The Wolf in Winter

  The Tender House wasn't a homeless shelter but rather a 'crisis center' for women, where homelessness was only one of the problems it tackled. It catered for victims of domestic and sexual abuse, runaways, and women who simply needed a place to stay while they tried to improve their situation. Its staff liaised with police and the courts, advising on everything from restraining orders to educational and job opportunities, but it generally steered the long-term homeless toward other agencies and centers.

  'Got it,' said Bow, waving a fle. She licked an index fnger and fipped through some pages. 'We had her for about eleven days, apart from the ffth night when someone broke out a couple of half gallons of Ten High over by Cascade Park. We had some sore heads the next day, Annie's among them.'

  'Was she an alcoholic?'

  'No, I don't think so. She'd been a user, but she claimed to be clean by the time she arrived at our door. We made it clear to her that we had a zero tolerance policy when it came to drugs. If she got high, she'd be back on the streets.'

  'And alcohol?'

  'Offcially we're down on that too. Unoffcially, we give some leeway. Nothing on the premises, and no intoxication. Actually, I was disappointed when Annie came back to us all raw from the Ten High. I had her pegged as a young woman who was genuinely trying to change her life. We sat her down and had a talk with her. Turned out her estranged father had come looking for her, and her presence in town had thrown her. She was offered a sip or two to steady herself, and it all got sort of blurry for her after that.'

  'Did she say anything about her relationship with her father?'

  Bow was clearly reluctant to share confdences. I could understand her reservations.

  'Annie is missing, and her father is dead,' I said.

  'I know that. He hanged himself in a basement down in Portland.'

  I gave it a couple of seconds.

  'He was found hanging in a basement in Portland,' I corrected her. It was minor, but it was important.

  Molly sat behind her desk. She'd been standing until then. We both had. As she sat, so did I.

  'Is that why you're here – because you don't think it was suicide?'

  'So far I don't have any proof that it wasn't,' I said. 'A couple of small details are just snagging like briars.'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as the fact that he loved his daughter, and clearly wanted to reestablish contact with her. He had spoken of heading up here to be closer to her. He'd also gone to a lot of trouble to pull together some money in the days before he died. He succeeded too. Those aren't the actions of a suicidal man.'

  'What was the money for?'

  It struck me that I was on the wrong side of an interrogation: I should have been asking the questions, not her, but sometimes you had to retreat an inch to gain a foot.

  'To support him as he tried to fnd his daughter. I think he was also hoping to hire me to help look for her.'

  'So how much money did he manage to collect?'

  'More than a hundred dollars.'

  'Do you work that cheap?'

  'Funny, you're the second person who's asked me that. I could have given him a couple of hours, or more if I took the time from some of my wealthier clients.'

  'Isn't that unethical?'

  'Only if I don't tell them I'm doing it. You pay by the hour, even if the job only takes fve minutes. I don't do fractions. Look, do you think I might get to ask a question at any point?'

  Bow smiled. 'You just did.'

  Hell.

  She leaned back in her chair, like a reigning champ who had dispensed with another challenger to her crown, then threw me a bone of consolation.

  'I'm joshing with you,' she said. 'You'd be surprised how many people I get in here asking questions about the women in our care. I have to be careful, for their sakes.'

  'What kind of people?'

  'Sometimes we have women who turn tricks when times are desperate, and a john will come looking for one of them just because he's a creep, or he's got a beef about the service he received, or he liked it so much he wants a second bite. We get husbands and boyfriends trying to take back their possessions, because the kind who come storming in here mostly regard women as chattel. Oh, they'll do their best to dress it up as nicely as they can – they want to talk things over, to give the relationship another try, and they're sorry for whatever it is that they've done, which usually involves a fst or a boot, often with a little domestic rape thrown in along the way – but I've developed a nose for the worst of them. It's not hard. As soon as you put an obstacle in their way the threats start to emerge, but those ones are usually pretty dumb along with it. They mooch around in the hope that they'll be able to snatch their woman off the street, but we have a good relationship with the Bangor PD, and they'll get here before I've hung up the phone.

