In her childhood she had been told innumerable times that there were no such things as monsters. The nightmares which came to her in her sleep were only dreams, her parents had told her; they were no more real than her imaginary friend who stopped by to drink imaginary tea with her and her dolls. There weren't any real monsters, they said, only make-believe monsters. And the make-believe monsters went away as soon as Mommy or Daddy came in and turned on the light, didn't they? Well then, they must be scaredy-cat monsters if they're afraid of a little ol' light bulb. Why, I'll bet they got so scared when I turned on that light just now that they ran a million miles away from here and they'll never, ever come back. But just in case they ever decide that they might want to come back, we'll get a little light bulb and plug it into the wall over here in the corner. Make-believe monsters hate these little light bulbs, but you know what? Angels really like them. I think that if you go back to sleep right away, some angels might come to visit you and ask you where you got such a nice light bulb. And they'll stay with you all night long if you want them to. And in the morning you can tell us all about them, okay? All right then. Now go back to sleep, dear. Sweet dreams.
She awoke in darkness, and the darkness startled her in a way that sent her mind reeling. She sat up in bed and looked around the room in confusion. Though groggy with sleep, she could make out various objects in the room even in the darkness, but she did not recognize any of them. She moved her arm to lift off her blanket and her hand touched something strange. She felt a row of metal bars that ran along the side of the bed. What were they doing there? She turned over to the other side of the bed and found an identical set of bars there as well. She was troubled by their presence, for she had no expectation of them. Then a thought occurred to her. She must be back in the hospital. Yes, that’s where she was. All of the beds in the hospital had these metal bars on them. But she did not belong here. She had been here far too long already. Her husband surely was supposed to have taken her home by now. He must be waiting for her outside. She had better get up and go out to meet him, otherwise he was liable to become impatient and drive off without her. Then she would have to stay here in the hospital for another day, and she didn't want that. She did not like it here; it was not her rightful place. She should be home with her husband where she belonged.
She rolled over onto her left side and tried to swing her feet off the bed, but she met up with the row of bars. How did they get there? She rolled back over to the right side of the bed, but ran into the same obstacle there. Oh, for Pete's sake. She grabbed hold of the topmost bar with one hand and pulled herself up determinedly to a semi-upright position. She leaned her upper body across the top railing and tried to lift one leg over it, but the blanket and sheet fought against her. She kicked spastically at them until her legs were free, then she managed to straddle the top bar. Her left foot groped blindly for the floor but was unable to find it. She leaned a bit too far over the railing and lost her balance, falling with a soft thud onto the carpet.
For a moment she was dazed and unsure as to what had just happened to her, and again she wondered where she was. Then she remembered—her husband was waiting for her. She struggled first to her knees, and then with great effort to her feet. She felt a pain in her side that she had never noticed before. Maybe the doctors could give her something for that.
She teetered across the floor to the bedroom door and stood in the open doorway. All the lights were out, and the hallway was deserted. The nurses must be on their coffee break again. She peered bewilderedly up and down the hallway for a long time, trying to get her bearings. She was completely lost. She wasn't sure which way led to the parking lot. One end of the hallway was totally dark. Who knew where that led. A faint light was visible through a window at the other end of the hallway. That must be the way.
She inched down the hall toward the light, feeling her way along one wall with an outstretched hand as she went. She came into a larger room and was again befuddled as to her surroundings. She looked around, but she did not recognize any of the furniture. She waited a few moments to see if anyone would come along to assist her, but no one came. Figures. This was the worst hospital she had been in yet. Nobody was ever around to help a person when they needed it.
She saw a door next to the window on the opposite side of the room. That must be the way to the parking lot. She crossed the room and tried to turn the doorknob, but it would not move. She gave the fixture a perplexed look. Who locks the door to a hospital? she thought. With immense concentration she spent a minute or so trying to figure out how to unlock the door. After several tries she managed to turn the lock correctly, and when she twisted the knob again it moved freely in her hand. She gave a hearty pull, but the door refused to budge. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's a good thing the building wasn't on fire. Again she stood there puzzling at the hardware. She noticed another lock above the doorknob, so she turned that one as well. With another good tug on the knob, the door swung open easily.
Tentatively she stepped outside. Everything was wet and still, and a cold breeze rose up out of the dampness and wrapped itself around her. Off in the distance she saw a few streetlights shining, but all else was darkness. Her husband must be late, she thought; she would have to wait for him. For a moment she considered going back inside to get her coat, but she decided against it. She didn't want to miss him when he arrived. There were concrete steps just outside the door. They were a little wet, but that was okay. She wouldn't have to wait here very long. He would be coming along any minute now to take her home. She could change back into drier clothes when she got there. She sat down on the top step and curled her arms and legs up into a tight ball and tried not to shiver too much. She waited.
