IT’S PEACEFUL HERE

                                        

By William M. Balsamo

 

    Everybody knew who she was but nobody knew her name. She was not from these parts. She was an outsider. She was born and raised somewhere else. But, one day on a clear spring day with the smell of life in the air she appeared and sat down on a park bench. She just sat there all day doing nothing but watching the birds splash in the fountain not far from where she was sitting.

    Gradually she walked around town and that’s when people began to notice her.

    Sitting in a coffee shop one day she only ordered a glass of iced water.

    “You’re not from around here, are you?” the waiter asked.

    She smiled and said, No, I’m not.” When she smiled she revealed a mouth of neglected teeth in need of repair. From the damage of neglect it appeared that she had never seen a dentist in her lifetime.

    “Well, you gotta order more than just a glass of water. I got customers waiting for a seat.”

     With that she drank the water in one gulp and left the coffee shop. It was not long that rumors in the small town began to circulate about this woman. She bothered no one but was an outsider and not one of the community.

 

    At night she retreated always to the part and spent the night sleeping on a deserted bench. No one bothered her in the mild spring weather. She slept well. The cool evenings at first were troublesome but she managed to scrounge through garbage and found an old black sweater which fit her well.

    She was not the only homeless in the city and soon she found friends among those who were long time residents. She spoke little but they accepted her and made her a part of their subculture. Together they shared meals and bits of clothing which they found around town. Soon she was able to locate a discarded child’s carriage and this became a depository for whatever possessions she collected. When she arrived in the city she had nothing, not even a bag to hold clothing. Now she had moved up the economic scale of homelessness and had her own baby carriage into which she placed items she collected from discarded trash; a small thermos, a plastic cup, an old  sweater, a used umbrella; these became her possessions as she began to set up home on the streets.

     Her food supply came from sundry sources. She located around foods stores late at night before they closed and knew exactly where some of the unsold and non-recycled food items would be discarded. The storeowners even placed such foods into small white plastic bags knowing that the homeless would take them. And so they did. As soon as the food was left near the other garbage, the feral men of the streets snatched them up with hungry claws and took the booty to a hidden place where the food could be devoured.

 

    She, the homeless woman of the streets, followed them and got her share of street food, savory small portions to be eaten in the morning before dawn. She was not a young woman but maybe much younger than she actually seemed. No one knew her name nor guessed her age, not even the other homeless with whom she shared her time knew who she really was.

     In the town she was seen more and more regularly but never caused any disturbance wherever she went and came. She sat quietly in coffee shops and at bus stops. She always had her baby carriage with her and even found an old discarded doll to put inside as a surrogate child. It was somewhat pathetic to see a grown woman, still young but much aged to be pushing a baby carriage with a doll inside. It was something a child might do, but in her case she was an adult who had never grown up, never taken control of her life and was clouded in a mysterious past.

 

     As the months passed she became noticeably shabbier and shabbier. Her clothing became soiled and dirty, her hair became matted and filled with lice and vermin and she began to smell offensively. She never changed her clothes and never washed and the occasional sweater she found discarded in bins and boxes she would use for blankets rather than clothing.

    Her clothes were now permeated with the odor of dried sweat and urine and she had taken on the smells of the park and the garbage dumps of the city. She hardly washed and her skin became crusted with skin infections, results of unseemliness and being associated with filth. The smells that came from her body created an invisible ongoing circle of odor that kept her away from normal contacts.

In the coffee shop she was no longer welcomed. When ever she sat at the table others would get up and change their seats and still others would complain to the management.

     “Sorry lady, you can’t stay here. You must go someplace else.”

     Although she hardly spoke she understood. She smiled defensively and went outside pushing her carriage aimlessly along the streets.

     The bus station also registered the same reaction. Whenever she entered people moved away. She sat on a bench and there would come an exodus of panicked passengers. Finally, the bus station master came over and told her, “Sorry lady, you can’t stay here unless you’ve got a ticket,” which she never had.

     “You’ll have to go.”

     She never complained, opened up with a big smile and then left.

     Her area of wandering became increasingly restricted. And she found herself confined to the public benches in the parks and the trees that led into the deeper woods in the city park.

 

     It was in mid-winter when she discovered the Church. The light from the stained glass window shone like a beacon in the night and in the pre-dawn hours there was the soft singing of celestial hymns which came from the interior as an echo from heaven. She was drawn to the light in much the same way a moth is drawn to the heat of a candle. This was a place where she could find refuge and warmth from the cruel attacks of the winter’s cold.    

     She approached the entrance the door was open and inside a mass was in progress. She crept in unnoticed and took a place at the back of the church in a deserted, darkened pew.

     Her eyes were fixed on the altar and the motions of the priest. A group of nearly twenty people were gathered around the altar and they were lost in prayer and singing a gentle hymn the melody of which mixed with the incense and drifted up into the darkened corners of the vaulted arches. At one point in the service before the communion she noticed that all of the worshippers formed a close circle and held each other’s hand. Then with bowed heads they began a prayer that began with the words, “Our father, who art in heaven…” When the prayer concluded the group came even closer and each member embraced the person next to him.

