The Hard Way by Carol Lea Benjamin Page A

the whole time. Agreed?”
    â€œBut only if you act homeless the whole time.” Tough now. Taking charge. “Agreed?”
    â€œYes. About the money, I was thinking…”
    Again Eddie raised his hand to stop me. “I have to think about that,” he said. “Right now, I’m the one who’s behind. I’m the one who hasn’t earned my keep.”
    â€œFair enough,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t let it end there.
    â€œCan I ask you a question?” he said.
    â€œSure. Anything. Go ahead.”
    â€œI’m going to be me, no problem, right?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd you’re going to be Eunice?”
    I nodded again.
    â€œSo how are we going to figure out where we can talk as…” He stopped and looked at the dark glass again. “As whoever I am and Rachel?”
    â€œGood question. We’ll meet back here tomorrow night, same time, as Eddie and Rachel. Okay to leave it Eddie for now?”
    He nodded.
    â€œThat sound okay?”
    He nodded again, then had second thoughts. “Unless circumstances make it impossible.”
    â€œWhat circumstances?”
    â€œLike what I mentioned before. Might be I can find someplace where we could stay, someplace where a lot of homeless stay. If you stayed, it would give you more credibility than any costume you could wear. Not only that,” he said, and this time he put his hand on my arm, “you’d really get it if you did that.”
    There wasn’t much to say after that, no stories to tell, no questions to ask. For some reason, I knew that Eddie wanted me to get it, that that was what he needed. It was part of what I needed too, not only to find the tall man, but to find out what sort of path he’d taken to get where he was, what sort of path Eddie had taken, too, that took away his name and his home and part of his hearing, but not his ability to trust another human being and not his ability to relate.
    I asked the waiter to wrap both pieces of cheesecake to go and handed the bag to Eddie when it came. “Makes a nice breakfast,” I told him.
    He thanked me and opened his backpack. I saw what was making it so lumpy. Along with what appeared to be a few items of clothing, a sweater and a pair of jeans, Eddie was carrying books.
    I gave him my card and a handful of change. “In case you need to call me,” I said, “about anything.”
    It was still snowing out when we left Osteria, still silent, too. Big flakes fell like pieces of torn-up tissues floating in slow motion all around me, cold on my mouth. They accumulated on Dashiell’s back, white on white, until he stopped to shake, sending them flying out sideways, soggy now, stuck together and looking more like library paste than snow.
    Eddie promised to meet me at Jackson Square Park at noon the next day. It was a funky little park set in the triangle where Eighth and Greenwich avenues met. Most people just passed it by on their way to someplace else, even in good weather, but the homeless and a bunch of the city’s pigeons hung out there, rain or shine, neither group having much choice in the matter. It was one thing to avoid the outdoors in foul weather when you had someplace warm to be. It was quite another when you didn’t. I figured from there, we’d go over to Washington Square Park, see if I’d do any better with Eddie than I’d done on my own.
    A block from the restaurant, Eddie pointed north. I pointed the other way. I didn’t ask him where he was going. I didn’t want to know. But I wasn’t as coldhearted as I might have seemed. Myright hand was in the oversize pocket of my duffle coat, holding his wineglass, which I’d dropped into a doggy bag when he went to use the men’s room. I thought I’d managed to bag the glass without the waiter seeing me, but when I looked up, he was across the room, shaking his head. I promised I’d return it shortly and gave