Page 21 of The Angel and the Agent

By the time she was ready to leave, she felt more like herself. The blah feeling was a blip, and one she probably needed to embrace. For the last few months, she had been going eighty miles an hour, burning the candle at both ends. Perhaps the yucky feeling was actually her body’s way of protecting herself, of telling her to take a step back, to get a little more sleep, to take a night off of charity events with Piedmont and read a book instead. She would listen—bump up her vegetable intake, get some more sleep, practice a little self-care, and all would be well again in a few days.

She opened the door to the hallway and froze, one foot in the air like a startled fawn. On her doorstep was a single yellow rose. Poking her head out, she looked in both directions but saw and heard no one. She knelt, picked up the rose, and inspected it. There was no note, but she assumed Piedmont had made an early morning delivery before work. He started his day at the crack of dawn and, knowing she liked to sleep until the last possible moment, likely wouldn’t have wanted to wake her. Since she hadn’t yet reached that stage of adulthood where she owned a vase, she stuck the rose in a glass of water, grabbed her bag, and headed out.

It was a five block walk to the Metro, then two stops, followed by another four blocks of walking. Amelia owned a car, but parking in the city was such a nightmare she barely used it. Selling the car altogether was something she’d beencontemplating more and more. The only time she used it anymore was to drive to Ridge and Maggie’s house in the suburbs, but she could always take the train and ask them to pick her up from the station, a mere three miles from their house. It wasn’t a great car, but selling it would give her a few thousand to feather her nest and create more of a buffer between herself and poverty. Maggie and their brother, Darren, were natural savers. Their oldest brother, Johnny, couldn’t care less about money, and Amelia had always had to work harder at keeping it than anyone else in the family. There were just so many pretty, interesting things to buy in the world. At the same time, she desperately wanted to make it, to stand on her own two feet and be a grownup. There was no good way to do that if all her money went toward shoes, clothes, makeup, and eating out, as it had in college. As a testament to her newfound discipline, she had recently opened a separate savings account with an automatic monthly withdrawal. Currently she was only putting in a hundred dollars a month, but over time that would add up. And she could always count on her parents and grandparents for some birthday money. She would put that in, too. Or maybe half, after she splurged on one or two things she’d been wanting. Okay, if ten dollars of birthday money went into the new account, at least that was something, right?

Maybe her newfound blah mood had something to do with her upcoming birthday. Not that twenty three was old by any stretch of the imagination. But she couldn’t help feeling like she was on the cusp of some sort of monumental change. While still in college, it had been easy to convince herself she was still a kid. She’d been learning, preparing for her life. She’d gone home for holidays and had remained on her parents health insurance. Now she had a real job and was responsible for everything on her own. It was hard to continue to feel like a kid while railing at the government for taking so many taxes from her check.

Amelia rounded the corner into the posh neighborhood beside hers. It amazed her how things could change so quickly in the city. Her neighborhood was filled with crummy little studios and walkups like hers while here, a mere two blocks away, were lush townhomes and condos with elevators and doormen. One such doorman had become something of a friend because she saw him every day on her walk. Before moving, she had worried the city would feel aggressively large and scary. The trick, she had learned, was to break it down into several microcosms. It wasn’t a massive city of millions; it was the neighborhood where she lived, the neighborhood where she worked, the store where she shopped for groceries, the church she visited when she could convince herself to get out of bed on time on Sunday mornings.

“Good morning, Dennis,” she called to the doorman a few paces away. He was a pleasant, fatherly sort of man who never failed to put a smile on her face. And today when he turned to greet her was no different, except for the fact as he smiled and called out a greeting, he also extended his hand and offered her a flower, a white carnation.

Amelia stopped short. Was it coincidence she’d received two flowers on the same morning? “Is this from you, Dennis?”

Dennis grinned. “A secret admirer, Miss Amelia,” he replied tipping his cap.

Amelia hurried away, flustered and confused. It seemed an awfully romantic thing for Piedmont to do, but she wouldn’t put it past him. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more likely she found it, and now her heart beat quickly for another reason. What if he was planning to propose? What if it was some kind of trail and at the end of it he would be waiting with a ring? He had mentioned their future a few times, but in vague terms of “someday.” Surely he wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment, was he? They had never even said ‘I love you’ yet.

