I Want To Live

Chapter Nine

    The morning dawned gray with low clouds threatening to dump rain. Air uncomfortably humid. Katie sweat with the slightest exertion. Of all days for Angela to decide to tramp the waterfront. She could hear her father’s admonition while hiking in inclement weather. Buck up, girl. Into each life a little rain must fall. We have to take the good with the bad.

    The clouds released their pay load. First a warning drizzle, closely followed by a drenching onslaught. The two women managed to seek refuge under a highway overpass before the worst hit. Two knapsacks loaded with a variety of sandwiches sat in the dirt beside their feet. Angela took her glasses off to clean them. Katie elbowed her. A number of vehicles were parked by concrete pillars supporting the Interstate above. Dirt streaked faces of small children peeked out from the windows of their temporary home on wheels. Most of the displaced families had lost their jobs. Laid off due to company takeovers. No longer able to pay mortgages. Evicted from their homes. Hoping to find new jobs in other states. Their forlorn hope---this is only temporary. 

    Separate groups of men milled about, smoking cigarettes, kicking at the dirt with their shoes. Disgruntled words floated in the air. “Can’t find a job.” “Overqualified.” “Don’t know how much longer we can hold on.” “Who did you hear was hiring?” 

    Impromptu waterfalls cascaded from the overpass. The staccato beat of heavy rain struck the dirt relentlessly, chilling the air. A baby cried. A toddler whimpered. A distraught woman sobbed.

    Major Angela stood, hefted a knapsack to the closest vehicle. “Would anyone here like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” 

    “Yeh!” said a small boy reaching for the sandwich she proffered. “Evan, mind your manners,” scolded his mother. 

    “Got any more hungry youngsters in there?” asked Angela. 

    “Two girls,” she replied. “What do you say, girls?” 

    “You must be hungry yourself, ma’am.”

    “The children. I’m grateful that they have something to eat---”

    “I have a ham and cheese sandwich here---”  

    The mother accepted the sandwich gratefully. Tears in her eyes. Her husband raced over to protect his family if need be. His mouth fell open when he saw them eating hungrily. 

    Angela handed each a bottle of water and offered a ham sandwich to him. 

    He refused to take it. “Have you got enough for the other children here. I don’t want to deprive them of.  .  . He choked, trying to hold back tears.

    “There will be enough,” said Angela. “Katie call the Center. Tell them where we are. Ask that  they bring enough sandwiches to feed a crowd.”

    The children were fed and many of the mothers, when the Salvation Army van pulled under the overpass. They had brought some infant formula also. There were four babies wailing their hunger. Angela passed out packages of disposable diapers and a box of black garbage bags for any refuse. Only after their families were taken care of, did the men eat. Angela invited them to the Community Center for one good meal a day.  

    “How can we ever repay you?” asked one of the men.

    “By paying it forward when you get back on your feet,” said Angela. 

                                                                                        ----         

    That afternoon Angela parked in front of a Victorian-style three-story home with barn-red siding. A wrap-around porch with white wicker chairs. Eaves with gingerbread trim. A cupola with surround windows topped the roof. Similar Victorian homes flanked the block, built in the 1940s when people had larger families. No distinctive sign. A Safe House. “This is our home for abused women, pregnant teenage girls, and small children at risk.” Angela said before they left the van.

    A stout older woman with permanent-wave, springy gray curls opened the front door. She stood about five feet four, wore wire rimmed glasses, and had a “no nonsense” demeanor. A flower print housedress was covered by a tan apron with kittens batting a ball of yarn. Fuzzy blue slippers adorned swollen feet.

    “Major Goodman, G’day,” she said in a prominent British accent. “What brings you here? Are you lost? The pound is that way,” she said, pointing down the street. Eyes glistening with glee.

    “Bridget, one of these days I’m going to throttle you,” retorted Angela, “but good help is hard to find.” She motioned to Katie, “I’d like you to meet Katie MacKenzie, who’ll be accompanying me on my rounds for a while. She’s doing research on the homeless for a UW assignment.”

    Bridget glanced at Katie’s bulging abdomen. “Bloody hell. I thought perhaps she was a new resident to our house. Sorry, love---pleased to meet you.” She shook Katie’s hand vigorously and stepped aside to let them enter.

    “Smells good. What are we having for dinner?” asked Angela. “Katie, Bridget is our cook and a woman of many talents. As house mother she keeps things operating ship-shape around here.”

    “Lamb stew with summer vegetables, spinach and grapefruit salad, and baking powder biscuits.” She turned on her heel. “That reminds me. Have to check on the women in the kitchen.”

    “Come with me and I’ll show you around,” said Angela, leading Katie to an adequate living room with four fabric-covered mismatched couches, garage sale coffee tables in front of them.  A brick fireplace framed by floor to ceiling built-in bookcases filled one wall occupied by dolls of various sizes and colors. Another was wainscoted by low primary colored shelving units with children’s books. Bright colored carpet squares fronted the shelves. A bank of windows facing the street suffused the area with adequate light. A toy box sat to one side, abandoned cars and trucks scattered beneath it.

