The ghetto had crept in around the train station, making it virtually impossible to get to the station without passing through streets of small, yardless, depressed row houses filled with chronically depressed people. During summer months the neighborhoods steeped in sweat and open aggression. When the temperature dropped the tone turned bleak, and animosity sat behind insulating walls.

I drove along these streets with my doors locked and my windows shut tight. It was more out of habit than conscious protection, since anyone with a paring knife could slash through my canvas roof.

The Trenton train station is small and not especially memorable. There’s a curved drop-off driveway at the front entrance where a few taxis wait and a uniformed cop keeps his eye on things. Several municipal-style benches line the driveway.

Eula was sitting on the farthermost bench, dressed in several winter coats, a purple wool cap, and running shoes. Her face was lined and doughy, her steel gray hair was chopped short and stuck out in ragged clumps from the cap. Her legs were ankleless, feeding into her shoes like giant knockwursts, her knees comfortably spread for the world to see sights better left unseen.

I parked in front of her, in a no-parking zone, and received a warning glare from the cop.

I waved my bond papers at him. “I’ll only be a minute,” I yelled. “I’m here to take Eula to court.”

He gave me an oh yeah, well, good luck look and went back to staring off into space.

Eula harrumphed at me. “I ain’t goin’ to court.”

“Why not?”

“The sun’s out. I gotta get my vitamin D.”

“I’ll buy you a carton of milk. It’s got vitamin D in it.”

“What else you gonna buy me? You gonna buy me a sandwich?”

I took the tuna sandwich out of my pocketbook. “I was going to eat this for lunch, but you can have it.”

“What kind is it?”

“Tuna on a kaiser. I got it at Fiorello’s.”

“Fiorello makes good sandwiches. Did you get extra pickles?”

“Yeah. I got extra pickles.”

“I don’t know. What about my stuff here?”

She had a supermarket cart behind her, and she’d rammed two big black plastic garbage bags filled with God knows what into the cart.

“We’ll put your stuff in lockers in the train station.”

“Who’s gonna pay for the locker? I’m on a fixed income, you know.”

“I’ll spring for the locker.”

“You’re gonna hafta carry my stuff. I got a gimpy leg.”

I looked over at the cop, who was staring down at his shoes and smiling.

“You want anything out of those bags before I lock them up?” I asked Eula.

“Nope,” she said. “I got all I need.”

“And when I lock away all your worldly possessions, and get your milk, and give you the sandwich, you’re going to come with me, right?”

“Right.”

I hauled the bags up the steps, dragged them down the corridor, and tipped a porter a buck to help me wedge the damn things into the lockers. One bag to one locker. I dropped a fistful of quarters into the lockers, took the keys, and leaned against the wall to catch my breath, thinking I should try to make time for the gym and some upper body work. I trotted back to the front of the building, pushed my way through the doors to the McDonald’s franchise, and bought Eula a container of lowfat milk. I swung back out the main entrance and looked for Eula. She was gone. The cop was gone too. And, I had a parking ticket on my windshield.