Midnight, she mused, was not the dead of night. At midnight, bars are still open, people are still out and around. But at three, the late-nighters have gone to bed and the early-risers have not yet awakened.

  There was an icy patch under the next few steps of snow, and the snow itself was a weightless powder. “Ooo-ups!” exclaimed Betsy as her feet came out from under her. But she regained her balance after a fast dance and didn’t fall. “Watch it right here,” she said in warning to Annie.

  Annie dutifully did the snow-country shuffle and got across the patch with no trouble.

  Then they both heard a deep scraping sound, and looked up to see an immense snowplow coming up a side street.

  “Hey, lookit that! Aren’t you glad to see that big ol’ plow?” asked Annie. “’Cause I am.” Cheered, they hastened their steps.

  They crossed another street, and saw light coming from a building on the far corner. It marked the corner entrance of the Radisson Hotel. They stopped inside the vestibule to stamp snow off their feet.

  They went through the second set of thick glass doors, into the large, shining, marble-walled lobby. It appeared abandoned at first—but then Betsy saw a young man rising from behind the check-in counter. He’d evidently been stooping to pick something up.

  They checked in, and while waiting for their magnetic room keys, Betsy asked for a wake-up call at nine thirty. Then they took the elevator to their room on the ninth floor.

  It was big and tastefully decorated, with two queen-size beds, heavy drapes, and a lush, thick carpet. “This is nice!” said Annie, flipping the lights on and off in the large bathroom.

  “Yes, it is,” said Betsy, mindful of the far more modest hotels and motels of her youth, and aware that Annie had likely never been in a room this fine.

  They changed quickly into pajamas, brushed their teeth, and fell gratefully into bed.

  Fourteen

  THE shrill ring of the phone was loud in the silent room. It rang again and Betsy groaned.

  “What? Stop it!” grumbled Annie, rolling away from the sound.

  Betsy, desperate to hush the noise, lifted the receiver. “This is your nine thirty wake-up call,” said the recording of a bright and chipper male voice.

  “Okay, thanks.” Betsy grinned at herself answering a recording and dropped the receiver back into its cradle. “Time to get up,” she sighed.

  “Uff da,” said Annie, but she obediently rolled out of bed.

  “Wow, five hours of sleep just isn’t enough,” said Betsy, following suit. She rubbed the top of her head with her fingers and yawned prodigiously. “You want to shower first?”

  “Sure!” Annie headed eagerly into the bathroom and in a minute Betsy heard the sound of running water.

  Later, over breakfast in the hotel’s second-floor restaurant, Betsy, resplendent in a bright red pantsuit, nibbled at a soft-boiled egg, toast, and coffee. “Will you be able to call me today from the shelter?” she asked Annie.

  “I’m sure I can find a way—they prob’ly have a phone that residents can use. If they don’t, I can walk to a place with a pay phone.” Annie was eating an omelet made with selections from a big Texas vegetable garden, with bacon and hash browns on the side. Her eyebrows were signaling that she found the meal delicious.

  “I hope you don’t have to do that; pay phones are becoming rarer and rarer these days.”

  “Tell me about it.” Annie sighed, but another bite of omelet cheered her back up.

  “Here, before I forget,” said Betsy, reaching for her purse. She took out her wallet and removed four five-dollar bills from it. “Take this with you. You might need it.”

  Annie started to refuse, but changed her mind. “All right, you’re right. Thank you.” The money went into her shabby black purse.

  Shortly after ten, they were down in the lobby waiting for Betsy’s rental car to arrive.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Annie said to Betsy, who was unconsciously drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair.

  “Who’s nervous?”

  “You are,” said Annie with a nod toward the drumming, which Betsy immediately halted. “I keep tellin’ you, this is a piece o’ cake. I been going to shelters for a long enough time, I know how they work. I’m not gonna do something stupid, I’m not even gonna be brave. I’m just gonna drink a little coffee or play cards and talk with people. Gossip. Everybody does that.”

