No Footprints by Susan Dunlap Read Free Book Online Page A

bemoaned the rest of the day spent in the bland and arid land of no coffee, but right now I didn’t have time.
    Cabs do exist in San Francisco, but you wouldn’t know it unless you’re at a hotel. I turned to Nellen. ‟Did you drive here?”
    A couple minutes later I was saying I owed him, sliding into his Jeep Cherokee, and thinking luck was with me.
    It was. Crosstown traffic was light and, miracle of all miracles, I found a parking spot on Filbert. Better yet, the address was not one of those apartment buildings set up to keep out strangers, but a duplex with doors at the top of the stairs and L Young’s name big as life on the mail slot. I hesitated a moment, trying to tamp down my hopes, to ignore the fear that
she’d be gone, on her way to carry out her threat, then braced myself and pushed the bell. It wasn’t just a question of whether she was home. After all, L Young could be a man—a single initial in the listing often meant that—or—
    But she wasn’t. Louise Young was a middle-aged African American woman in her bathrobe, a woman who eyed me, realized I was not the UPS driver, and was disappointed.
    Nowhere near as crushed as I was. Before she could close the door I said, ‟Do you have a roommate? I’m looking for a white woman about my height, dark hair, chin-length, thin. She bikes. She—”
    â€ŸI wish I had time for friends.”
    â€ŸShe had your phone number. Are you a therapist or—”
    â€ŸI’ve got a one-year-old and a three-year-old. They are my work.” A screech came from inside. She shot a glance back. ‟Your friend could be next door and I wouldn’t notice her. Sorry.” She shut the door.
    I walked back to the Jeep, got in, and slammed the door. A full hour wasted and I was no closer to my jumper. I—
    â€ŸDon’t complain!” Leo once told me that, not as a chide but as an instruction. His intention hadn’t been merely to save my companion from a rant or a whine—he’d meant: Don’t complain in your mind. Don’t underwrite illusion.
    So, I focused on getting the vehicle back to Nellen before he finished with the Honda I’d be taking to Berkeley.
    But the Honda wasn’t ready.
    This was turning into one helluva day—a day that made not complaining a challenge.
    Without much hope I headed on foot for the resale shop.
    The Women’s Building is a hundred-year-old Mission Revival–style former gymnasium, built by German exercise enthusiasts. It boasts rounded
windows, great, colorful murals on the exterior walls, and rental space inside. Women Re-entering was on the ground floor.
    Inside two women were sorting clothes. Me, I love secondhand shops. Each one has its own style. My preference is vintage, theatrical, or just weird. But this one looked more conservative—good clothes, the kind worn by the steadily employed.
    â€ŸWe’re closed. Unless you’re donating.” A large blond woman in a sweatshirt she couldn’t have given away even here nodded toward a table.
    Women Re-entering! Now I remembered hearing about this place. ‟So you help women prepare for job interviews?”
    â€ŸAnd jobs. Gotta wear something to work before the first check, you know. No one thinks of that.”
    â€ŸLooks like you did.”
    â€ŸTimes like these, it’s tough. Thought we might . . . but no. That’s a nice jacket.”
    My standby black jacket. I laughed. ‟Lucky, huh? What do you do—guilt people on the street?”
    â€ŸWe get the word out. You don’t work in this neighborhood or you’d know. You’d be planning to give us that jacket. You’re wearing it with jeans—worn jeans. It’s not your only jacket, like it will be to the woman who gets it. Other people’ve given a lot more.”
    â€ŸReally? Recently? Like this week? Did a woman about my size give you a lot this week?” My jumper went