An indeterminate period of time passed, after which she heard footsteps coming up from behind her.
"Louise?" said her husband in a concerned voice. "What are you doing out here?"
"Oh, honey," she said, her voice now bright and happy, "I was just waiting for you. I'm ready to go home now."
The Mayor stepped outside his front door in his pajamas and slippers and helped his wife to her feet. "How did you get out of bed?" he asked.
"Well, it wasn't easy with these hospital beds, I'll tell you, but I managed," his wife said. "I knew you were coming to pick me up today, so I wasn't going to let anything keep me here. You know how awful these hospitals are. I couldn't find a single person to help me. I had to find my way out here all by myself."
The Mayor put an arm around his ailing wife and slowly led her back into the house and down the hallway to her bedroom. He helped her change into a dry nightgown, then he lowered the bars on one side of the bed and assisted her back into it. He tucked her in, then raised the bars back to their normal position and checked them on both sides of the bed to ensure that they were securely in place. Then he kissed her gently on the forehead and wished her goodnight.
"Oh, I'm so glad to be home," she said with great relief. "I didn't like being in that place at all. I missed you when I was there."
"Well, I missed you too, dear," the Mayor said. "It's good to have you home again. Now go back to sleep and I'll see you in the morning."
* * *
Cast iron radiators were wonderful inventions, Eppie decided. They gave off a heat so strong that it did not stop when it reached your skin; it kept going, penetrating down into your muscles and your bones, warming you all the way through to your very core. Big, cushiony, overstuffed chairs were wonderful things as well. It didn't matter if the legs were scratched or the springs squeaked or the fabric was frayed here and there. They were cozy and comfortable and were especially nice when they were placed next to cast iron radiators on cold, blustery mornings.
Eppie wriggled back and forth in the chair one more time, just to assure herself that she was nestled as far down into its soft confines as she could possibly be. She took another sip of tea from the large ceramic mug and wrapped her hands tightly around its warm circumference to the pleasure of her fingers. Rarely had she ever felt so good in the morning.
Having been unable to raise her roommates at the apartment throughout the prior evening, she had accepted the spare room that was offered to her by the resident managers at the mission house, and she had slept soundly through the night. At dawn she had awakened before anyone else in the house and had made her way down to the kitchen to attempt another phone call to the apartment. Having gotten no answer yet again, she had made herself some tea and had settled into the large chair in the sitting room to wait for Father Andrew. He had said that he would be returning in the morning to see if he could be of further assistance. Despite her concern over Rachel and Allison's whereabouts, Eppie was not greatly upset by her situation. She had spent many a night away from home before, and one more involuntary sojourn did not cause her much distress. On the contrary, she was finding the mission house to be a much more accommodating place to spend the night than she would have ever imagined.
She looked out through the large picture window at the bleak emptiness of the yard in front of the house. The rain showers of the previous night had moved on, but their effect remained evident across every square inch of the soggy landscape. The yard was littered with wet leaves which stayed pasted to the soil in spite of the gusty wind that raked the ground. The green blades of grass which had grown so lushly just a few months earlier were now shriveled and small and matted down invisibly below the blanket of leaves which covered them. A few brightly colored leaves still clung tenuously to the nearly barren branches of the trees which dotted the yard, but for the most part all of the delicate foliage which had blossomed so thickly during the season just passed had descended from its heights.
Every once in a while an individual leaf would lose its grip on the branch from which it had sprouted and be carried haphazardly through the air, twisting and turning and doing loop-de-loops between the boughs, at times falling close to the ground only to be caught up at the last moment by another gust of wind, then soaring once again among the upper reaches of the highest limbs. Some leaves would be carried away by the prevailing breezes to places unknown, while others would eventually flutter down to earth at a spot not far from the tree from which they had just moments before separated, joining their sodden brethren in the dank carpet which covered the yard.
Eppie watched the blowing leaves with interest. She noticed that each leaf lost a bit of its vibrancy the moment it ended its brief flight of freedom. Something in the ground's moisture seemed to soak into each newly downed leaf and drown the vitality with which it had just danced so playfully upon the autumn air. Almost at once, the bright colors of orange and red and gold began to drain from the face of each earth-bound leaf, melding perceptively into the more terrestrial shades of gray and umber which characterized its predecessors. Eventually each freshly fallen leaf became sadly indistinguishable from all the others, and the entire mass of discarded material began the slow and inscrutable process of decomposing back into its earthly elements.