  “All right, you’re right. I should have more confidence in you. After all, you did very well at Naomi.”

  “That’s right. Hey, lookit that; I wish that was our car.”

  It was. A midnight blue two-door Chrysler of recent vintage, freshly washed, it even had a full tank of gas. Betsy signed for it, and she and Annie set off for the YWCA.

  The Y was just short of an exit from I-94, on University. The building was new-looking and attractive, two stories of clean red brick with steeply slanting gray roofs. A good-size parking lot was in front.

  “You want to go in first?” asked Betsy.

  “No, they probably have a camera watching the parking lot,” replied Annie. “They’ll see me getting out of the car, so we might as well go in together. We’ll say you saw me outside the hotel and gave me a ride.”

  “All right.”

  THOUGH Annie would not have admitted it for any reason, she was nervous as she walked with Betsy into the shelter. This was a really important job, and she had volunteered for it. People could go to prison if she found the answers to the questions Betsy wanted asked. So she had to do her very best, and part of that was looking and acting like she wasn’t being sneaky. But she also couldn’t act different from usual. She’d done a real good job of that at Naomi, but she’d never been in Fargo before, much less in a shelter here. She’d told Betsy all shelters were alike, but that wasn’t really true. She’d only said it because she didn’t want Betsy to get even more nervous.

  She took a deep breath. Okay, lady, here we go.

  The Y was a really nice building; everything inside looked both clean and new.

  As at Naomi, there was a tiny receptionist’s office with a window into the lobby. They both stopped there.

  Annie said, pitching her voice low and humble, “Hi, I’m Annie Summerhill, and I need a place to stay for just a couple of days. This here lady gave me a ride.” She glanced at Betsy.

  “Welcome,” replied the receptionist, a very attractive brunette sitting at a small, paper-clogged desk with a computer on it. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll have someone come out to get your paperwork started.”

  “Thank you,” said Annie, letting the tension she’d had no trouble allowing to show on her face relax just a little, and offering a grateful smile.

  She stepped aside so Betsy could have her turn. “Hello, I’m Betsy Devonshire, and I have an appointment with Fran Coleman.”

  “Welcome,” said the receptionist. “Just a minute, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  A pretty young woman in a gray wool suit came out first. She wore gold jewelry and maroon shoes. Her brown hair was long, and tied up on top of her head.

  She held her hand out to Betsy, who was looking good in that red pantsuit. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “I’m Fran Coleman.”

  Betsy shook her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” she said. Then she turned to Annie. “This is Annie Summerhill,” she said. “I saw her outside my hotel. She needed a ride to a shelter; I hope it was all right to bring her here.”

  “Yes, of course. Welcome, Ms. Summerhill.”

  “Thank you,” said Annie.

  “Now, if you’ll come with me,” said Fran, and she led Betsy away.

  Annie stood awhile, her battered secondhand suitcase at her feet, her secondhand black purse hanging off her arm. Then she watched as a woman approached. She was plump, with short, curly black hair liberally streaked with gray, kind eyes, and a little too much nose. She was wearing a dark green skirt, and what used to be called a sweater set in light green. She even had a two-strand pearl necklace—how old-fashioned could you get? She walked up to Annie and held her hand out. “Welcome to the YWCA women’s shelter,” she said. “I’m Shelly Wisniewski. Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll get you signed in.”

  “Thank you,” said Annie. As she walked beside Shelly, she gave the story she and Betsy had made up together. “I don’t need to stay long, I have a cousin in Saint Paul who is going to take me in. She even made a reservation for me on the train for Friday. But meantime, I don’t have money for a hotel.”

  “I understand. In here, this is my office.”

  The office was fairly large, carpeted, and very neat, no loose folders or papers strewn around. There were no windows. Gray metal file cabinets and wooden cabinets, like the ones you might find in a kitchen, lined one wall, and a shelf was filled with both books and loose-leaf binders. A stack of shallow, gray metal boxes was on a corner of the desk, each box half filled with forms. The inevitable computer station was on an adjoining wooden shelf, its screen saver of a snowcapped mountain rising from a calm, tree-lined lake, really pretty.

