Lady

Introduction

This is the story of Elizabeth Ann Montgomery. She’s better known as Tramp Lady, she lives on the streets willingly. This is how she met Detectives Carver and Oliver. She’s a character who just popped into my head one day and now won’t leave. This isn’t finished, there’s more to come. Please Review. Enjoy

Chapter 1:

She looked old for her age; those who might have actually looked at her would put her age at around forty; while in fact she was no more than twenty-five. She wandered the streets, dressed in a ragged dirty pale blue hat with a soiled soft pink satin ribbon, even on the hottest of days she wore an old worn red woolen dress with a tattered green shawl. She was seen constantly carrying a brown leather messenger’s bag and a notebook.

She looked around the hotel room, the made bed never slept in, the small kitchenette rarely used, there was no discernable trace that this room was ever used. She walked out closing the door quietly behind her, knowing that she would have to return soon though she might not want to.
She walked quickly down the street, quietly repeating to herself all that she had left to do before her day ended. Night was falling fast, and people were rushing to get home quickly; cars sped past honking, screeching, and loud curses as accidents were nearly missed and lanes were hurriedly changed without thought of those around them.
She didn’t like most people, in fact she had yet to find one person she got along with for more than five minutes. She felt that those around her either treated her as a child; or were so far below her intellectually; that she could not hold a decent conversation with them no matter the topic. No one seemed to understand that she was special, that she was destined for something important.

It was midnight, all that was left for her to do was to finish writing in her notebook, she sat on a green wooden bench at a deserted bus stop. The streets were quiet, the only sound was an occasional baby or cat. She scribbled away writing the voices in her head into nothingness. She was just about finished when two men came briskly walking up the opposite sidewalk. They were arguing quietly, the tall one was light-haired, his face looked washed out in the yellow glow of the street light, his voice was the loudest, it carried across the street. The short one was darker, his hair looked greasy in the yellow light, the top of his head barely reached the tall one’s shoulder. They stopped, they stood in the entrance of an old alley way between the brick of a local bakery and the new steel of a business of some sort. They continued arguing, the tall one was leaning against the brick, she could see how smug he must feel, he obviously thought that he had already won the argument. Suddenly the small man moved forward, without a sound the tall man stiffened, he slumped against the brick and slid until he was sitting on the pavement. The small man somewhere between a walk and a jog hurried away looking for anyone who might have seen what happened, he didn’t see her as he pocketed a small shiny object.

She didn’t move, she just wrote and watched as his life slowly bled away, one arm visible on the sidewalk, it glowed a sickly orange under the yellow street light, the black pavement slowly turned an odd sort of black, it turned glossy, sticky looking as the tall man’s blood slowly seeped into the hungry asphalt. She stayed watching all of this; doing nothing; almost as a scientist might, watching an injured wild animal slowly die while doing nothing but taking notes or filming. It wasn’t until the baker’s son had arrived to unlock the bakery that the man was finally found and the police were called. They boy was shaken, but he spoke well and was able to tell the police exactly how he had found the body. She watched as the area was taped off and police, detectives, and all the others usually working a murder scurried like ants trying to find clues as to what might have happened. A car pulled up; a tall man in a navy blue suit and a woman in a charcoal gray pantsuit stepped out; instantly she knew that these two did not miss anything and that the tall man might be worth a battle or two. These two were dangerous, far more dangerous than those others who crawled over the dead man and the surrounding area as though in a panic.


The boy who had found the body hadn’t seen her sitting on the bench, he told detectives that no one had been around when he found the man. She sat on the bench; watching the crowd; taking notes mentally to add later to her precious notebook now hidden in her alley. She noted how people milled, fascinated with the dead body and how they dispersed going their own ways once the body was removed. Death is an intangible thing for most people, to see someone who isn’t related; who doesn’t matter to them; dead; beyond this world is exciting; it’s curiosity that pulls people in, that makes them look. The streets were relatively empty now; cars were being rerouted; and most people were already at work or school. She sat on her bench alone, quiet, silently gathering information, soaking in what everyone involved was doing. The tall detective who had stepped out of the car was looking closely at the brick wall the tall man had slumped against, while the woman was talking with some of the other detectives. The man walked over to the woman and said something, together they walked over to the boy and started talking to him; the man’s stance was constantly changing; he was animatedly asking questions, pointing; just moving it seemed; the woman was in control of herself; she hung back taking in the boy’s answers; asking questions of her own when necessary but in all, letting the man do his work.

She could feel herself tensing, that it was time to be moving on. She had made no money at all and it was time she got to work. Just as she stood the tall detective turned and saw her, something about the way she moved, the way she was dressed, or the way she kept her head down and her face hidden drew him to her. He thanked the boy for talking to them, touching the arm of the woman near him he walked over to her. He said nothing until he was close, as she started to walk away he called to her. She thought of continuing on, of just running away but she knew better. She stopped and waited for him to walk to her. He stepped in front of her; she kept her head down; the woman stood off to the right; she was effectively blocked; her left leg rested against the green bench. He introduced himself as Detective Carver and the woman as his partner Detective Oliver, he asked her all manners of questions, her name, where she lived, if she had seen anything but she answered none of his questions she knew better than to break the spell. He didn’t seem to find her lack of response rude, he seemed to find joy in what he obviously considered a challenge. He seemed to know that she knew something, taking in her clothes and appearance they knew that she lived on the streets, what they didn’t know what that it was by choice, that this was a conscious decision.

