The sun was blazing so we were backed against the wall, in a little slice of shade. I had an old straw hat in front of me with a cardboard sign in crayon: HOMELESS PLEASE HELP. There were a few coins in the hat: Garth said that if people saw someone else had put money in they’d be more likely to do it themselves. I was supposed to be acting lost and disoriented, which wasn’t hard to do, since I really felt that way.
A block to the east, George was set up on another corner. He’d call Ada and Elijah if there was any trouble, either with the Pearl Girls or the police. They were in a van, cruising the area.
Garth didn’t talk much. I decided he was a cross between a babysitter and a bodyguard, so he wasn’t there to make conversation and there was no rule that said he had to be nice to me. He was wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt that showed his own tattoos—a squid on one biceps, a bat on the other, both of them in black. He had one of those knitted caps, also in black.
“Smile at the people if they toss in,” he said after I’d failed to do this for a white-haired old lady. “Say something.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Some people say ‘God bless you.’?”
Neil would’ve been shocked if I’d ever said such a thing. “That would be a lie. If I don’t believe in God.”
“Okay then. ‘Thanks’ will do,” he said
patiently. “Or ‘Have a nice day.’?”
“I can’t say those,” I said. “It’s hypocritical. I don’t feel thankful, and I don’t care what kind of an asshole day they have.”
He laughed. “Now you’re worried about lying? Then why not change your name back to Nicole?”
“It’s not my name of choice. It’s bottom of the freaking list, you know that.” I crossed my arms on my knees and turned away from him. I was getting more childish by the minute: he brought it out in me.
“Don’t waste your anger on me,” said Garth. “I’m just furniture. Save it for Gilead.”
“You all said I had to have attitude. So, this is my attitude.”
“Here come the Pearl Girls,” he said. “Don’t stare at them. Don’t even see them. Act like you’re stoned.”
I don’t know how he’d spotted them without seeming to look, they were way down the street. But soon they were level with us: two of them, in their silvery grey dresses with long skirts, their white collars, their white hats. A redhead, from the wisps of her hair that were showing, and a brunette, judging from the eyebrows. They smiled down on me where I sat against the wall.
“Good morning, dear,” the redhead said. “What’s your name?”
“We can help you,” said the brunette. “No homeless in Gilead.” I gazed up at her, hoping I looked as woeful as I felt. They both were so prim and groomed; they made me feel triple grubby.
Garth put his hand on my right arm, gripped it possessively. “She’s not talking to you,” he said.
“Isn’t that up to her?” said the redhead. I looked sideways at Garth as if asking for permission.
“What’s that on your arm?” said the taller one, the brunette. She peered down.
“Is he abusing you, dear?” the redhead asked.
The other one smiled. “Is he selling you? We can make things so much better for you.”
“Fuck off, Gilead bitches,” Garth said with impressive savagery. I looked up at the two of them, neat and clean in their pearly dresses and their white necklaces, and, believe it or not, a tear rolled down my cheek. I knew they had an agenda and didn’t give a shit about me—they just wanted to collect me and add me to their quota—but their kindness made me go a little wobbly. I wanted to have someone lift me up, then tuck me in.
“Oh my,” said the redhead. “A real hero. At least let her take this.” She thrust a brochure at me. It said “There Is a Home in Gilead for You!” “God bless.” The two of them left, glancing back once.
“Wasn’t I supposed to let them pick me up?” I said. “Shouldn’t I go with them?”
“Not the first time. We can’t make it too easy for them,” said Garth. “If anyone’s watching from Gilead—it would be too suspicious. Don’t worry, they’ll be back.”
43
That night we slept under a bridge. It crossed a ravine, with a creek at the bottom. A mist was rising: after the hot day, it was chilly and damp. The earth stank of cat piss, or maybe a skunk. I put on the grey hoodie, easing the arm down over my tattoo scar. It was still a little painful.
There were four or five others under the bridge with us, three men and two women, I think, though it was dark and it was hard to tell. George was one of the men; he acted as if he didn’t know us. One of the women offered cigarettes, but I knew better than to try to smoke one—I would cough and give myself away. A bottle was being passed around too. Garth had told me not to smoke or drink anything, because who knew what might be in it?