It was gone! I stood in shock, staring at the empty space along the curb where my car had been parked. Gone. There was a clear black spot on the asphalt, surrounded by crunchy snow. That it had been towed by the City of Denver as an abandoned vehicle, I had no doubt. Lucky I was to have hung on to it as long as I had.I drew back into the shadows of a small park, letting the cold night swallow me. My beat up old orange Maverick hadn't run for several months, but it had served well as hide out, storage area, and most importantly, sleeping bunk. Gone with it were my sleeping blankets and pillow, clean (and dirty) clothes, photographs of family, my journals, and the dry, warm, knitted slippers I had been eagerly anticipating slipping into. I scrunched down next to shrubbery, sitting on my heels, concentrating on each visible breath as it left my body, willing myself to be calm. I had walked up the street, after stopping at the convenience store, where I painstakingly had counted out change for a bag of cookies and a quart of milk - my evening meal.
Rounding the corner, failing to see the familiar snow-covered hulk, I thought maybe I had come to the wrong corner, but no, this was the right place. The car was just gone. Every three or four days I moved it, coasting it to a new parking place if it was on a slope, pushing it on flat ground. I just had to move it far enough so it was obvious it had been moved, and the police wouldn't ticket it or have it towed.
I dug the cookies out of my back pack - Oreos. Soon there was chocolate on my mittens, and probably around my mouth as well. What to do? What to do? I was 41 years old. I was a mother unable to care for myself let alone my four children. I had nothing; I was nothing. It was after five o'clock and getting colder. My mind flashed back to the good years, when I had worked as secretary to the director of the three Albuquerque jails. The correction officers would talk about men who would pound on the thick glass door to the booking area on stormy winter nights, asking to be let in, asking if they could sleep for a few hours on a bunk in the drunk tank. A person had to be damn desperate to ask such as that, and I didn't feel quite that desperate. Still, the police department seemed like a good place to begin. I had to find out how I could get my car and belongings back.
I was in the Denver suburb of Aurora. There was a police sub-station about a mile away. My feet, in damp tennis shoes, felt like blocks of wood as I stood and pushed the cookie package into the pack. I tightened the gray scarf around my ears. The sand-colored man's jacket I was wearing was dirty, but warm. It ended at my waist and blue jeans failed to keep the cold away. I did the long walk, slipping into warm restaurants or little shops when I could, soaking up the warmth for a few minutes. I stayed out of the bars and nightclubs. Only trouble there.
The door to the police sub-station was locked. I rang the night bell, getting the attention of the only occupant of the room, a uniformed woman sitting behind a counter. She peered at me through the glass wall, decided I was not a serial killer, and punched a button which released the door and allowed me entry. It was warm, very warm, in the room. I walked the long length of it slowly, smiling respectfully at the woman, hoping she was a friendly type. She wasn't. I explained my situation briefly and learned I could reclaim my belongings from inside the car even if I didn't have the money to get the car released and towed away. That was good. The garage where towed cars were stored would not be opened until morning. That was bad. I could only take away what I could carry, and my sleeping blankets seemed the most important. But where would I sleep? My mind was whirling.
I pushed the thoughts away. Of more immediate importance was the long night ahead of me. Hesitantly, filled with shame, I asked the woman if I could sit for a few hours in one of the hard chairs lining the walls of the room. "No," she said, without pause or thought. It's so cold outside, I told her, stating the obvious. "Out," she said, pointing to the door. Tears of self-pity rolled down my cheeks and my hands began to shake. I didn't know how much to tell her. I surely didn't want to be arrested as a vagrant, even if it did mean a warm bunk and a morning meal. I'd been in the Denver City Jail before, for three days. I'd pass on a second time.
I began calmly, getting more emotional as I talked. "Look. I've no place to go. Without my car and sleeping blankets, I'll freeze. You can't ask me to go out to a certain death." She put down the pocket book mystery she had picked up, looking at me with a disgust she did not try to disguise. Grabbing a note pad, she scribbled an address and handed it to me, careful not to touch my mittens. "This is a missionary house," she said. "They accept only women. They'll let you sleep there for three nights." I walked out of the station with as much dignity as I could manage, but it didn't matter, for the woman was already back to reading her book.
The address was in downtown Denver. It was nearly seven; the evening rush hour on Colfax was over. I sloshed to the nearest bus stop and waited, shivering, munching another cookie. When the bus pulled up, I let everyone else board first, then I climbed the two big stairs and spoke to the driver, a man about my own age. "I don't have any money, but I need . . . "He curtly shook his head and motioned me off the bus. Humiliated, feeling everyone staring at me, I stumbled back down the two stairs. As the bus pulled away, I slapped the side of it as hard as I could in my frustration and embarrassment.
Minutes later, before I could think of what else to do, another bus pulled in. There was no one else waiting to board it and nearly all the seats were empty. I spoke more quickly this time, to get it all in. "I don't have any money, but I need to get to this missionary place downtown." I held out the paper to the driver. He glanced at it, at me, and motioned for me to sit down. The first driver had been white, like me. This driver was a dark ebony, and much younger. He never spoke a word. When the bus reached downtown Denver, he pulled to a stop and motioned me off, pointing down a side street. I thanked him profusely and left the warm bus reluctantly. The ride had been long and some feeling had come back to my feet.
