The click of the latch felt like relief as she slid the card through the reader. It gave her access if not money. Inside it was hot and humid like a laundromat, but despite the discomfort, it was better than outside. She leaned into the shadowy corner and allowed her tired body to slide to the floor. Glancing out into the brittle night, she relaxed a little. It was safer here, the only place she had access to that had any kind of a lock. Her stomach rumbled in familiar complaint. She held only the vaguest memory of the last door she had opened — the most difficult of all. It was yesterday when she finally found the gumption to step inside the mission. They provided a hot shower, a clean pair of socks, and the first meal she had eaten in days. The hunger was back now, a bone-eating hunger that ached like a broken heart.

It had taken so much for her to enter that place, and she was sure she would again, but she postponed that inevitable moment. For the longest time, she stood out front, the warm, saucy air tickling her nose every time anyone opened the door. The smells of garlic and bread punched her in the gut until she timidly pried open the door with her fingers rigid with cold. Crossing the threshold served as passage from one life to another, and the delicious scents were tainted with the aroma of resignation.

Tomorrow, she thought, for breakfast she would return. Her mind conjured up images of pancakes and scrambled eggs. She could almost smell the strong coffee. Her mouth watered as she settled against the cold brick wall. Tomorrow.

 

Just two months ago, she lamented the unavailability of a convenient nail appointment and the lack of Fage yogurt at her favorite Stop & Shop. She had been like everyone else — riding the Red Line into Boston and resenting the fact that she had to show up for her harmless job of filing unnecessary paper in a nondescript office. She had felt sorry for herself then.

She wore everything she owned. She had nowhere to leave it and it served as a barrier against the cold, but more importantly against people. The bulk homogenized her. Her clothing had already turned a sooty gray and hid her vulnerability as a woman. Her straggling hair fringed out beneath the edge of a green wool cap. Her peacoat, once her husband’s, was big enough to accommodate four sweaters, a T-shirt, and a flannel that once smelled of him. That was the worst of this. An odor she never associated with herself had replaced it. It was acrid and ashy — animal — the odor of a hibernating bear. She disguised herself as a heap of clothing or trash tucked into the corner of the ATM, hoping for a few hours of rest. The little glass vestibule offered visibility and relative safely. Her eyes drooped as her damp clothes began to steam. She wrapped her arms around herself and drifted into the half-sleep of the wary.

When the man entered wearing the new urban business attire of an untucked pinstriped shirt and a pair of carefully pressed frayed jeans, she stilled. His black peacoat was much like hers and fell to the middle of his thighs. In one hand he held an ATM card, and in the other an iPhone. He glanced in her direction, dismissing her as a pile of rags. The woman stayed still. He beeped, beeped, beeped his pin code and the machine loudly churned out cash. Without thinking, the woman shifted.

“Hey. What the — ?”

She yelled, too, alone in the night with an angry man. Scare him, she thought. Make yourself big. Make noise. So she raised her arms and screamed incoherently. It was then she really saw his face, a man-boy really, looking more terrified than she felt. His eyes were bleary with exhaustion and wide with fear.

She screamed again, loudly, pushed past him, aware of the animal smell that hung around her like a fog. She shoved open the steamed glass door and marched back into the frigid winter night.

Some days later she saw him again, in Starbucks, as she nursed a latte purchased with her last five dollars. The coffee was the admittance fee to a warm afternoon. He wore the same jacket and a different striped shirt. He eyed her as he sprinkled cinnamon onto his black coffee. She was sure he recognized her. By the light of day, he was not the least bit frightening. He was young and fresh-faced; dressed for the office much like the one she’d once had. He looked younger now, thinner, and taller. His brown eyes were alive with interest. With an almost imperceptible nod, he rushed back into the cold afternoon.

Next, she saw him on the T, doing Sudoku puzzles with a cheap blue pen. He must have felt her eyes upon him because he looked at her, dipped his chin in recognition, before returning to his task. It had been so long since she had been seen, the woman almost laughed. She lowered her eyes and wrapped her coat more tightly around her middle. She had become invisible.

And she had surrendered fully to her circumstances. At the shelter, she would be showered and drug-tested and fed. She would have a bed, and if she was lucky, a bit of help. She examined her hands, rough now from the cold, with the nails bitten down and dirty. She tucked them into her armpits. Shame came in waves. A glimpse of her reflection and she would flinch. Lines etched her face, making her look older than 40. Her hair, like her clothing, had been leeched of color. Everything drooped as if she was in the process of melting. Her shoulders sloped, her hair fell lank, her clothes hung. She even seemed shorter. Her blue eyes darted around looking for trouble or pity. She wanted neither.

After passing the drug test, she was awarded a hot shower and a clean gray sweatsuit that smelled of chlorine. She relished the luxury of cleanliness, smiled as she brushed her teeth with cinnamon toothpaste. After pulling a wide plastic comb through her dripping hair, she tied it back with an elastic band. The sweatshirt was emblazoned with Boston Globe Softball. She didn’t care. It was hers.

After lunch, she filled in forms with her best handwriting. She told her story again and again. Widowed, laid off, evicted. She ate again, a paper plate of fish sticks and Tater Tots. She was led to a narrow bed with one clean blanket. She had been warned about theft — both as a perpetrator and as a victim. She did not intend to steal from these people, and she had nothing worth stealing except for her sneakers, which she did not remove.

Within a month, she had a job of sorts. She was the sample lady at the Stop & Shop, handing out small paper cups of yogurt. She hated this particular brand, but she handed it out with enthusiasm. She smiled her best smile and held the cups up as if they were the holy grail of health. Spend your money, eat this, and you will be fine. She was wiser now.

The man-boy was shopping. His eyes found hers. “Good morning,” he said softly, taking a sample of her magic elixir.

The woman smiled as he took the proffered coupon. He thanked her and walked away. One decision away, she thought. Perhaps he understood.