More Than Words: Stories of Hope (2 page)

“Why can’t we go back home and pack?” Ann asked, her blue eyes, so like her mother’s, wide with misery. “All my clothes are still there.”

“No, they aren’t,” Bob replied quietly, pushing his glasses up over his dark eyes. “Dad threw everything in the trash and called the men to pick it up before we were evicted. There’s nothing left.”

“Bob!” Mary groaned. She hadn’t wanted Ann to know what her ex had done in his last drunken rage.

Tears streamed down Ann’s face, but she brushed them away when she saw the misery on her mother’s face. She put her arms around Mary’s neck. “Don’t cry, Mama,” she said softly. “We’re going to be all right. We’ll get new clothes.”

“There’s no money,” Mary choked.

“I’ll get a job after school and help,” Bob said stoutly.

The courage of her children gave Mary strength. She wiped away the tears. “That’s so sweet! But you can’t work, honey,
you’re too young,” Mary said, smiling at him. “You need to get an education. But thank you, Bob.”

“You can’t take care of all of us,” Bob said worriedly. “Maybe we could go in foster care like my friend Dan—”

“No,” Mary cut him off, hugging him to soften the harsh word. “Listen, we’re a family. We stick together, no matter what. We’ll manage. Hear me? We’ll manage. God won’t desert us, even if the whole world does.”

He looked up at her with renewed determination. “Right.”

“Yes, we’ll stick together,” Ann said. “I’m sorry I was selfish.” She looked around at the other occupants of the shelter. “Nobody else here is bawling, and a lot of them look worse off than us.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Mary confided, trying not to let them all see how frightened she really was.

She left them near Bev, who promised to keep an eye on them while she went to make phone calls.

Fourteen years ago, she’d had such wonderful visions of her future life. She wanted children so badly. She’d loved her husband dearly. And until he got mixed up with the crowd down at the local bar, he’d been a good man. But one of his new “friends” had introduced him first to hard liquor, and then to drugs. It was amazing how a kind, gentle man could become a raging wild animal who not only lashed out without mercy, but who didn’t even remember what he’d done the morning
after he’d done it. Mary and the children all had scars, mental and physical, from their experiences.

Bob understood it best. He had a friend at middle school who used drugs. The boy could be a fine student one day, and setting fire to the school the next. He’d been in and out of the juvenile justice system for two years. His parents were both alcoholics. Bob knew too much about the effects of drugs to ever use them, he told his mother sadly, both at home and school. She hoped her other children would have the same stiff common sense later down the road.

First things first. She had a good job. She had clients who were good to her, often giving her bonuses and even clothing and other gifts for the children from their abundance. Now that they knew her situation, she knew this would increase. Nobody she worked for would let Mary and her children starve. The thought gave her hope and peace. A house was going to be impossible, because rents were high and she couldn’t afford them yet. But there were small, decent motels where she could get a good weekly rate. It would be crowded, but they could manage. She could borrow a car to take them to and from school from one of her employers, who had a garage full and had often done this for her when her own car at home was in the shop. Clothing she could get from the local Salvation Army, or from the thrift shops run by the women’s abuse shelter and the churches.

Her predicament, so terrifying at first, became slowly less frightening. She had strength and will and purpose. She looked around the shelter at the little old lady who was in a wheelchair and thin as a rail. She was leaning down on her side, curled up like a dried-up child, with one thin hand clutching the wheel, as if she were afraid someone would steal it. Nearby, there was a black woman with many fresh cuts on her face and arms, with a baby clutched to her breast. Her clothes looked as if they’d been slept in many a night. Against the far wall, there was an elderly man with strips of cloth bound around his feet. She found that she had more than the average guest here. She closed her eyes and thanked God for her children and her fortitude.

Her first phone calls were not productive. She’d forgotten in the terror of the moment that it was Sunday, and not one person she needed to speak to was at home or likely to be until the following day. She asked Bev if she and the children could have one more night at the shelter and was welcomed. Tomorrow, she promised herself, they would get everything together.

The next morning she was up long before the children. The shelter offered breakfast, although it was mostly cereal, watered down coffee and milk.