    Four preschoolers sat cross-legged in front of a young black woman in dreadlocks, who read from a Llama Pajama book. The sing-song rhythm kept them in giggles.

    “Excuse us, Cindy,” said Angela. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

    Her young charges snapped their heads toward Angela’s voice, eyes wide with curiosity.

    “That’s all right, Major Goodman. You need help with something?”

    “I’m just giving Katie a tour of our house. We’ll leave you alone.”

    Angela climbed the stairs to the second and third floors where the private bedrooms were located. There was a common spacious bathroom for the residents on each story. Downstairs an ample dining room with a central table running its entire length, was flanked by ladder backed chairs. Four highchairs sat in one corner.  “It can get quite noisy in here at mealtimes.” 

    The kitchen was roomy with stainless steel appliances, two ovens, two refrigerators, and a long metal prep table in the middle. Four young women were busy under Bridget’s watchful eye completing preparations for dinner.

    “We have two separate rooms at the back. One is used by our Psych Therapist and a Social Worker. The other is our classroom where a tutor helps the women pass their GED requirements. Our goal is to promote their growth so they can secure a decent job to support themselves and their children. Once one woman moves on with her life, another one can take her place.“

    “I’m impressed, Angela. This definitely ensures that young teens in trouble can beat the homeless cycle. But how do you handle domestic abuse cases? “

    “We’re in partnership with the Justice Department. The men have to undergo counseling and anger management classes. Some of them rotate through our Alcohol and Drug Rehab facility. We’re trying to give them a chance for a better life, not penalize them.” 

    “What’s your success rate with that?”

    “Our overall average is good. The hardcore that refuse to change are sentenced to jail. We have had to relocate a couple of families. Unfortunately we can’t solve everyone’s problems.” Angela changed the subject. “I understand you’ve planned for the Williams couple to adopt your baby when it’s born?”

    “Yes, I want him to have a good life. As a single mother it would be hard to provide that.”

    “It must be difficult for a mother to give up her child?” Angela placed her hand over Katie’s. “I don’t envy you. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

    Katie worked her lip, hesitating. “Angela, this child was not conceived in love. I was drugged and r***d. My faith has been deeply shattered ever since.” She leaned against the wall. “I don’t want to look at my baby and hate him.”

    Angela stepped forward to embrace her, until Katie’s shoulders stopped trembling.   

                                                                                          ----

    Katie sat at the desk in her bedroom. She gazed out the window to contemplate the peacefulness of Lake Union whenever the wording of a sentence stalled her progress. The cursor on her computer blinked steadfastly on her latest UW assignment.

                                             “ A Day In The Life Of A Homeless Woman:

She shuffled along the littered street pushing a shopping cart with two black garbage bags. Her tattered clothes barely kept her warm in the chilly breeze coming off Puget Sound. She would have to find a wool coat soon if she was going to survive the winter, even though the temperature rarely dropped below thirty in December through February in Seattle. Her last meal had been a Big Mac, provided by an employee of McDonalds who felt sorry for her. That had been midday. Her stomach growled its displeasure. She barely registered the expletives tossed her way by rowdy teenagers in a crowded car that whizzed past. A common occurrence, she just didn’t pay attention anymore. Her feet were sore and tired, traipsing the uneven sidewalks. She had spent her day begging for spare change from passersby on the main shopping corridor of the city. Her endeavor was largely unsuccessful that day.

    Disheartened, she trudged steadily onward. Her mind focused on crawling into her home, a discarded refrigerator carton with a blue tarp roof. Surplus Army blankets composed her bed and mattress. She thought she had four water bottles left in her stash. A cheap flashlight provided some light if she had to relieve herself outside in the dark. She camped with other women underneath an overpass, for protection and company. s*x craved homeless perverts liked to abuse women. A quick act of gratification in exchange for booze or cigarettes. 

    Her female companions were just ahead, clustered around a small fire of newspapers and discarded magazines; some wood slats torn from an abandoned shed. It was easy to recognize them: ill fitting clothes on skeletal bodies, haggard faces, glazed eyes, greasy hair, chapped lips, jagged finger nails. The ground was littered with discarded syringes, broken bottles, cigarette butts and other refuse. Their behavior tended to be erratic, often hallucinatory. Many were mentally ill. They didn’t trust a person in uniform. Upon sighting the police they would scurry away and hide. Most would shake their heads at an offer to clean themselves up, refrain from cheap booze or illicit drugs. Quit their addictions. This life had become comfortable.

    This could be your story or mine if two or three paychecks aren’t there to pay our bills. If we had no family willing to take us in, an eviction notice could land us in the streets. Would you know how to survive? Are you a quick understudy? Do you know where shelters are located and their length of stay? Where one can get a free meal? 

    Are we responsible to help those less fortunate than ourselves? The Bible states “The poor you will have with you always.  .  .” Mark 14:7. Because God created all people in His image, everyone, rich or poor, has value and worth. Ponder this the next time you pass a homeless soul.”

     She typed her pen name, Cat Stevens, proofread it and satisfied, punched ENTER.