“You must give me time!” My voice rose into a shriek. “You can’t put a girl out into the street at a moment’s notice. There are laws in America——”
“There are no laws for roomers.”
“No law for roomers?” All my weakness and helplessness rushed out of me in a fury of rebellion. “No law for roomers?”
“I could have put your things out in the street when your week was up. But being you were sick, I was kind enough to keep them in the cellar. But your room is taken,” she said with finality. “I got to let my rooms to them as pay the most. I got to feed my own children first. I can’t carry the whole world on my back.”
I tried to speak. But no voice came to my lips. I felt struck with a club on the head. I could only stare at her. And I must have been staring for some time without seeing her, for I had not noticed she had gone till I heard a voice from the upper stairs, “Are you still here?”
“Oh—yes—yes—I—I—am—going—go-ing.” I tried to rouse my stunned senses, which seemed struck to the earth.
“There’s no money in letting rooms to girls,” my landlady continued, as she came down to open the door for me. “They’re always cooking, or washing, or ironing and using out my gas. This new roomer I never hear nor see except in the morning when he goes to work and at night when he comes to sleep.”
I staggered out in a bewildered daze. I leaned against the cold iron lamp-post. It seemed so kind, so warm. Even the chill, drizzling rain beating on my face was almost human. Slowly, my numbed brain began to recollect where I was. Where should I turn? To whom? I faced an endless maze of endless streets. All about me strangers—seas of jostling strangers. I was alone—shelterless!
All that I had suffered in lodging-houses rushed over me. I had never really lived or breathed like a free, human being. My closed door assured me no privacy. I lived in constant dread of any moment being pounced upon by my landlady for daring to be alive. I dared not hang out my clothes on a line in the fresh air. I was forced to wash and dry them stealthily, at night, over chairs and on my trunk. I was under the same restraint when I did my simple cooking although I paid dearly for the gas I used.
This ceaseless strain of don’t move here and don’t step there was far from my idea of home. But still it was shelter from the streets. I had almost become used to it. I had almost learned not to be crushed by it. Now, I was shut out—kicked out like a homeless dog.