  “Have a seat, this won’t take long,” said Shelly, by which Annie knew it was going to take a while. Shelly began pulling out forms, one from each tray.

  “Um, I don’t spell so good,” announced Annie before Shelly could hand her the sheaf of forms. It was more that she couldn’t read those tiny words on the forms, but never mind.

  “All right, I’ll ask the questions and fill in the answers for you, okay?”

  “Thanks.” Annie unbuttoned her old coat and pulled it open—it was warm in the office.

  The first form was meant to collect what Shelly called basic information: full name, date of birth, and age, which Annie always thought was, what was the word? Oh, yeah, redundant. And her Social Security number, whether or not she was a citizen, what race she claimed to be—once, annoyed by the numerous choices, Annie had said she was an earthling. But they didn’t think that was funny.

  Shelly wanted to know whether she had any little children with her, whether she had children at all and where they might be, whether or not she was pregnant, the address and phone number of an emergency contact person. It always pained Annie to be asked that last question, because she had nobody. Then she remembered her imaginary cousin and made up a name and address.

  “We’re almost done with the front of this form,” said Shelly cheerfully. “How did you find out about this shelter?”

  “Someone in Saint Paul told me.”

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  “No.”

  Out of a list of ten possible reasons for coming to the shelter, Annie picked “Traveler” because it sounded better than “Homeless.”

  Shelly turned to the back of the form and asked where she had been staying before she came here. “Naomi Shelter in Saint Paul,” murmured Annie—but at least it wasn’t in a place not meant for human habitation, like a car or in a doorway.

  “How long were you there?” asked Shelly.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Why did you come to Fargo?”

  “I have this friend, her name is Janet Turnquist, she’s from Fargo, and she’s homeless like me. I thought maybe the two of us could get a room together. But I can’t find her. Is she here in this shelter maybe?”

  “I don’t know. You can have a look around after we get through here.”

  “Okay. What’s next?”

  “Income sources.”

  “I got GAMC and food stamps, that’s all.” Annie wasn’t old enough for Social Security, or disabled enough for SSI; her income was barely over two hundred dollars a month.

  Shelly read the last question on that page: “Are there any physical or mental health concerns we should be aware of?”

  “No, ma’m.” Annie put it firmly. She did not want to waste any time talking to a shrink or a nurse.

  Page three asked about specific health issues, such as HIV status, or problems relating to drug abuse. “No, all I got is type two diabetes and glaucoma—and I have my pills and eyedrops with me.”

  “Are you on parole or probation?”

  “No, and I never have been. Though it’s because I been lucky so far not to be arrested for vagrancy or begging.”

  “Last question: Are you able to give us a dollar per day for your stay?”

  Annie started to say no, then remembered the money Betsy had given her. “Yes, ma’m! In fact, I can give you five dollars!” Annie reached for her purse, smiling proudly.

  “Well, that’s fine. Are you sure you can spare it?”

  “Yes, all I need when I get to Saint Paul is bus fare to my cousin’s house, and I got that, too.” Annie handed over the money with a warm feeling in her heart. Bless Betsy!

  There were other forms, but they were much easier than that big first one. Shelly made her sign a release for medical treatment, if she needed it, and to say she’d been given a copy of the rules of the place, and that she wouldn’t sue if she got hurt or sick while she was here, and that she understood they’d call the cops on her if she got out of line—all standard stuff.

  She was taken to a small but very clean room that had both a bed and a mattress on the floor. The mattress was to be hers; it seemed she had a roommate with a prior claim to the bed, though she wasn’t currently present.

  She was given sheets, a pillowcase, and a nice, thick blanket, and shown the tiny closet and bottom two drawers of the little dresser, which were more than adequate for the few articles of clothing she’d brought with her. She hung her coat in the closet, put her suitcase on the bed, and continued the tour.

