Oops, I better not let an entire month go by without posting...!
There was no sign advertising that the ramshackle three-story Victorian was a group home. I knew I had the right place when the woman who opened the front door had teardrops painted on both cheeks.
There was a woman working there when I began, one who didn't follow the rules very carefully. "Polly," I would say to her. "You must not let the clients see your weaknesses." She would talk too loudly in front of the men about wishing she had a boyfriend, and some of them would needle her about it later until she broke down in tears.
Polly primped constantly before the hall mirror, standing this way and that, twisting her body grotesquely to peer over her shoulder at the stretchy cloth pulled too tightly across her buttocks. She'd told me about a job interview for another group home during which she'd been approached by a male client requesting a hug. She'd hesitated, searching the interviewer's passive face for help. Then she'd stood and hugged the man.
She was not hired.
Polly was stabbed to death in the basement two weeks after I'd met her.
There were two offices in the group home, one on the first floor and one in the basement. Male clients sometimes requested that I speak with them privately in that basement office. These were large, muscle-bound men, many with a history of assault and battery. Many fresh out of prison. No, sir, I would say without inflection. Some of them would laugh before they strode away cheerfully. It was laughter like the kind I once heard on the other side of the locked apartment door when I'd nearly opened it to a supposed pizza delivery man. "We didn't order any pizza!" my mother had shrieked from the bathroom, where she'd been blow-drying her hair. Her face was white with fear.
Polly must have said yes.
There was a woman working there when I began, one who didn't follow the rules very carefully. "Polly," I would say to her. "You must not let the clients see your weaknesses." She would talk too loudly in front of the men about wishing she had a boyfriend, and some of them would needle her about it later until she broke down in tears.
Polly primped constantly before the hall mirror, standing this way and that, twisting her body grotesquely to peer over her shoulder at the stretchy cloth pulled too tightly across her buttocks. She'd told me about a job interview for another group home during which she'd been approached by a male client requesting a hug. She'd hesitated, searching the interviewer's passive face for help. Then she'd stood and hugged the man.
She was not hired.
Polly was stabbed to death in the basement two weeks after I'd met her.
There were two offices in the group home, one on the first floor and one in the basement. Male clients sometimes requested that I speak with them privately in that basement office. These were large, muscle-bound men, many with a history of assault and battery. Many fresh out of prison. No, sir, I would say without inflection. Some of them would laugh before they strode away cheerfully. It was laughter like the kind I once heard on the other side of the locked apartment door when I'd nearly opened it to a supposed pizza delivery man. "We didn't order any pizza!" my mother had shrieked from the bathroom, where she'd been blow-drying her hair. Her face was white with fear.
Polly must have said yes.