“The dairy lets us have their outdated milk,” the woman at the counter said, smiling. “It’s still good. We have a lot of trouble providing meals, though. People are good to help us with canned
things, but we don’t get a lot of fresh meats and vegetables.” She nodded toward some of the elderly people working their way through small bowls of cereal. “Protein, that’s what they need. That’s what the children need, too.” Her smile was weary. “We’re the richest country in the world, aren’t we?” she added, her glance toward the occupants of the shelter eloquent in its irony.

Mary agreed quietly, asking for only a cup of coffee. The young mother, Meg, sat down beside her with her baby asleep in her arms.

“Hi,” Mary said.

The young woman managed a smile. “Hi. You got lots of kids.”

Mary smiled. “I’m blessed with three.”

“I just got this one,” Meg said, sighing. “My people are all in Atlanta. I came out here with Bill, and they warned me he was no good. I wouldn’t listen. Now here I am, just me and the tidbit here. Bev says she thinks she knows where I can get a job. I’m going later to look.”

“Good luck,” Mary said.

“Thanks. You got work?”

Mary nodded. “I’m a housekeeper. I work for several families, all nice ones.”

“You’re lucky.”

Mary thought about it. “Yes,” she agreed. “I think I am.”

The elderly man, Mr. Harlowe, joined them at the table
with his cup of coffee, held in unsteady old hands. “Ladies.” He greeted in a friendly tone. “I guess poverty’s no respecter of mothers, is it?”

“You got that right,” Meg said with a faint smile.

“At least we’re in good company,” Mary added, glancing around. “The people here are nice.”

“Noticed that myself.” He sipped his coffee. “I retired two years ago and had all my money in a corporation money market fund. Last year, the corporation went belly-up and it came out that we’d all lost every penny we had in our retirement accounts.” He shrugged. “At least the top scalawags seem headed to prison. But it turned out that I was related to one. My nephew talked me into giving him power of attorney and he took it all. I lost my house, my car, everything I had, except a little check I get from the veterans’ service. That isn’t enough to buy me a week’s groceries in today’s market. I was going to prosecute him, but he went overseas with his ill-got gains. No money left to use to pursue him now.”

“Gee, that’s tough,” Meg said quietly.

The elderly man glanced at her, noting the cuts on her face and arms. He grimaced. “Looks like you’ve had a tough time of your own.”

“My man got drunk and I made him mad by being jealous of his other girlfriend. He said he’d do what he pleased and I could get out. I argued and he came at me with a knife,” Meg
said simply. “I ran away with the baby.” She looked away. “It wasn’t the first time it happened. But it will be the last.”

“Good for you, young lady,” he said gently. “You’ll be okay.”

She smiled shyly.

“What about you?” the old man asked Mary. “Those kids yours?” he added, indicating her small brood.

“Yes, they are. We lost our house and our car when my divorce became final.” She gave Meg a quick glance. “I know about men who drink, too,” she said.

Meg smiled at her. “We’ll all be all right, I expect.”

“You bet we will,” Mary replied.

The old man chuckled. “That’s the spirit. You got a place to go after here?”

“Not just yet,” Mary said. “But I will soon,” she said with new confidence. “I hope both of you do well.”

They thanked her and drifted off into their own problems. Mary finished her coffee and got up with new resolve.

It was Monday, and she had to get the kids to school. She used the shelter’s pay phone and called one of her friends, Tammy, who had been a neighbor.

“I hate to ask,” she said, “but the kids have to go to school and Jack took the car. I don’t have a way to go.”

There was an indrawn breath. “I’ll be right over,” she began.

“Tammy, I’m at the homeless shelter.” It bruised her pride
to say that. It made her feel less decent, somehow, as if she’d failed her children. “It’s just temporary,” she added quickly.

“Oh, Mary,” she groaned. “I noticed the For Rent sign on your place, but I didn’t know what to think. I’m so sorry.”

“The divorce became final Friday. Jack is failing to pay alimony or child support…and we were evicted.” She sighed. “I’m so tired, so scared. I’ve got nothing and three kids…”

“You could stay with us,” came the immediate reply.

