The Lights of Tenth Street (52 page)

Ronnie felt the color rising in her cheeks. She looked down and fingered the unfamiliar nightshirt.

“What … what happened last night?”

“I was thinking of asking you the same thing.” Mrs. Woodward’s voice carried a trace of dry humor. “I’m a nurse by training, and when you fainted on the platform, I did a quick evaluation. I … uh … it was pretty easy, really, to get an idea of what had happened to you.

“You probably don’t remember it, but you were semidelirious and fought the idea of us taking you to a hospital. I thought it was better that we bring you to a home where you could get some personal care, anyway. It looked to me like you were experiencing neurogenic shock, and that you needed a safe place to rest, more than anything else.” She smiled. “I worked in a hospital for a few years, and they are hardly restful places.”

“How long have I been out?”

“A good twelve hours, I’d say.” Mrs. Woodward looked at Sherry Turner for confirmation, and she nodded. “We ran into you around midnight, and it’s nearly noon now. Noon on Sunday.”

“Noon. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe you put me up for the night. I should leave.” She made a move to get out of bed.

Both women stopped her. Sherry pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed.

“Listen, Ronnie, you don’t need to go anywhere if you don’t want to. You look like—Well, you look like you had a pretty rough time last night, and both the Woodwards and us want to make sure you’re in a safe place. You don’t need to go anywhere if you don’t want to.”

Ronnie looked at their faces, confused. “But I’ve got to get out of your hair. What do you mean?”

Sherry took a deep breath, trying to form the right words. This was where the rubber met the road. Ministering every now and then at a food pantry or apartment outreach—and mostly leaving the ministry at the door—was one thing. This was quite another. This was deciding whether they were going to inconvenience themselves for someone who clearly needed help—and a lot of help at that, probably—or whether they were going to shunt her off to a shelter or some ministry that dealt with “people like that.”

The Woodwards had been willing to take her in, but they had a tiny little house and no extra room. Doug and Sherry, on the other hand, had those extra bedrooms … and that pesky original intention to use their large, beautiful house for ministry. Sherry smiled ruefully as she looked into Ronnie’s perplexed eyes. How like the Lord to take them up on it.

Sherry laid a hand on Ronnie’s arm. “I’m saying, Ronnie, that we’d like to help you. If you want a safe place to go, you’re welcome to stay here for a while.” For just an instant, she watched the girl’s eyes widen with surprise, then the shutters came down with a clang.

“Why would I need a safe place? And I don’t know you—how do I know you’re any safer than anyone else? Why would you think I need your help?”

Sherry glanced over at Jo. “Well, Ronnie, it’s pretty clear that you got done pretty badly last night. You were covered with scratches and … and there was blood on your underwear.”

Ronnie dropped her face into her hands. How did they expect her to deal with this, with two near-strangers staring at her?

Mrs. Woodward’s voice was gentle in her ear. “Ronnie, I need to ask if you want to report—”

“No!” Ronnie’s head flew up. “No, no, no. I can’t report anything, and it wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“What do you mean it wouldn’t matter?” Mrs. Turner looked surprised. “The police can—”

“No.” Ronnie’s voice was louder now. “I said no, d’you hear me? It would just make things worse.”

There was a long pause, and then Mrs. Woodward raised her hands. “Okay. Okay. I just thought we should ask.”

“Well, you asked.” Ronnie looked at the clock on the bedstand. “And I need to go. I need to … uh … be at work tonight.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Mrs. Woodward said. “I mean … you’re an adult, you can do what you want. But is that the best thing for you, Ronnie?”

“I have to make a living. Everyone has a job, and this is mine.” She looked directly at Mrs. Woodward. “It’s the only way I can live and go to school, since I can’t get a scholarship.”

“Yes, I know. Vance told me—”

“And besides, it’s good money and it’s fun. Can’t ask for more than that.”

She pushed the sheets back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The two women stood, reluctantly.

“Thanks, and everything. Really. A lot of people would’ve just left me there on the platform to be picked up by the police.” She shuddered at the thought. “So, thanks. But my roommate will probably be worried about me, and I have to get ready for work.”

Mrs. Turner walked over to a chest of drawers and rummaged through it. She held out a pair of gray leggings and a plain black T-shirt.

“Here, these should fit you okay. Enough to get home in, anyway. We didn’t wash the clothes you were wearing—just in case, um, you wanted to report anything. They’re in a bag in the top drawer. And there’s also a new pack of underwear there that you can open.”

“Okay.” Ronnie looked at the clothes in her hand. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“Ronnie, I don’t know you well,” Mrs. Woodward said, “but I’d like to get to know you. And we—” she gestured at Mrs. Turner—“both our families would like you to know that we’re here for you if you ever want to talk, get away, or just want a home-cooked meal.”

Mrs. Turner nodded. “I know you say it’s not necessary, but the offer of a safe place is a standing offer, should you ever want it.”

“Why are you doing this for me? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing.” Mrs. Turner smiled. “Nothing except that we know you’re a single woman trying to make it on your own in a big city, away from home, and you’ve had a hard row to hoe. I guess we just want to help.”

“And,” Mrs. Woodward jumped in, “because this is how we think perhaps, just perhaps, God can show you how much He loves you. We’d very much like to convince you of that.”

“Thanks. Really, thanks.”

She made ready to change, and Mrs. Turner pointed out the door to the bathroom
for her to take a shower, if she wished.