Presently a small squirrel ventured out from behind one of the trees and came to a stop in the middle of the yard. He caught Eppie's eye immediately. His tail flicked forward and back a couple of times, then he held perfectly still, his ears checking the wind for any sound which would betray an approaching enemy. He stood erect on his hind legs and raised his nose to the air, as if to allow his nostrils to verify that his ears had not deceived him. His head turned quickly from one side to the other and his eyes scanned the perimeter of the yard for any unnatural movement.
Convinced at length that all was safe, the squirrel put his nose to the ground and sniffed searchingly among the wet leaves. He pawed at the organic refuse here and there, pulling aside a leaf or two each time and smelling the ground beneath. He moved slowly across the yard in this manner, moving no more than a few inches at a time before stopping once again to paw and sniff at the leaves. Once or twice he interrupted this behavior to raise his head again and survey the surrounding area, but these interludes did not last long and he was soon reengaged with the natural clutter among the trees.
Eventually the squirrel stopped upon one particular spot and sniffed at the ground for a long time. The place which drew his attention did not appear in any outward way to differ from the several other places that he had inspected, yet this one spot clearly held his interest. He sniffed closely at the ground for several seconds, then pushed a few damp leaves out of the way and sniffed at the ground again.
At once he began ardently brushing away a swath of leaves from that very spot. For a time the squirrel's head and upper body were completely concealed beneath the small pile of leaves and twigs that he was pushing up. Once he had cleared a narrow patch of bare earth, the squirrel started digging energetically into the dark soil with his front claws. Small flecks of black dirt flew out rapidly from under the furry body and the haunches flexed up and down as the creature dug excitedly at his chosen site.
After a short time the squirrel stuck his head into the small hole that he had excavated, pulled at something with his mouth a couple of times, and then lifted his head from the hole. In his jaws he held a light brown acorn, speckled on all sides with moist clumps of soil. He darted off toward the nearest tree and quickly scrambled up the trunk. Racing enthusiastically around one limb and then the next, he had within seconds reached the uppermost branches of the tree. He bounded out along one long limb, paused there momentarily, then skillfully made a great leap through the air and caught himself on a thin branch which extended over from an adjacent tree. He scampered quickly across the limbs of the second tree and then repeated his maneuvers again, landing on a branch of yet another tree that grew up from the neighboring yard on the other side of the fence. Eppie watched with delight as the little squirrel continued on his joyously acrobatic journey from tree to tree, celebrating with him in the zeal of his flight until he vanished, acorn and all, into the thick maze of leafless twigs which scored the sky far into the distance.
* * *
Saturday morning, and the mission house, like most other homes, awoke more slowly on this day than it did during the week. For more than an hour after dawn there seemed to be no activity in the house. The elderly couple who served as live-in managers for the house remained tucked away in their bedroom on the second floor. The six women and five children who had temporarily taken up residence in the house were likewise hibernating in their respective rooms. Saturday was the one morning of the week when they could all sleep late, and they always took advantage of the opportunity.
During the week the school-aged children had to be ready for the school bus when it arrived, and the adults made sure they did not dawdle. After the children were gone the women were expected to use their day productively. Those that had jobs would leave for work, while the others would go off in search of employment or perhaps to scout for a more permanent place to live. If no prospects called a resident away from the house, there were always a host of chores that needed doing around the mission. The house was a large, old farmhouse with three floors and a basement. It contained six bedrooms which could sleep up to fourteen people, three bathrooms, a large kitchen at the rear of the ground floor, a common sitting room in front, and a good-sized porch on the side facing the street. The aging structure required its fair share of maintenance, but the residents helped to keep it clean and in good repair—a small token of their thanks to their benefactors for their room and board while they were sheltered there.
Given that the mission was founded and supported by the local Catholic church, attendance at mass on Sunday mornings was practically mandatory for all residents who were not of a non-Christian faith, and they regularly went as a group to the nine o'clock service. Regardless of the strength of their individual churchgoing habits, most of the residents clearly enjoyed this weekly excursion, feeling that it lent a certain degree of normalcy and companionship to their otherwise uprooted lives. Occasionally a new resident arrived who displayed a chronic susceptibility to illness each Sunday morning and thus begged off from the weekly mass, or who declared forthrightly a firm atheism which exempted her attendance. Such a resident would unfailingly come to the attention of Father Andrew, who wasted no time in paying her a personal visit at the mission. Each such resident quickly decided that her aversion to formalized religion was no match for the persuasive powers of the local priest which were brought upon her by her truancy. As a result, no resident of the mission had ever remained absent from the Sunday morning mass for very long.