  'But we've had men try to break in, or beat up volunteers. Last year, one even tried to burn us down by starting a fre at the back door. At the same time, we try to keep channels of communication open between women and their families. This is a place to which women – and their children – come when they're desperate. It isn't a long-term solution. We make that clear to them from the start, but I've been seeing some of the women who pass through these doors on and off for the past ten years. They just get older and more bruised. There are times when I wonder how far we've come as a society where women are concerned. Whenever I turn on the TV to hear some jackass in a blazer bleating about feminists I want to set him on fre, and don't get me started on those dumb bitches who fnd themselves on the top of the pile only to reject the whole concept of feminism, as though their success wasn't built on the struggles of generations of women. I defy them to spend one day here with a forty-year-old woman whose husband has been stubbing out cigarettes on her for so long that he has to search for a spot where it still hurts, or a nineteen-year-old girl who has to wear diapers because of what her stepfather did to her, and tell me that they're not feminists.'

  What was strange about her speech was that, by the end of it, she was still leaning back in her chair and her voice had not grown even slightly louder. It was as though she had seen too much to want to expend valuable energy on useless rage. Better to direct it into more productive channels.

  'And where did Annie ft into all this?'

  Molly's fngers stroked the fle, as if Annie Broyer were seated on the foor beside her and she was still capable of consoling her, of offering her some assurance that the world might be gentler with her in time.

  'She was deserted by her father, and her mother died when she was still a teenager. That doesn't mean she had to become an addict, and fnd herself on the streets, but she did. She wasn't weak, though. She had real strength to her. I don't like to use the word "rescue", or make out like I'm on some kind of mission to turn around the life of every woman who passes through our doors. It's just not possible, and we do what we can here, but there was something about Annie, something bright and untouched. It was why I let the drinking go, and the fact that she couldn't keep curfew to save her life—'

  She suddenly stopped talking as she became aware of the dual meaning of what she had just said. A spasm of pain convulsed her, and she looked away.

  'But that's not what happened, is it?' I said. 'She didn't vanish from the streets in the night.'

  'No,' she said, once she was certain that her voice would not break, although she still did not look at me. 'She came in the sunlight, and she packed her bags and left. I wasn't even here. She asked one of the other volunteers to thank me for what I'd done, but I hadn't done anything, not really.'

  She touched the fle again.

  'Do you think she's dead?' she asked.

  'Do you?'

  'Yes. I hate to say it, but yes: I have a feeling of absence. I have no sense of her in the world. Do you think—?'

  'What?'

  'Is it possible that her father might have hurt her – killed her – and then taken his own life out of remorse?'

  I thought about what I knew of
Jude.

  'No, I don't believe so.'

  'Call me a cynic,' she said, 'but I had to ask. He wouldn't have been the frst.'

  The offce was very quiet for a time. The silence was disturbed by a young woman who appeared at the reception desk from somewhere upstairs. She wore a yellow T-shirt that extended to her thighs, and she was almost unbearably beautiful. She had hair so blond that it shone white, and her skin was without blemish. She held in her arms a girl of two or three who might have been her daughter or, given the youth of the woman who carried her, perhaps even her younger sister. The child had clearly been crying, but the sight of two adults silenced her. She laid her face against the young woman's neck and watched me carefully.

  'I'm sorry,' said the older girl. 'She wants hot milk, but we fnished our milk earlier. I was hoping—'

  She proffered a plastic cup, the kind with a lid and a perforated mouthpiece.

  'Sure, honey,' said Molly, accepting the cup. 'Just take a seat. I won't be but a minute.'

  Molly went to the refrigerator, removed a half-gallon container of milk, and disappeared into the little kitchen that adjoined the reception area. I could see the young woman from where I sat, and she could see me. I smiled at the child in her arms. She didn't smile back, but peered out from under the safety of the older girl's chin before burying her face in her chest. I decided not to bother either of them and went back to fnding interesting spots on the wall at which to stare. Eventually Molly returned with the hot milk, and the two children – because that's what they were – vanished back upstairs.

  'Do I even want to know?' I asked, as Molly returned.

  'It's bad,' said Molly, 'but we've had worse. There's always worse. That's the hell of it. And we don't usually allow men on the premises after fve, so your presence here probably threw her some. Don't take it personally. Sorry, where were we?'

  'Annie, and the day she left the shelter.'

  'Right.'

  'I'd like to talk to the woman who saw her last. Is she still here?'

  Molly nodded.

  'Candice, but she likes being called Candy.'

  'Will she speak with me?'

  'Probably, but you'll have to be patient. She's special. You'll see . . .'

  Candy was in her late thirties. She wore pink bunny slippers, oversized jeans and a T-shirt that announced she would work for cookies. Her hair was red and unruly, and her face was speckled with acne. Her eyes were slightly too small for her face, but she had a radiant smile. Had Molly not told me beforehand about her, I might not have guessed that she had mild Down syndrome. Molly told me that women like Candy were often referred to as 'high-functioning', but it was a phrase that was generally disliked in the Down community as it implied a hierarchy among those with the condition. Candy was the daughter of the shelter's original founders. Both were now deceased, but Candy remained. She cleaned the rooms, helped around the kitchen and provided company and consolation to those who needed it. As Molly put it, 'Candy gives good hugs.'