No, she was being ridiculous. Of course Piedmont wasn’t proposing. She had no idea what he was up to, but she could safely rule out any kind of engagement at the end of it.

On the next block, a man was playing a saxophone, his music case open in front of him. Amelia wished she carried cash for times like these, but everything went on her credit card. She searched her pockets, in case she could locate a spare buck or loose change. In the pocket of her sweater, she struck gold and pulled out a dollar to place in the case. The man nodded as she passed and, without seeming to break stride, handed her a flower. Amelia stopped short and looked at the man, but it was impossible to read his eyes because he was wearing sunglasses. He resumed playing the saxophone as if there had been no interruption, and Amelia continued to walk, hurrying now so as not to miss her train.

She slipped between the Metro doors as they were beginning to close, sat down, and tried to calm her breathing. The cheerful flowers clasped in her hand drew several smiles from the people around her. She smiled in return, though in a dazed sort of way. The middle aged woman beside her seemed especially taken with them until at last she scooted closer and spoke.

“Pretty flowers.”

“Thank you,” Amelia replied.

“Are they for someone or from someone?” the woman asked.

“They’re from someone,” Amelia said.

“Ah, a boyfriend?” the woman guessed.

“I think so,” Amelia said slowly. She couldn’t imagine Piedmont taking the time or energy to set up a delivery by two random strangers, but who else would do such a thing? Her sister was creative and sneaky enough to do it, but if she did, it wouldn’t be flowers. It would be croissants or muffins or some other baked good they shared a mutual and fawning love for. Fora second, her mind wandered, dreaming of the possibilities of receiving a bouquet of chocolate croissants.

“There’s my stop,” the woman said, drawing Amelia’s attention back to the present. She stood, put her hand in her coat, and handed Amelia a flower. “Have a good day, Amelia.”

Amelia was too stunned to even say thank you. She stared at the woman’s retreating backside, mouth agape. What in the world of big city mass transit was going on?

She was so dazed she almost missed her stop and had to bolt for the doors, once again narrowly missing being smashed between them. The station was its usual mob, a swarming mass of humanity that varied between commuters and panhandlers. When Amelia first arrived in the city, she had been devastated by the homelessness and need of so many street people. Now, after so many months in the city, she was beginning to feel immune, and that worried her. How did one see so much suffering on a daily basis and not become immune? It was a question she still hadn’t answered, and the lack of clarity confused her.

Take it as a sign you’re becoming an actual adult, Amelia,Maggie had said when they talked about it.When you’re a kid, everything has a clear answer. Homelessness and poverty seem easy to solve. But when you’re an adult you see all the shades of gray. Numbness and cynicism are two different things. You can’t walk around with a bleeding heart all day long. You have to do what you can, where you are.

I’m a stylist who charges two hundred dollars for a haircut,Amelia said.

That’s how Mother Theresa got started,Maggie replied, ending the conversation in laughter with no resolution.

Now Amelia’s usual sense of throbbing guilt returned as she passed a half dozen panhandlers in various states of distress, their signs and cups compelling her to give money she didn’thave. One of them had a dog, adding an extra layer of heartbreak.

Usually they sat passively by and didn’t approach, but as Amelia reached the end of the line, one of the men stood and began making a beeline for her, his cup held out in front of him. Her brother-in-law had tried to tell her not to make eye contact—They can spot a sucker a mile away, and you have the kind of face that says you’ll open your purse for them—but it was too late. She had already locked eyes with the man and seemed unable to sidestep him.

“Got a dollar, lady?” he asked, his voice gruff but his face kind.

Amelia checked her pockets once more to be sure before answering. “Sorry, I gave my last dollar to the saxophone guy.”

“Saxophone guys get all the loot,” he grumbled and then withdrew the hand behind his back and handed her a flower.

“What is going on?” she asked his retreating backside, but he didn’t answer and, even though she was watching him, she somehow lost sight of him in the pulsing crowd.

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