But Saturdays were different. Temporarily freed from their appointed obligations, the residents slept late, and the house seemed none the worse for their extended rest.
By mid-morning, however, the mission started to come alive. The first discernible activity came from the kitchen at the rear of the house. A light came on in the room, and cabinets and drawers could be heard being opened and closed. Electric appliances started to whir and buzz, and an old oven door squealed loudly as it was opened and then shut. Plates and cups and silverware clacked together. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, followed shortly thereafter by the smell of baking eggs and cheese and onions, wafted from the kitchen to the other rooms on the first floor and then up the stairs to the rest of the house.
As if responding to a silent alarm clock, the residents left the warmth of their beds in quick succession. Bedframes creaked and old floorboards groaned and squeaked throughout the house as the residents threw off their blankets and quilts, stripped out of their bedclothes, and stuffed their well-rested limbs into worn blue jeans and rumpled shirts of button-down flannel or pull-over cotton. Doors opened and closed and the sound of water could be heard running up and down through copper pipes within the walls. Footsteps then pattered audibly along the hallways and down the stairs as the residents made their way to the kitchen, where they congregated around a large dining table at one end of the room. Eppie heard the sounds and smelled the aroma of wakefulness springing up around her from every direction, so she decided to leave the comfort of her large easy chair in the sitting room and join her fellow guests for breakfast in the kitchen.
"Good morning, Eppie," said several cheerful voices as she entered the kitchen.
"Good morning, everyone," she replied with a smile.
Mrs. Applebaum, the elderly woman who, along with her husband, served as the resident caretaker of the house, stood near the oven wearing an apron. Mr. Applebaum and the other residents sat at the table.
"What smells so good?" Eppie asked.
"I made quiche," said Mrs. Applebaum, a restrained smile of satisfaction crossing her lips at Eppie's compliment. "I figured everybody could use a hot breakfast on a damp morning like this."
Affirmations of agreement came from around the table as Mrs. Applebaum slipped an oversized oven mitt onto each hand, pulled open the oven door, and retrieved a round glass casserole dish from the middle rack. She carried the dish to the table and set it down carefully on a pad near the center.
"Now be careful everybody," she said, "this is still pretty hot. You may want to let it cool down for a few minutes before you try it. I've got another one in the oven which should be ready in about ten minutes or so."
The assembled group seemed to pay no heed to the woman's warning, and they immediately set to cutting the quiche into equitable slices and distributing them around the table.
"Come on over and join us, Eppie," said one of the women at the table. "There's plenty of room for you over here on this side. If you don't get in here and grab your share now, there may not be any left for you the way this crew eats."
Eppie took her place at the table and smiled at the group's good-natured eagerness to begin their meal.
"Patrick, make sure you leave a slice for Eppie before you go cutting off a piece for yourself," said another woman to a boy of about ten who sat next to her.
"Oh, that's all right," said Eppie. "Let him take as much as he wants. I can wait for the next one."
The first casserole dish was soon emptied of its contents, and everyone in the room, save for Eppie and Mrs. Applebaum, had a portion of the community meal before them. Without a word they paused in unison to bow their heads and fold their hands in prayer. Eppie bowed her head as well over her empty plate. Mr. Applebaum led them in their blessing.
"Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Amen."
"Amen," repeated the others.
"Amen," said Eppie.
The group took up their forks and ate heartily, the pace of their consumption tempered only by the need to allow each steaming forkful to cool before they placed them in their mouths. Between bites the conversation among the diners grew loose and convivial.
"What do you plan to do today, Donna?" said one.
"I'm not sure," replied the other. "Maybe I'll go over to Howard's Market. They've got produce on sale today. I saw a sign there yesterday: Corn, six ears for a dollar."
"Is that right?" said a third. "Do you mind if I go with you? I just love good corn in season."
"Please do. I'd love to have some company. We could pick up some other things too if anyone wants something."
"Are peaches on sale?"
"I don't know about that, but we can check for you."
"I'll give you some money. Three or four good-sized peaches is all I'd need. Anything under a dollar a pound would be great."
"If they're that low, why don't you just pick up a dozen," said Mrs. Applebaum. "I've got everything else I need to make peach cobbler."
