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“I will be donating the prize pot to the Golf for Underprivileged Children campaign,” Steve announced.
“Of course,” Peter whispered.
“I would have done the same,” I said.
It was a mark of success to donate the funds. Anyone who kept the money would be admitting that they needed it. The director of the charity came forward, acting surprised and happy, as if the entire event wasn’t scripted.
I stayed for drinks at the club, avoiding my father at all costs. When I finally went home, I was spent. It was more the confrontation with my dad than the strain of the golf game. I was going to have to find a way to deal with him that didn’t set off my fight or flight response. He was so aggravating, just the thought of having to talk to him got my heart racing. Luckily, I was in the prime of my life, and I worked out religiously. My heart could take it.
There was a message on my voicemail when I got home. For some reason, my mom still used my landline. I tried to disabuse her of that practice. No one even had a landline anymore. But it was a few dollars a month, and if it meant that I didn’t miss a call, it was worth it. I don’t know why she thought she could reach me at home. Even if I was there, I didn’t pick up the phone.
“Hi, sweetie,” my mom said. “I just wanted to let you know that we found Ava an apartment. We moved her in today, so she won’t be on the streets tonight. Hope your tournament went well. Talk to you soon.”
I pulled off my golf shirt, releasing myself from the stress of the day. At least one thing was working out. I wouldn’t have to worry about Ava being mugged or worse. I walked through my home to the back where my gym was situated. Turning the boxing pad on, I settled in for a few punches. Each time I imagined it was my father’s face I was punching. The output registered off the charts.
Chapter 8
Ava
I ended up calling Mariah’s nonprofit because I didn’t think I had a choice. If I was stubborn and refused help, she would hunt me down. She knew where I worked, after all. I was prepared to give some excuse as to why I didn’t need an apartment. I could say that I was just waiting for my first or second paycheck, that I was really okay, but when I tried that line of reasoning, they shot me down.
It wasn’t Mariah who answered the phone, but a case worker. She didn’t want to talk about my situation over the phone and made me promise to come into her office for a consultation. I agreed reluctantly.
Still determined to get out of it, I showed up in their office on Saturday. I had an appointment at noon, and I arrived at twelve on the dot. I had almost no gas left in my car. It was starting to worry me. I’d applied for a small grant from the homeless shelter, but they wouldn’t be able to process it until Monday. They had given me a bus ticket so that I could get around. But I didn’t want to leave my car just anywhere. It had all of my things in it, and I had learned to be protective.
The charity was housed in a little brick building on the corner of one of the neighborhood streets downtown. They had a little lot in the back, and I coasted in. I grabbed my purse and went in for the consultation, fully intending to turn them down.
“Ava Stan?” the woman asked. She wore a short pink sweater and a pair of navy pants. I was dressed more fashionably than she was, but I knew that social workers often weren’t paid what they deserved. She probably had kids at home and a mortgage and car payments, dozens of things she had to worry about before her outfits. Unlike the people I worked with, this friendly young woman probably shopped at thrift stores. There she could stretch her clothing budget, and fashion didn’t have the same currency when you were working for nonprofits.
“Yes,” I said, and stopped to sign my name in the guest book before following the woman to an office in the back. There were no decorations on the walls, and the entire space could have fit in a closet in my new office building.
“So how can we help you?” the social worker asked, taking a seat behind her desk.
There was just enough space in the room for two chairs, one on either side of the divide. I lowered myself into the visitor’s seat and prepared to give my speech. “I don’t really need help. I was just asked to come in by Mariah Brockton.”
“Yes, she told me all about you,” the woman agreed. I got the feeling she knew exactly why I was there, and that she would be as difficult to deter as Mr. Brockton’s mother was.
“The thing is, I have a job,” I tried. “I just need a few more weeks to get paid and then I’ll be all set.”
“We have short-term places that operate on a month-by-month basis,” the woman replied. She was a no-nonsense kind of person who wasn’t fazed at all by my admission of homelessness. “We could even do week by week.”
I blinked. It hadn’t occurred to me that this might be a temporary solution. Suddenly, the idea of being in a warm, safe space all by myself was almost as tempting as remaining stalwart. I tried to remember what I was doing there. I had come to turn them down, but in the space of a few short sentences, she’d almost won the argument.
“I’m staying at a shelter,” I said.
“That’s definitely an option,” the social worker agreed. “But at the moment, we have several available spots, and it was important to Mariah that we get you settled in one of them.”
I saw my avenues of opportunity closing fast. If I didn’t come up with a good excuse soon, I was going to be out of options. “All I need is some gas for my car, and I’ll be fine.”
“We can give you a gas card,” she replied graciously. “But you should really consider staying at one of our apartments. There’s no commitment involved, and when your check comes in, you can start looking for a more permanent place.”
I sighed. She was good. I would be crazy to deny myself the pleasure of a home, especially one that came with no strings attached. “I can’t pay for it right now.”
“The homes are free,” the social worker said, her voice even and comforting. “We are grant funded through the state.”
From my stay in the homeless shelter, I knew all about how grant funding worked. It was basically money from the government that was set aside to deal with social problems. It was how the employees got paid, and how the organizations paid for food, rent, and other things.
“Okay,” I agreed finally.
