I polished my shoes and mended my stockings. I read books borrowed from the library, seeking out more Steinbeck: Of Mice and Men, The Red Pony, Cannery Row. I read my way into America. The Great Gatsby. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The Sound and the Fury. The Call of the Wild. Once a week, on my day off, I treated myself to a matinee. The rest of my money I used, to pay the rent and to eat. I had never lived so close to the edge. Every week it was a matter of coins found between cushions in my room, at the bottom of my handbag, surviving on leftovers saved from the restaurant. My day off was something I cherished, but at the end of it I was always hungry, for I relied on the restaurant to eat and hardly bought a loaf of bread for myself.

After shifts I took the bus home—I couldn’t afford a cab. It was only one and a half blocks between my boarding house and the bus stop, but I walked quickly along the badly lit street, eyes darting around, keys clutched in my fingers. I wanted to be fearless, unafraid of the dark shadows, but I’d read the newspaper stories about women attacked, bodies found floating in the Potomac. I’d heard stories from the women I worked with about customers finding out where they lived, showing up outside their doors, lingering in the alley where we smoked on our breaks. So it felt precarious, but so did everything, then. So did life.

I thought of Jim often and wondered why I’d kissed him, what it was I’d felt then: was it fear of what I was headed towards or did I have true feelings for him? Our conversations on board that train were the most memorable I’d ever had. He’d forgotten me, though, I was certain. One night when I couldn’t fall asleep after a shift and I’d read all my library books I dug out The Grapes of Wrath and lay in bed rereading it. It made me remember the dining car of the train, the landscape passing in a blur, his earnestness and desire to get things right. Six months had passed since then—three months in Roanoke and three in DC. I read Tom Joad saying to his ma: ‘The hell with it. There ain’t no sin and there ain’t no virtue. There’s just stuff people do.’ And by the time the sun was up and the book was finished, all the times I’d loathed myself for what felt like sin, and loathed my father for what felt like his sin, seemed just another waste of time and feeling. Finally I knew what stuff I had to do.

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

‘Hannah.’

‘Mom.’

‘Are you okay? I’ve been so worried.’