     The homeless woman sitting at the back of the church in the darkened shadows of the pew said to herself. “So this is love.”

 

     She stayed in church long after the mass had finished and she felt she had a new refuge. Here was a place of warmth and the abstract image of love was almost tangible. She returned the next day and the next and wanted to become closer to these people who held hands and embraced in fellowship.

     They were simple people who dressed without pretensions and could best be described as average. Even with her lack of education and limited speech she knew when she was in the presence of good people.

     At each mass she edged closer to the worshipping community. She wanted to be in their midst. As she drew closer the community became more aware of her presence in the church. Her disheveled, unkempt hair draped in knots and strings around a face unwashed and uncared for. Her clothing smelled of the streets and the once bright colors of reds and greens were mow merged into a crusted gray coated by the dusts of the streets. When she ventured to smile at the parishioners she exposed a mouthful of crooked and decayed teeth which had perhaps never seen a toothbrush.

    But, it was the odor she emitted that gave away her presence. It was a foul order, so offensive that one had to reach for a handkerchief to cover one’s nose. It was a stale odor, one which is encountered in a stuffy cellar which has not been opened for years. It was an odor that spread like a fungus and swallowed the pleasant fragrance of burning candles and whiffed incense. It spread into every corner of the church. It climbed into the belfry and hid among the pipes in the organ.     

 

    “Who is this woman?” one of the parishioners asked her neighbor after mass one day.

     “I don’t know, but she certainly smells.”

     “Smells? You mean she stinks!” inserted an eavesdropper.

     “She doesn’t belong here.”

     “Why does she come here?”

     “You mean, where does she come from?”

    In the weeks that passed the worshippers gathered in the church before dawn to greet the celebrant for mass and the homeless lady was also there. On this one day she managed to muster up enough courage to actually join the circle of believers. When the moment came to join hands for the Lord’s Prayer, she snuggled up between two elderly people and extended her hands to be grasped for prayer. The reaction was that of stunned surprise as though the believers had come in contact with a leper. The two parishioners looked at each other in shock and then at the woman in disgust. They quickly joined hands with each other and excluded the woman from the prayer circle. In the shadows of the church the group intoned the prayer, “Our father who art in heaven.”

    The homeless lady with the full feeling of rejection moved back and took her place in a pew a few meters away from the circle.

 

    That following afternoon a group of parishioners marched into the rectory demanding to see Fr. Paul, the mornings’ celebrant.

    “Please, father, you must get rid of that woman. She smells to high hell.”

    “I’m not going to hold her hand at the Lord’s Prayer. God only knows what contagious infections she may have.”

    “And the thought of hugging her at the communion!”
    Father Paul listened to the litany of complaints and knew that he had a problem on his hands.

    “I just can’t throw her out. That wouldn’t be Christian. She is permitted to enter the church and attend mass,” he said in the woman’s defense.

     “But, who is she? Where did she come from?” protested one of the elders.

     A younger woman with graying hair added, “She has no real interest inn the mass. She only comes into the church to get out of the cold. She’s probably not even a Christian.”

     The longer the argumentation the deeper were the convictions.

     “Father, you must speak to her and tell her to leave the church or....we will stop coming to mass.”

     “I cannot do that. It is not Christian,” the priest insisted.

     O.k, then just tell her to stay in the back of the church where we can’t smell her.”

     This was said with an ultimatum. The priest knew well that those who came with protest were the pillars of the congregation. They managed the societies and fueled the fund-raising. Without them there was no congregation.

     “O.k.” the priest conceded, “I will speak with her.”

 

    The next day at mass the woman again appeared but she was hesitant to approach the group. She had every appearance of a dog which had been disciplined. She sat away from the group and eyed the members suspiciously. Yet, she felt the warmth of the candles, and the face of the crucified Christ hanging on the cross above the altar seemed to look directly at her with a keen understanding.

 

    After the mass when the parishioners had departed Father Paul removed his clerical garments and approached the woman. Overwhelmed by her disheveled appearance and her offensive odor he nevertheless went up to her and said warmly, “How are you this morning?”

    She did not answer but her smile revealed a grotesque set of teeth.

    Well..um…,” he stammered, “what is your name? I’m Father Paul.”

    There was no answer.

    O.k…um…,” he continued awkwardly, “where do you live?”

    He was embarrassed by the stupidity of his questions and realized it was all to obvious that she had no home.

     “Well,” he continued changing the topic, “You see, I have to ask you to keep away…well, I mean, you can come to church but you make the other people feel uncomfortable….So, when mass is in progress just sit quietly in the back.”

     The priest felt foolish and what he was saying went against everything he was taught.

     The woman smiled and uttered her first words, “It’s peaceful here.”

     “What?” the priest uttered then looked down at the ground embarrassed. He repeated and confirmed what she said, “Yes, it is peaceful here.”

 

    The woman did not appear in church the next day and not even the day after. When it became obvious that she would not return to church the parishioners felt relieved and the priest felt confused.

    Three weeks later after a very bitter cold spell in the heart of winter some park workers found an old woman frozen to death in the park. Her head was resting peacefully on an old sweater and near her was a small baby carriage which contained all that she possessed.