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I closed the door behind us, turning to face her with a scolding look. “It took a lot to get me into this apartment. Let me just enjoy the vibes.”
“Of course,” she said with a smile. “Apologies. I just wanted to drop by and make sure you were settled.”
“I’m getting settled,” I replied. “There are some old DVDs I haven’t even begun to look through.”
“All donations,” Mariah informed me. “The sofa, the table, the chairs, all tax write-offs for wealthy families.”
“Please tell them thank you for me,” I allowed.
“To be honest, you are exactly the kind of client that we hope for.” She walked into the kitchen, opened up the refrigerator, and evaluated its contents.
“I think there might be some coffee,” I said quickly, darting for one of the cabinets. I hadn’t actually taken a look inside to see what kind of foodstuffs were available.
“Never mind,” Mariah said. “We can go out for a cup.”
“No really,” I tried in vain to dissuade her. “I have to do laundry.”
“You can do it when you get back,” Mariah scoffed. “It will only take us a half hour.”
I looked around the apartment, desperate for some excuse. I didn’t want her to spend any more money on me. What she had already done was amazing. I had a place to stay and I had slept over ten hours, an unheard-of amount for either the shelter or the back seat. Normally five or six hours was ideal. On very rare occasions I got seven hours, but never any more than that. It just wasn’t feasible when you were living in such close quarters with other people and things.
It didn’t seem like I had a good reason to argue, though. And it was only coffee. I knew from previous experience that a few dollars for a drink wouldn’t put anyone in the poor house. It was only the unemployed and the unhoused who couldn’t afford the luxury.
I grabbed my purse and shoes and followed her out into the hall. Locking the door behind me, I felt a spark of delight. It was my place for the time being; I was the one who had the keys.
Mariah and I walked down the hall and out onto the street. A few blocks away, there was a local coffee shop. Like almost every establishment in Boston, it was small and cramped. There were about six tables in a narrow dining room, with seating that spilled out onto the sidewalk. Since it was Sunday, the place was packed. We ordered our drinks but had to sit outside. It was cold, but not painfully so.
I wrapped my hands around the paper cup, sipping happily. Mariah had insisted on buying some croissants. I ate without arguing. I still needed food, but I had no money to purchase it. I was going to have to make do with the canned food from the local church until I got paid. My choices were baked beans and chicken noodle soup, not the best menu. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
By the time our coffee was done, Mariah felt like an old friend. We walked back to my apartment, and she left me on the sidewalk. I gave her another hug impulsively before watching her walk away. It was good to be cared for. She was just an incredibly nurturing woman who was going through a hard time. What little she said about her divorce was illuminating. I hadn’t thought about the problems other people were facing. Scrambling for my next meal had left me mired in my own heartache. I really felt for Mariah and appreciated all she had done for me.
On Monday, I was more than ready to go back to work. I felt like a million bucks, and it was all thanks to the little hole in the wall apartment. I showered alone once again, feeling like I could definitely get used to that. I wore my Monday ensemble, but this time it had been washed and ironed. I drove to work in a car that was devoid of personal belongings, and that fact alone made me feel free.
I still had to park far away and walk to the office since I didn’t have the funds for the parking garage. But I was on time as always and slid in behind my desk triumphantly. When Mr. Brockton called me into his office, he was anxious to hear about how the new place was working out. I was so excited, I forgot to be angry, and just filled him in on all the amenities.
“There’s an old Monopoly board,” I said excitedly. “And there’s a box of computer parts in the closet.”
He tried to mask his amusement but couldn’t quite accomplish the feat. I was sure that his place was a thousand times grander, but he had never slept in his car, so he couldn’t appreciate the novelty of a roof and four walls.
Instead of pastries, he had bagels, and I helped myself to them without being asked. He joined me, and we sat eating breakfast together, talking about my windfall. It felt good to have someone to share my good fortune with. I hoped he would forget all about how bitchy I had been the previous week.
“So, what did you do over the weekend, Mr. Brockton?” I asked him.
“Why don’t you call me Nate?” he replied.
I blushed, looking down at the carpet. I wasn’t going to argue with him. It was a kind gesture, and on top of all the other kind gestures he presented me with, I wasn’t sure how to repay him.
“I had a golf tournament,” he continued, as if it was perfectly normal to ask his secretary to call him by his first name.
“How was that?”
“Fine.”
“Did you win?” I asked.
“No,” he sighed, looking away. “I was distracted.”
“Do you think you could have won if you weren’t distracted?”