They put her in a squad car and took her into a grey room, there was a metal table as well as several metal chairs inside. Walking in, there was a large mirror on the right wall, she sat in the chair on the left side of the table. Upon sitting she laid her head on her left arm on the table and closing her eyes, she used her right hand to write what she knew she must remember on the table with her index finger. She heard the door open and knew the detectives had come in, she continued writing with her eyes closed. He spoke telling her that they had brought an interpreter in if she needed one, but that she’d have to sit up. When she didn’t respond he looked at the two women beside him; the interpreter was a pretty blonde dressed in a dark navy dress suit, her shoulder length blonde hair was pulled back into a complicated looking french twist. Detective Oliver circled the table and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder, she leapt shoving her chair against the wall and whirled around, careful not to strike the startled detective though she wanted to
Detective Carver and the interpreter sat in the two remaining chairs, Detective Oliver stood by the door, watching, seeming to stand guard. She returned to her chair and kept her head down and her eyes closed; Detective Carver asked her the same questions they had asked earlier, this time with the interpreter asking the same questions in sign language. She didn’t respond, she could tell that Detective Carver was getting frustrated, irritated, and more intrigued by the moment. The three of them left the room, a few moments later the female detective came walking in. She sat on the opposite side of the table, for a moment or two she just looked at her, but still she did nothing to acknowledge the extra presence in the room. Detective Oliver tried getting her to talk about her past, asking how she had come to live on the street, asking her if she was hungry, or if there was someone that she would like to call. Fifteen minutes after Oliver had first come in she still had said nothing; there was a knock at the door; Oliver opened it, talked to the officer on the other side and followed the young woman out. She had kept her writing going; keeping all that had happened to her since she had hidden her notebook firmly in her mind; she knew that she was being watched but refused to let that stop her. It seemed a long time before the male detective Carver came in, he walked in carrying a bag of fast food hamburgers along with a couple of drinks. He said he thought that she might be hungry, he pulled a hamburger out and placed it in front of her along with one of the drinks. She was famished and the food smelled wonderful to her, but she resolved herself and kept her position. She told herself that any reaction on her part would constitute giving in, of backing down in this silent standoff that was going on.
She could feel the male detective known as Carver was getting frustrated, suddenly without any visible warning he stood up so fast the chair he was sitting on flew backwards and fell sideways onto the floor. He swept the food and drinks with a fling of his arm onto the floor, soda slowly seeped from the lid and covered the floor leaving sticky watery puddles. He started yelling; he hoped to get some reaction of any kind from her inert form and upon perceiving no discernable movement on her part he was reduced to drastic measures. He slammed his fists upon the metal surface of the table, he screamed, he yelled, he did all he could short of actually throwing one of the chairs or the table around the room. Exhausted he finally stormed out of the room leaving her alone with her own counsel once again. Soon a young man came and led her to a holding cell, she knew they could only hold her for the night and so settled on the empty cot and promptly fell asleep.
The next day she was once again led to the gray cold room, the floor had been mopped, the chairs had been put back into the customary places. As soon as she sat she once again took the same position that had infuriated the detectives so the day before and settled in for another long silent battle. Soon the two detectives arrived and told her that she was free to go, upon hearing these words she got up sedately and walked out of the room. She knew better than to return to her alley or even the hotel, she went and found John From-The-Other-Alley and in her way asked him to watch her stuff and that she’d be back to check on him. He agreed and told her that he wouldn’t let anyone touch her stuff. She nodded and left making her way to the park; where she sat near the fountain thinking things through; planning her next move. She would have to find a new alley somewhere far from where she usually slept and she needed to make some money. First things first, she stood and left the park quickly making her way across several crowed streets and through rivers of people going this way and that all moving with a singular purpose like millions of molecules doing their assigned task without thought of those who moved, bumped, and slid past them. She finally arrived at her corner far enough from her beloved alley to be safe and she sat in her accustomed place and sat with her cup out and her book open. This week she was reading Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne, she had found an old library card in a dumpster several years ago and used it several times a week. The old librarian had seen how she treated the books despite her tattered and dirty clothes and allowed her to check one book out at a time.
She was a well known and beloved sight to those who walked past every day, those who gave her their spare change liked the fact that she just sat there reading, waiting quietly for as long as she deemed it necessary to get what she needed for the day. None who passed ever thought to think what she did with the money they gave her, it never crossed their minds for one reason or another that she might be spending the money on booze or drugs or any number of other evils out there. It might seem odd, but she had sat on the corner almost every day for years, some who now dropped money into her cup had actually grown up with her sitting there reading and waiting. A few had tried to buy her meals or give her old used clothes, but she always politely refused or on the few occasions she had given in and taken their gifts they’d see her giving them to the other homeless that wandered the streets. A few years ago the local priest had seen her give the change she had made that day to another homeless man and finding faith in this scene had related what he had witnessed to his parishioners and from that day forth he made an effort to drop at least a coin or two into her waiting cup whenever the coffers could afford it.