  Candy took a seat on the couch in the offce while Molly made her a mug of hot chocolate.

  'Not too much marshmallow,' warned Candy. 'I'm watching my weight.'

  She patted her belly, but still looked disappointed when the hot chocolate arrived with a weight-watcher's sprinkling of tiny marshmallows.

  'Oh,' she said. She poked disconsolately at the melting islands of pink and white. 'Not many marshmallows.'

  Molly raised her eyes to heaven.

  'You told me you were watching your weight,' she said.

  'I am watching my weight,' said Candy. 'But I'm not fat. It's all right. Don't worry.'

  She stuck out her lower lip and gave a long-suffering sigh. Molly went to the kitchen and returned with enough marshmallows to cover the entire surface of the hot chocolate and then some.

  'Thank you,' said Candy. 'Very kind.'

  She slurped noisily at her drink, and surfaced with a chocolate mustache.

  'Aaahh. That's good.'

  Molly placed a hand on Candy's arm.

  'Charlie here would like to ask you about Annie,' she said.

  'Annie?'

  'Yes. You remember Annie.'

  Candy nodded.

  'Annie was my friend.'

  Molly had said that Candy had been unusually fond of Annie, and Annie in turn had been particularly good with Candy. Some of the women in the shelter found it harder to deal with Candy than others. They treated her like a defective, or a child. Annie did neither. She simply treated Candy as Candy.

  'Do you remember when you saw her last?' I said.

  'January twenty-second,' said Candy. 'A Tuesday.'

  'Can you tell me what you talked about?'

  Candy's eyes welled up.

  'She told me she was going away. Got a job. I was sad. Annie was my friend.'

  Molly patted her on the arm again.

  'Did she say where the job was?' I asked.

  'Prosperous.' Candy struggled with the word slightly so that it came out as 'Prospuss.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Yes. She said. She told me she was going to Prospuss. She had a job. Was going to clean, like Candy.'

  'And did she mention who had given her the job?'

  Candy thought.

  'No. They had a blue car.'

  'How do you know? Did you see them?'

  'No. Annie told me.'

  'Candy is very interested in cars,' Molly explained.

  'I like to know colors,' said Candy. 'What color is your car?'

  'I have two cars,' I said.

  'Two cars!' Candy said, clearly shocked. 'What color?'

  'One red, and one blue. I used to have a green car too, but—'

  'Yes? But?'

  'I didn't really like the color.'

  Candy considered this. She shook her head.

  'I don't like green. Like red.'

  'Me too.'

  Candy grinned. We'd bonded. Clearly anyone who preferred red cars to green could not be all bad.

  'Annie didn't tell you the make of car, did she?' I said.

  'No, just blue.'

  'And the people who owned it, did she tell you anything about them?'

  'They were old.'

  She took another sip of her hot chocolate.

  'How old?' I asked. 'Older than I am?'

  Candy giggled. 'You're not old.'

  'So older?'

  'I think so.' She yawned. 'Tired. Time for bed.'

  We were done. Candy stood to leave, carefully holding her mug of hot chocolate so that it didn't spill.

  'Candy, is there anything else you can tell me about Annie?' I said.

  The blue car was something, but it wasn't much.

  'Annie told me she'd write to me,' said Candy. 'She promised. But she didn't write.'

  She turned her attention back to Molly.

  'Must go to Prospuss,' said Candy. 'Find Annie. Annie's my friend.'

  'Charlie is going to look for Annie,' said Molly. 'Aren't you, Charlie?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'I'll look for Annie.'

  'Tell her Candy said she must write,' said Candy. 'Mustn't forget her friend Candy.'

  With that she trotted off to her room. Molly and I said nothing else until we were sure she was gone.

  'She would have written,' said Molly. 'She wouldn't have wanted to disappoint Candy.'

  She swallowed hard.

  'If I'd been here when she left, I'd have made sure that she

  gave us details of where she was going. I'd have asked to meet these people who were offering her work. But all of the full-time staff were at a meeting that day with the Department of Health and Human Services over on Griffn Street, and we just had volunteers manning the shelter. Volunteers and Candy.'

  Anything I might have had to say would have sounded trite, so I said nothing. Instead I took one of my business cards from my wallet and handed it to her.