Chapter 8
We sat in silence as the first wave of tourists passed by; many headed straight for the fresh produce, while others seemed to take an active interest in sampling the freebies—cookies, gum, candy—sellers set out on plates and in bowls to reel them in, along with their wallets.
Finally I asked how she ended up at St. Catherine’s. She seemed fairly together mentally far as I could tell, probably capable of living on her own. Unless she had some kind of fatal disease.
Don’t let her have that, please.
I was beginning to like this lady.
“A long story,” she said. “Here’s the Reader’s Digestversion.” She held up her cane. “As you see, I’m disabled, or to put it more politically correct, I’m a person with a disability. Always put the person first, then let people know how fucked up you are.”
I laughed at the fucked up part, and she did, too.
“My money ran out. Another long story for—”
“Another day,” I said, finishing her sentence.