After a brief search, I found the house. It looked just like all the other houses in the neighborhood. No sign spelled out "Sanctuary here!" My knock on the door was answered by a young girl, a teen-ager. I explained why I was there. With a smile, the girl opened the door wider and invited me inside. "The rules are that you go no where in this house but these two front rooms, plus the bathroom, which is through that door," she said nodding. "We have no beds, but you can sleep on the floor. If you don't have a bedroll, we'll supply you with blankets. Breakfast will be provided in the morning, but you must be out of the house by seven. You can stay for three nights, but you will not be allowed back into the house until after seven pm and no evening meal is provided. No drinking or drugs are permitted. Sign in there." She recited this speech almost in a singsong voice, obviously having said it many times before. She disappeared then, through a door into the forbidden area, before I could say a word.
She left me standing alone in a large living room, no carpet or rugs, heavy drapes on the windows. It was clean, with an over abundance of old-fashioned, unmatched stuffed chairs, but no sofas. No television, no radio. There was a fireplace, which I checked out at once, but it showed no signs of recent use and there was no wood stacked anywhere around it. I signed a name, not my own, in the heavy black book and entered the time and date. The other room indicated by the girl was small. There was a wooden kitchen table pushed into a corner, and eight straight-back chairs were scattered about the room in a haphazard manner. There was a large swinging door in the opposite wall, with a small one right next to it which carried a neat sign reading Guest Rest Room. I entered the Guest Rest Room at once. It was unheated and tiny, but it had a functioning toilet which was clean. There was no mirror, which was fine with me; I didn't want to know what I looked like.
I did what had to be done and then washed my hands and face thoroughly. My cold feet - had to do something about them. I pulled off the wet tennis shoes and socks. Using the bar of soap on the sink, I washed my feet, enjoying the feel of warm water. There was a neatly folded stack of paper towels on the back of the toilet. I washed my socks next, wringing out every drop of water I could. Re-entering the small room, I looked for and found a heater register on the floor. It was in the corner, under the table. Perfect. There was a weak stream of warm air coming from it. I spread my shoes and socks across it, hoping they'd dry by morning. I pulled one of the chairs to the table and sat cross legged on it, with my back to the wall, so I had a clear view of both rooms and both doors. Removing my jacket and scarf, I wrapped them around my cold feet. From my pack I took pad and pencil and began writing, "Dear Tracy . . . "
Tears rolled down my face before I could write another word. My poor son. By Christmas time he had been in thirteen schools, thirteen different second grade class rooms, as I roamed Denver trying desperately to pull myself together. Deep into an undiagnosed mental illness, I was not able to care for him. As I lay in bed in our rented apartment, in a pot-induced stupor, Tracy would gently shake my shoulder to rouse me. "Mom, Mom, I'm leaving for school now." Emotions would quickly flood through me: overwhelming shame and guilt because I could not be a mother, because my young child had to get himself ready for school, and pride in him, pride that he was able to do so. The strongest emotion was love. Oh how love for this boy filled me. But when the door shut behind him, the man lying next to me would roll over and pull me close.
I had recieved word from the landlord that he wanted me out of the apartment by mid-December. I had paid full rent for December, so I ignored his order. But two days after Christmas, he showed up with a truck and a couple of his buddies and moved us out, putting my furniture and household goods into a storage room for which I could not pay.
Frantically, I had gone to a pay phone and placed a collect call to my best friends in New Mexico. Fred and Lee Hansen had known Tracy and I since he was a small baby. "Send that child to us," Lee told me, "we'll see that he gets through second grade." I was consumed with relief and gratitude toward these dear friends. The Maverick didn't have a starter, but it still ran then. I popped the clutch at the top of the slope, coaxed the car into life, and got Tracy to the airport, where my friends had a ticket waiting for him. He cried. I cried. He didn't want to go. So much pain I had inflicted onto this child. What damage had I done? Pulling his arms from around my neck, I turned him over to a stewardness and ran out of the airport. Such pain. Could I stand it? Yes, I did, I handled it, because then I started feeling an equal amount of relief. I knew Fred and Lee would love him and nuture him. Tracy would have at least a few stable months with them until school was out. But would he ever forgive me for sending him away?
My head jerked up and I wiped away the tears at the sound of the doorbell. A young girl started down the stairs but stopped when the girl who had answered the door for me came out from the room behind the swinging door. "I'm Greeter tonight," she called up to the girl on the stairs. She let in two women, wearing ski clothing, giving them the same spiel she had me. They were just passing through, they told her, and would only need one night. They had bedrolls; I was envious. They went into the living room and I turned my attention once more to my letter. In the next hour or less, another four women knocked and were admitted. They sat in the living room and chatted off and on; one of them dozed off in a chair. I stayed where I was, feeling unsociable, putting a lot of effort into the letter I was writing to my son.