  The place was bigger, a lot bigger, than she’d thought. There was a room where a few clients were “shopping” for nice clothing, even shoes and purses. A special smaller room had even nicer clothing, and perfume, jewelry, and makeup for clients going to work or out on job interviews. There was a little hair salon and a medical clinic—very few of the residents had any kind of insurance. There was a half-size gym equipped with everything from Wii—two women and a toddler were exercising in front of a flat-screen TV, and Shelly explained a little bit how it worked—to hula hoops. There was a big kitchen with several refrigerators, where meals were served and clients took turns cleaning up and cooking. There were classrooms—one with up-to-date computers.

  There was even a coffee lounge for adults needing a space where no children were around. Annie made a special mental note of its location.

  There was a free Laundromat.

  There was a locked back door for clients to use if they needed to slip in or out, away from prying or lurking eyes. Seeing that, Annie thanked her lucky stars that her ex-husband was a bum, not a violent stalker.

  There were all kinds of counseling and classes, from effective parenting to getting a GED to developing good work habits. Residents were each assigned a case manager and were expected to take advantage of these offerings.

  For residents with jobs, there was no-cost child care. There were a lot of kids staying here, but most of them were in school at present.

  And for clients who failed an alcohol test, there was a banishment of twenty hours—and even then there was a shelter in town with, okay, more humble, mat-on-the-floor spaces—but still, spaces for people drunk or drugged.

  Fargo was all right.

  There was sleeping space for sixty-five—in a pinch, sixty-six—residents.

  Back in her room, Annie combed her hair and took off her boots; the place was warm enough for stocking feet. She went to the coffee lounge. Three women playing 500 rummy welcomed her as a fourth. She sat down, waited till it was her turn to deal, and said, “Is everyone here from Fargo? I’m from Saint Paul, just passing through.”

  Two of the other women were locals, and the third was from Moorhead, right across the Red River into Minnesota.

  “I know someone from Fargo. Maybe one of you does, too,” continued Annie, shuffling the cards expertly. “Her name is Janet Turnquist. I met her in Saint Paul, but she’s from here.”

  One of the Fargo women, a very slender blonde with a sad face further marred by a black eye and a big bruise on her jaw, said, “I don’t know anyone with that name.” She was wearing the kind of clothes generally worn by people who worked in hospitals or doctors’ offices.

  But the other local, a larger woman in an orange sweater, with badly dyed red hair growing out brown, said, “I remember her. She was here a couple weeks ago.”

  Annie said, “Do you know if she’s still around? I’m hoping we can get a place together.” She began dealing the cards.

  “I don’t know where she is now. She said she was going to the Twin Cities, she said . . . I don’t remember who she said it was, but she heard from someone, I don’t know how, someone like a cousin or an uncle or a brother-in-law, someone like that, a relative, who wanted her to come to the Twin Cities. I think to live with him. I think it was a man, but it might’ve been a woman.”

  “That’s too bad, I really would like to connect with someone interested in being a roommate.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have liked it with her,” said the pseudo-redhead. “She was very strange.”

  “I can put up with strange—I’m a little strange myself.” Annie smiled to show she was exaggerating.

  “I might be interested,” said the third woman, who was dressed in purple jeans and a lavender shirt.

  “Are you willing to relocate?” asked Annie.

  “No, I can’t. I’m not even supposed to be over here in Fargo.”

  Adding another lie to her story, Annie said, “I got a cousin who wants me to come to the Cities. She don’t have room for me to live with her—she’s got kids and a husband. But she says she’s got a job lined up for me. It ain’t much of a job, but it’s the real deal, with a paycheck and FICA and ever’thing. She even bought me a train ticket; it’ll be waiting for me at the train station Friday night. But I’ll have to work out of a shelter there, and that’s a big hassle.”

  “Tell me about it,” said the bruised woman in hospital scrubs—Annie remembered now what they were called. “Especially working nights.”