Mary smiled, seeing the other woman’s quiet, kind smile in her mind. “No, thank you,” she added gently. “We have to make it on our own. Jack might track us down at your house, you know. I don’t want the children close to him. We’ll find a place. I’ll get the loan of a car later, but right now, I have to have the kids in school before I go to work. I can take John with me, but the others must be in school.”

“I’ll come and get you,” Tammy said. “Be five minutes.”

“Thanks,” Mary choked.

“You’d do it for me in a heartbeat,” she replied. “And you know it.”

“I would.” It was no lie.

“Five minutes.” She hung up.

Sure enough, five minutes later, Tammy was sitting in front of the shelter, waiting. Mary put the kids in the back of the station wagon, with John strapped securely in his car seat.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she told the woman.

“It’s not a problem. Here. Give this to the kids.” It was two little brown envelopes, the sort mothers put lunch money in. Mary almost broke down as she distributed the priceless little packets to the children.

First stop was grammar school, where Mary went in with Ann and explained the situation, adding that nobody was to take Ann from school except herself or her friend Tammy. Then they went to middle school, where Mary dropped off Bob and met with the vice principal to explain their situation again.

Finally they were down just to John.

“Where do you go now?” she asked Mary.

“To Debbie Shultz’s house,” she said. “She and Mark have about eight cars,” she said fondly. “They’ll loan me one if I ask. They’ve been clients of mine for ten years. They’re good people. They don’t even mind if John comes with me—they have a playpen and a high chair and a baby bed, just for him.”

“You know, you may not have money and means, but you sure have plenty of people who care about you,” Tammy remarked with a grin.

“I do. I’m lucky in my friends. Especially you. Thanks.”

Tammy shrugged. “I’m having a nice ride around town, myself,” she said with twinkling eyes. “Before you go to work, want to try that motel you mentioned?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“If I did, I’d still be at home putting on a pot roast for supper,” Tammy said blandly. “Where is it?”

Mary gave her directions. Tammy was dubious, but Mary wasn’t.

“One of my friends had to leave home. She went to the women’s shelter first, and then she came here until she got a job. She said the manager looks out for people, and it’s a good decent place. Best of all, it’s not expensive. If you’ll watch John for a minute…”

“You bet!”

Mary walked into the small office. The manager, an elderly man with long hair in a ponytail and a young smile, greeted her.

“What do you rent rooms for on a weekly basis?” she asked after she’d told him her name. “I have three children, ranging in age from thirteen to a toddler.”

He noted the look on her face. He’d seen it far too often. “Fifty dollars a week,” he said, “but it’s negotiable. Forty’s plenty if that’s what you can manage comfortably,” he added with a grin. “You can use the phone whenever you like, and there’s a hot plate in the room where you can heat up stuff. We have a restaurant next door,” he added, “when you want something a little hotter.”

“I couldn’t afford the restaurant,” she said matter-of-factly, but she smiled. “I’ll have the money tonight, if I can come after work with the kids.”

“They in school?”

“Two are.”

“Is one old enough to look after the others?”

“Bob’s thirteen, almost fourteen. He’s very responsible,” she added.

“Bring them here after school and pay me when you can,” he said kindly. “I’ll check on them for you and make sure they stay in the room and nobody bothers them.”

She was astonished at the offer.

“I ran away from home when I was twelve,” he said coldly. “My old man drank and beat me. I had to live on the streets until an old woman felt sorry for me and let me have a room in her motel. I’m retired military. I don’t need the money I make here, but it keeps me from going stale, and I can do a little good in the world.” He smiled at her. “You can pass the help on to someone less fortunate, when you’re in better economic times.”

Her face brightened. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “We all live in the world. It’s easier to get along if we help each other out in rough times. The room will be ready when you come back, Mrs. Crandall.”

She nodded, smiling. “I’ll have the money this afternoon, when I get off work. But I’ll bring the children first.”

“I’ll be expecting them.”

She got back into the car with Tammy, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her. “They said he was a kind man, not the sort who asked for favors or was dangerous around kids. But I had no idea just
how
kind he really is until now.” She looked at Tammy. “I never knew how it was before. If you could see the homeless people, the things they don’t have…I never knew,” she emphasized.