Just prior to eight o'clock, young girls began drifting into the living room. They all appeared to be about eighteen. Not one of them wore jeans or slacks, which I supposed was against their religion or whatever. They chatted and gossiped among themselves as they settled into chairs with Bibles in their hands and song books and notebooks and such. I don't recall seeing any of them speak to any of the "guests", but I remember the guests appeared uncomfortable at the sudden influx of young women.
One of the young girls left the living room and approached me, inviting me, graciously, to join them for evening prayer group. So naive was I at the time, I didn't realize this was a requirement, and so, graciously, I declined her offer, explaining I wanted to finish writing the letter to my son. A few minutes later, another young woman approached me with the same invitation and again I refused. Imagine my amazement, when a few minutes later three girls swooped down on me, removed the pencil from my hand, and literally pulled me from the chair and "escorted" me into the living room, settling me into a low, blue easy chair. I was old enough to be mother of any of the twenty or so girls in the room. I felt not only strong resentment at being dragged from my solitude, but also I felt anger - an anger which I managed to control. I suffered through the prayer meeting, seething inside. I was an atheist and refused to join in their prayers, although, in respect to their beliefs, I did bow my head at appropriate moments.
I was the first one out of the room when I sensed the end of the meeting was near, and returned to the table and my letter. It was close to ten o'clock when we were ordered to make up out pallets on the floor. One of the girls had apparently noticed my bare feet during the prayer meeting. She returned with a pair of clean socks and handed them to me. They were bulky and warm; I very much appreciated her kindness. I grabbed a couple of the neatly folded blankets stacked in the corner of the living room, making my humble bed as far from the others as possible, hugging my backpack to me. I shared the remainder of my cookies with the other guests, but there was little conversation. We were strangers and would never meet again. Each of us were preoccupied with our own personal difficulties. The overhead light was turned off and old-fashioned wooden doors pulled out of the walls to shut us in for the night. The house cooled quickly, the blankets were thin, the floor hard. Sleep was difficult. The sounds and smells of the others disturbed me. I yearned to be alone, but we had been firmly instructed not to leave the room unless an emergency trip to the Guest Rest Room was necessary. I drifted off finally, only to be awaken by three women who knocked on the door in the middle of then night. They were traveling across state, their car had broken down. They were admitted, which was fine, but they bedded down next to me, which was not fine. I felt crowded, intruded upon.
I lay awake the rest of the night, feeling like a bitch. Over and over in my mind I went through what I had to do the next day, the calls I had to make, the transportation I had to arrange, the problems to be resolved. I purposely kept my mind on these things, to keep the guilt and shame at bay which overwhelmed me whenever I thought of my children. It was a relief when the sliding doors opened at six o'clock and a sweet young thing clicked on the ugly ceiling light, saying cheerfully, "Breakfast is on the table. Please be off the premises by seven." She vanished before any of us could thank her for the sanctuary they had given.
I was on my feet at once, carefully folding the blankets and replacing them on the stack. Of the ten women who had slept on the floor, three left at once, without a word, without even using the Guest Rest Room. I used it. I pulled my still damp tennis shoes from under the table and forced my feet into them, grateful again for the socks which had been given me. The women gathered around the table, looking at the breakfast which had been set out for us: a large box of corn flakes, a large pitcher of watery looking milk, a stack of paper bowls and a scattering of plastic spoons. The women sat in the wooden chairs as they happened to find them, not pulling them up to the small table. Hopefully, I looked for sugar, but there was none. On well - when and where I would have an opportunity to eat that day were unknowns. I filled a bowl and dug in, thankful to have it.
Then I smelled it - coffee. I glanced around to see if the others had noticed. They were still eating the cereal, but I could tell they smelled the coffee. Hopefully, they waited, but none was forthcoming. I didn't like coffee and never drank it, but I commiserated silently with my equally silent breakfast companions. Then - bacon. The smell was unmistakable. From behind the swinging door, muted voices became increasingly animated as more of the girls gathered for their breakfast. Their laughter was frequent, and somehow, annoying. The odor of toast drifted out to us next. I gagged on the unsweetened cereal and the flat taste of the warm reconstituted powdered milk.
In the little room where we sat with our cereal, there was no talking at all, and certainly no laughter. Nor was there even eye contact. I believe every woman there was going through the same inner struggle I was. I felt shame because of the resentment and outright anger I was feeling against my benefactors. I kept thinking how grateful I was for what these girls had done for me. But no matter how many times I repeated that to myself, myself wasn't buying it. I wanted what those girls had in the next room. Not just the food, but the happiness, the security, the friendships. I felt shame at the position I was in, unable to care for myself or my children. And I felt rage. Rage at where I was in life, rage against the girls for their inconsideration - rage because they "had" while I was a "have not." The predominant feeling engulfing me, however, was guilt - guilt because of the negative feelings I had for these girls when I knew I should be feeling gratitude. Using great control, I firmly placed my bowl of half-eaten, soggy cereal on the table. Grabbing my pack and jacket, I walked out of that sanctuary without saying a word. The cold air hit me like a fist in the face as I pulled on my mittens. It had been a bad night. ~~~
Martha R. Thomas
December 1993
Belen, New Mexico
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