The Girl in the White Sweater

I knew instantly she wasn’t a happy woman. Maybe it was the way she carried herself as she cut across the park toward Scottsdale Street. Her shoulders slumped forward, her eyes looked down. She walked slowly, deliberately, toward an unknown destination. She had both hands stuffed down in the pockets of a pair of rumpled cargo pants. The sweater she wore would have been white when it was new, now it carried the stains of time. Still she didn’t appear dirty as most street people do. I left my seat in the gazebo, picked up my briefcase, and followed.

The young woman turned north on Scottsdale, and then east onto Brennan. She looked both ways before cutting across the street mid-block to disappear inside a disintegrating building. Several of the windows were broken, replaced with plywood to keep out the rain. Graffiti artists added brilliant splashes of color to the building’s otherwise dingy façade. The building was condemned.

I crossed Brennan at the crosswalk, followed the sidewalk, and stopped at the entrance to the building. The door wasn’t shut. The latch was broken. I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome. I knocked anyway. The sound echoed back to me from the empty room beyond. No answer. I knocked again. I waited a minute or two. When I didn’t hear approaching footsteps, I pushed the door open. It squeaked loudly, as if protesting my intrusion. I ignored the noise and stepped inside the abandoned hotel.

The room smelled of musty carpet, rotting food, and urine. Trash littered the floor. Old clothes were heaped against the far wall. A staircase wound upward. I called out, “Hello. Is anyone here?” I knew she was inside somewhere, but she didn’t answer. I started up the stairs. Some of the treads were cracked, a few were missing. I picked my steps carefully as I made my way upstairs. At the top, I turned left down a long hallway.

“Hello? Mary?” Only silence answered my call.

I pushed open the first door, the second, and the third. The fourth door was latched. I knocked. Footsteps crept toward the door. I saw movement on the other side of the peephole viewer. “Mary? Mary Pickford? Is that you?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Anthony Michael.”

“How do you know me?”

“I have something for you.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you find me?”

“Your sister told me where to look.”

“Beth knows where I am? What do you want?”

“She saw you in the park. She followed you, but lost you in a crowd along Scottsdale Street. I want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Please open the door.”

The door opened a crack. One green eye inspected me from head to foot, resting on the briefcase I held in my left hand. She must have been satisfied with what she saw because the door opened wider.

“Come in,” she said, gesturing toward a straight back chair beside the window.

I sat down and placed the briefcase on my lap. I took a key out of my jacket pocket and opened the locks. I took out an envelope, “I work for the estate of James Dillier Throckmorton.” When Mary started to speak, I held up my hand. “You don’t know him, and you don’t know me. I’m merely the messenger. Someone wants you off the streets and in college where you belong. Open the envelope.”

Mary looked around the shabby room she could never make into a home. Her hands shook as she ripped open the seal. Inside was a cashier’s check. Her face paled, her shoulders straightened, and hope glistened in her eyes, as she counted the zeros on a one million dollar check.

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