Now You See Her Read Online Free PDF

and wait for Devaney to call. No, that’s too passive. And all too familiar. The story of my life,
     waiting for men’s cues.
    I tug the leash and head down the first side street, which has no sign. So typical Boston, as if everyone’s supposed to know
     the street names. Shingled triple-deckers with sloping porches line the block, with clustered mailboxes of apartments quarried
     from every floor, a sign of transience. It’s trash day, with mounds of junk piled curbside, including stained rugs, mattresses,
     a single ski.
    At midblock, a shopping cart brims with plastic bags and a filthy yellow suitcase. I veer around a figure who rises from the
     curbside mound. “Don’t touch my cart.”
    She wears a black coat and striped knit scarf, which drags on the walk. She’s clutching a frayed doormat. “Don’t you touch
     it.”
    “I won’t.”
    Glaring, she throws down the mat, picks a torn lampshade with chapped fingers, mumbles.
    I tug Biscuit’s leash as she grabs my arm. “Got a dollar?”
    She looks sixty-something, and one of her blue eyes wanders. One cheek is discolored purple. “What about a dollar? I could
     use a dollar.” Her sunken mouth is a smear of fuchsia lipstick, and the sun glares on her coat collar pin, which is a bird
     in flight.
    In a bizarre way, this woman got herself together with a scarf, pin, and lipstick, accessories for a day of trash picking.
     She’s about twenty years ahead of me. What happened in her life? Suppose somebody like myself ended her days collecting cans
     for nickels? What are the guarantees against street life with shopping cart?
    Suppose that destitution is contagious?
    Biscuit’s tail wags, and I dig for the dollar. Not one single in my wallet. She smells of sweat and a foul rose perfume. Biscuit
     is keenly interested. I hand the woman a five.
    She thrusts it deep inside her coat, and the wandering eye fixes on me. Never mind thanks, I want to go.
    “You look like somebody. You work at the shelter?”
    “No.”
    “Like a volunteer? You look like her.”
    “Come on, Biscuit.”
    “Jo. Her name’s Jo.”
    “Jo Cutter?” My Aunt Josephine? “She got me a bed when they were full. Snow on the ground. I could’ve froze.”
    “The weather’s warmer now.” Dumb remark. “Biscuit—”
    “Where’s she been, Jo? She don’t come to the shelter now.” She turns sideways so the wandering eye can fix on my face. “Where’s
     she at?”
    “If it’s Jo Cutter, she was my aunt. She… passed away last February.”
    She blinks. “Dead?” I nod. A car drives by. She wipes a coat sleeve across her eyes.
    My eyes water too. I can easily imagine Jo finding a bed for this woman. Jo, the Jane Addams of the South End.
    And me, keeping my distance. “Good ones go first. God almighty.” She sets the torn lampshade carefully on the cart and kicks
     at the mound. “Used to be you got something good.” She taps her yellow suitcase. “Got it off a pile way back. Shuts real tight.
     Samsonite.”
    “You know these streets?”
    “Lived inside all my life. Good heat all winter, me and the old man. Forster Street.”
    “How about Eldridge?” I catch the wandering eye, hold its gaze. “Do you remember Eldridge? An auto body shop? Houses?”
    “Can’t go near it now. They run you off.”
    “I mean years ago.”
    “They burned it down.”
    “Who’s they?” Her lips move as if sampling the question. She shrugs. “I hear Eldridge Street had an auto body repair.”
    “They’d give you a sandwich. Tasted like paint.”
    “And a drug house next door. A crack house.”
    She spits. “Forster was my street.”
    “What about the crack house on Eldridge? Next to the auto shop.”
    “Golden rule, live and let live. They kept to themselves.”
    “Who lived in the house?”
    “Young ones, babies. Take it from me, their trouble was music. Day and night, burst your eardrum.”
    “Musicians?”
    “Boom box radio. Religion, they said it was. I didn’t care. Summer