” she said shrewdly. “Honey, a working girl is a whore. Didn’t think you looked the type, despite the cheap wig. No makeup, and you’re wearing a wedding ring. You on the run from your old man?”
Grace looked down at her hands, and gently turned the plain gold band Ford had given her when they married. “No,” she murmured.
“He’s dead, huh?”
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Surprised, Grace looked up.
“You ain’t divorced, or you wouldn’t be wearing the ring. First thing, you split from an asshole, the ring comes off.” Sharp green eyes flicked over Grace’s clothes. “Your clothes are too big, too; looks like you’ve lost some weight. Misery takes away the appetite, don’t it?”
She understood, Grace realized, both terrified and comforted. In less than two minutes this strange, tough, disturbingly astute woman had sized her up and accurately read details no one else had even noticed. “Yes,” she said, because some answer seemed indicated.
Whatever she saw in Grace’s face, whatever deductions she drew from it, the woman abruptly seemed to make up her mind. “M’name’s Harmony,” she said, leaning over the desk and holding out her hand. “Harmony Johnson. More people named Johnson than Smith or Brown or Jones, you know that?”
Grace shook it; it was like shaking a man’s bigger, rougher hand. “Julia Wynne,” she said, using the name she’d taken from a small marker on an unkempt grave. The girl, born five years before Grace, had died just after her eleventh birthday. The marker had read: “Our Angel.”
“Rooms are seventy a week,” Harmony Johnson said. “They’re damn clean. I don’t allow no drugs, no parties, no whores. I got outta that, and I don’t want it in my house. You clean up after yourself in the bathroom. I’ll clean your room if you want, but that’s another ten bucks a week. Most people do for themselves.”
“I’ll do the cleaning,” Grace said.
