In the middle of our Tuesday staff meeting, the red light blinks on my pager, and it sings its song. We’re debating who will cover Debbie’s shift. Sophie claims a wedding in the city. Rhonda says she has a date.
“I’m not taking this shift,” I say. I told my boyfriend I’d call about the car, be home for dinner, act like a girlfriend.
I lose.
The page is from a volunteer at the Women’s Community Center. “I have a woman here,” she says. “Can you come?”
The center is in an old gray building on Geneva. It’s run by volunteers, and funding cuts have reduced it to little more than an old lending closet: musty suits and dresses and shoes that can be borrowed for job interviews, for those who need the illusion of having a normal life.