“Come downstairs when you’re done. I’ll be glad to drive you home.”

Ronnie just wanted to get home to her own familiar apartment, familiar clothes, familiar roommate. Tiffany would be crazy with worry by now. If she was home.

She changed and picked up her belongings—just the small bag of clothes, overcoat, and purse—and ventured downstairs. The two women were chatting in the kitchen. She cleared her throat.

“Mrs. Turner—”

The woman turned toward her and held up a hand. “One thing, just so you know: Please call me Sherry. Mrs. Turner sounds like my mother-in-law!”

“And please call me Jo,” Mrs. Woodward said. “We’re not that much older than you are, for pete’s sake!”

They asked if she would like anything to eat, but she just wanted to escape. Sherry said she would drive her home, as Jo had a previous commitment.

Five minutes later, they were making their way along the back roads toward Ronnie’s apartment. After a few minutes of silence, Sherry cleared her throat. “You work at The Challenger, don’t you?”

Ronnie was unable to speak. It seemed so improper, here in this family minivan, with this religious woman who had taken her in.

“Don’t worry, Ronnie. I’m not judging you.”

“How’d you know? About the club, I mean.”

“Um, I’m not sure how to say this but … my husband recognized you.”

Ronnie shot a glance sideways. “He’s a customer?”

“Not now, he isn’t.” There was a note of steel in the sweet voice. “But there was a time, not that long ago, where he had fallen into—Anyway, he’d gone to that strip club many times, and he said he recognized you as one of the waitresses.”

“When was the last time he was at the club?”

“About six months ago.”

“Oh. Yes, I was only a waitress then.”

“He said he’d never seen you … otherwise.”

“That’s the truth.” Ronnie shrugged. “In case you were wondering.”

Sherry pulled up at a stoplight, turned her head, and gave Ronnie a long look. “Thank you for letting me know.”

The light turned green, and Sherry pulled away in silence. Ronnie watched the trees flash by, the beautiful subdivisions, the luxury apartment complexes. Just like the Turners’—and just like hers. There wasn’t that much difference between them.

“Uh, Sherry, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why on earth would you and the Woodwards invite me over again—invite me to get to know you? I’m just a girl from the wrong side of the tracks and I know it. And you know it, too. You saw me … you know what I am.”

There was a long pause and then Sherry spoke in that peaceful way of hers. “Well, I’ll give you an honest answer, if you don’t mind.”

“I hate baloney. Give it to me straight. You think you’ll get points in heaven or something?”

“No.” Sherry smiled briefly. “It’s for two reasons. One is that Jesus tells us to take in those who are hurting or in need, just as if we were taking Him in.”

“Oh.”

“Have you ever read the Bible?”

“No … not really.”

“Well, in the Bible, Jesus tells this story about the Good Samaritan—”

“The Good Samaritan!”

Ronnie stared at her, then looked out the window, hardly listening as Sherry recounted the story. The image of that old, folded note from her only visit to Sunday school rose in her mind.

“What’s wrong?” Sherry’s voice was concerned. “Ronnie?”

Ronnie kept her face turned toward the glass, feeling tears dangerously close to the surface. “I don’t want your pity. What do you know of my life?”

“I know more than you think, Ronnie. I know it because … I lived it, too.”

“What do you mean? How could you have lived my life?”

They pulled up at another light, and Sherry put the van in “park” and turned to face her. “I’m sure there are differences, but for several years I bet I lived a life very similar to yours in many ways.”

“What do you mean—you were a
stripper?
”

“Not a stripper—nothing as obvious as that. But I was a lot like a high-priced call girl. I’d sleep with whatever man asked for it, whenever they asked for it, wherever they asked for it. Oh yes. Nothing so obvious as getting paid for sex, but pretty darned close. I’d keep two or three men on a string at a time. I loved the attention, the gifts, the jet-setting off for a weekend of shopping in Paris. I knew what I wanted, and had my ways of getting it.”

Sherry pulled away from the light. Was she right in sharing her most intimate secret with this woman? She continued to feel the nudge of the Lord, the nudge that said this conversation was not an accident, was serving a purpose.

Sherry allowed herself an ironic smile. Here, she’d been supporting Doug in the freedom that came with confessing one’s most secret sin. About time she took some of her own advice.

Ronnie listened as Sherry told her story from the time she graduated from college as a bitter and unfulfilled twenty-one-year-old, through all her relationships, all her bed-hopping, her drug use to dull the pain. She listened as Sherry described what it was like to be called to a man’s bed late at night, only to have to wake up early and surreptitiously leave in time for the day … just like her. What it was like to use the man, use the relationship rather than enjoy it … just like her. What it was like to feel like her dreams would never materialize, that this was all there was, that life stinks, so better to eat, drink, and be merry, right?

Ronnie’s lips parted in shock as, one by one, Sherry described the elements of both of their lives. Only … what had changed? How could she get from where she was to where Sherry was now? She had to know.

In response to Ronnie’s question, Sherry described the arrival at rock bottom one night, the television show, the preacher, the anguished call to her college roommate, the prayer … Jesus … rebirth. Joy. Salvation.

Ronnie listened, her eyes and ears full. Even when they pulled up at her apartment complex and Sherry found a parking spot, Ronnie made no move to get out of the car, drawn, in spite of herself, to what this woman was saying.