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 fingers stroked the file, as if Annie Broyer were seated on the floor 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 find 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 file 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 first.’
The office 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 finished 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 finding 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 five, 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 office 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?’