This is a story about a group of poor women who live in Woodhouse, one of dozens of facilities designed to provide housing and other services for the destitute in New York City. Their life stories unfold as I sit with them at a kitchen table, preparing meals, talking, sharing intimacies. In this setting, we hear from women like Nora Gaines, Hattie McFarrell, and Dixie Register about what it is like to live on the street and how it feels to lose your mind, about the taste of crack cocaine and the sweetness of friendship.

Some might consider this an...

These days, a walking tour of any city in the United States leads one through very high- and very low-income neighborhoods. Woodhouse, designed to provide housing and other services for the destitute in New York City, is located in the northern half of Community Board District 7, which extends from 59th to 110th Streets on the west side of Manhattan (Reiss et at 1993).¹ In the region of the district is found the Metropolitan Opera, the American Ballet Theater, and the New York Historical Society, among other elite cultural institutions. Also in District 7 are over 100 private and public...

Norma Harris is standing outside Woodhouse, one leg bent, leaning against the wall of the building, as usual. I see her each time I come, but we’ve never been able to get beyond a friendly yet formal hello. I hear she may not last long at Woodhouse, because she’s into crack and harasses people for money. I It’s up to me to initiate the greeting: “Hi Norma, how are you?” I ask, as I press the bell to be let inside the building. Norma whispers, “Fine, thank you, how are you?” so softly I can barely hear her.

I’ve long...

Nora Gaines is forty-four years old, a petite, wiry black woman prone to “rages” that always seem to get her into trouble. Her days at Woodhouse may, in fact, be numbered, because her violent outbursts frighten residents and staff alike. One of these outbursts nearly led to the elimination of the cooking group. The directors were concerned that, what with the knives and all, someone might get hurt.

The incident served as a reminder of Nora’s vulnerability to the power others have to make decisions about her life. Then again, the housing system for the homeless serves as a constant...

In early January, the Woodhouse library is cluttered with bags filled with donated clothing. There are more goodies at this time of year than at others, a result of the holiday spirit. Most of the time, Dixie is in charge of sorting through and distributing the donations. This season she finds something special for herself-a mink coat, no less. She had always wanted one, and this coat is beautiful and incredibly warm. The fur is tawny and soft and luxurious. The lining is smooth and silky. It doesn’t matter that the initials monogrammed on the inside are “ERS.”

Dixie’s coat...

Denise Scott is working the reception desk. It’s a surprise to see her sitting still; most often she is on the go. Denise greets me with a gummy smile, her teeth lost to the streets. Today, her naturally coiled hair is unnaturally slicked down with pomade. Leaning over the counter, I catch a whiff of whiskey and ask about her daughter.

Denise places her hand on her own slim belly, pushing it out. Renee is pregnant.

Denise describes her only child as “an active crack abuser.” Renee already has three children and now she’s pregnant again. Denise hoped it wouldn’t...

This is the day I have a date with Sonia Morales, who well fits the description of a woman “at high risk” for HIV infection, if she isn’t already infected.¹ Most of the time, Sonia walks around in a stoned haze, probably from the street drug she regularly inhales. I can’t find the small, frail woman anywhere around the house, and nobody has seen her since the morning.

Nora hasn’t seen her either. “It’s hard to catch someone who’s running,” Nora explains, and I realize it’s time to give up the search for Sonia. “If I was running in the...

The menu for the day is hamburgers with fries, and a salad. Sharlea is the head chef. As is her style, Sharlea slowly and deliberately works the meat patties, careful to protect her inch-long fingernails polished, this time, in lavender. Dixie prepares the salad, while I peel and cut up potatoes.

“You know my aunts who raised me after my parents died? I don’t know if it was the talk we had or what,” Dixie says of our recent conversations, “but I sent them a letter. I wrote a letter to my two maiden aunts on my father’s side. I...

I arrive early to set up the arroz con pollo I’ve prepared at home for today’s cooking group. The work has been done ahead of time, leaving no chores for any of the women.

The enormous white pot attracts attention as I carry it through to the library. “It looks so good.” “It smells so good.” “When do we eat?” I am pleasantly bombarded with questions. “You did this for us?” someone shouts from the hallway.

“You must have a really nice kitchen,” another remarks, carefully checking out the quality and quantity of food and tools I’ve brought in.

A...

Nora and I sit in the dayroom, the TV tuned to a Joan Crawford melodrama. Miss Crawford is decked out in an incredible chiffon party dress and baubles. Nora and I think it’s funny. Crystal says, “I wouldn’t mind having a dress likethat.”

Now it’s time for everybody’s favorite soap opera. I remark on the sleazy appearance of the male character featured in today’s episode. This comment prompts a discussion among several of us in the room. The fellow is sleazy-he’s a rapist, and everyone knows it, including the young woman seducing him in the scene we are watching....

Nora wants to take me out to lunch so I can have a taste of “soul food.” We’ll also stop by Visioncare on 125th Street to order her new prescription glasses.

On the way to and in the subway, Nora points to acquaintances she “runs with” when she’s “on the street.” There’s the young woman sitting against a wall in the subway station, looking very pregnant and begging. “That’s a fake belly,” Nora divulges. We buy tokens, and Nora insists on paying. “I invited you,” she reminds me. By the platform downstairs are four guys sleeping soundly on the benches....

Sonia Morales is crouched against the wall just outside Woodhouse. The skinny, sickly woman cradles her arms, rocking back and forth, eyes barely open. I think, “She will be dead soon.”¹

With all the people buzzing up and down the street, it is easy to miss the small, insignificant figure.

It’s been months since Sonia was evicted from Woodhouse. She’s been seen in the neighborhood several times. This day, she returns to a familiar spot, maybe to find some small comfort.

Inside, Crystal prepares fried beef and broccoli with rice and soy sauce, and a salad on the side. Though...

In the last weeks before she leaves Woodhouse for good, Alma starts coming to the cooking group. She always helps out, clearing and washing dishes. The day she tells me about her kids is the day I play head chef. Roast chicken is on the menu, and I delight in cooking up the livers for Alma.

Today I get as much of her story as I ever will. The thirty-nine-year-old woman was born and raised in the Bronx and has a twin sister whose name is also Alma. She has three daughters, ages five, eighteen, and twenty-one years. The baby,...