All of the residents agreed that the baking of a couple of peach pies was a superb idea, and they all offered to assist the project in whatever way they could.
"I'll help with both hands," joked Mr. Applebaum, holding both his fork and his spoon at the ready.
Everyone at the table laughed, and the conversation went on in a light and airy manner for a long time. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to finish their breakfast and be off to pursue other business. The group gave the impression that time was plentiful and that nothing of great urgency weighed on their schedules.
The second dish of quiche came out hot and steaming from the oven, and the first slice was cut extra large and passed over to Eppie. She smiled gratefully to the others as she accepted the plate and set it down in front of her to cool.
Eppie wondered how long each of the residents had been living at the shelter. She judged from their conversation that they knew each other well, not only referring to each other by name, but also revealing a familiarity with one another's personalities and interests. At times they went so far as to poke fun at each other the way people do only after they have come to know and understand one another.
Eppie ate her breakfast slowly and did not inject herself into the conversation. She was shy by nature around groups of strangers, and she felt slightly embarrassed that she did not remember the names of most of the people whom she had met the night before. She had been very tired and more than a little wary of her surroundings when Father Andrew had introduced her to a few of the residents. They had all seemed like nice people—quite different, in fact, from the image of homeless people that she had always held. Yet, because she had not initially anticipated staying at the mission house for more than an hour or two, she had not made any mental note of names. Instead, she had simply used the telephone to call back to the apartment and leave a message on the answering machine as to where she could be reached, and had then accepted a bowl of soup and a sandwich for dinner while she waited for a return call. After a few hours had passed with no word from her roommates, and during which time she had nearly dozed off in the chair in the sitting room, she accepted the Applebaum’s offer of a bed for the night. It was little more than a cot tucked away in a small room at the back of the first floor, but it was clean and dry and was covered with thick, warm blankets. She had fallen asleep in cozy comfort, listening to the sound of the cold rain tapping steadily against the window pane above her head.
Now, as she enjoyed her second meal of charity in this place of refuge, she wished that she had paid greater attention to the names of the residents when she had been introduced to them the night before. The only names she could recall were those of the Applebaums and the few others that were mentioned in the course of the conversation around the breakfast table. She sat among them and listened to their carefree banter and wished that she knew them as well as they seemed to know each other. Somehow, for the first time since she had arrived the previous evening, Eppie felt a twinge of sadness to think that she would not be staying at the mission house long enough to become acquainted with any of them.
The time passed freely as the residents chatted and sipped their way through their first and then their second cups of coffee. Eppie finished her quiche and slowly nursed a glass of orange juice. She had no more incentive to leave the table than did any of the residents. Until the telephone rang with word from her roommates that she could return to the apartment, she had no other place to go. It occurred to her that, at least for the moment, she might be the most dispossessed of the entire group.
The conversation at the table stopped abruptly when the door at the front of the house was heard opening and closing. Muffled voices and footsteps approached up the hallway, then Father Andrew entered the kitchen. He wore the same dark gray overcoat that he had worn the previous night, buttoned up tightly to his neck. His face was a hearty shade of red and his hair was disheveled from the wind. Behind him followed a young woman carrying a baby in her arms. She appeared to be about twenty years old, with straight blond hair and a chubby face. She was a bit taller and heavier than Eppie, and Eppie was certain that she had not been introduced to her the previous night. The baby, wrapped abundantly in a yellow cotton blanket, was very small and must have been born quite recently.
The sight of the woman and her child brought a polite silence to the group. It was apparent to Eppie that none of the residents knew her. The woman appeared somewhat nervous and unsure of herself as she scanned the unfamiliar faces around the table.
"Good morning, Father," said several residents.
"Good morning, folks," replied the priest. "How is everyone today?"
Fine, fine, they all said.
"I would like you all to meet Shelley," Father Andrew said. "She's going to be staying here at the house for a while. As you can see she's just had a blessed addition come into her life and she's very much in need of a place to stay, so I hope you will all make her feel at home."
The group welcomed the woman to the house and offered her a seat at the table. One by one they introduced themselves to her, and Eppie was relieved to have a second chance to learn their names. Eppie introduced herself to Shelley in turn with the others as if she had lived at the mission for years. Suddenly she no longer felt the uneasiness of being the newcomer to the group. All of the uncomfortable novelty of her presence in the house quickly dissipated as the focus of the group's attention turned toward the newest resident and her baby.
The group offered Shelley a slice of quiche and a glass of juice, which she gratefully accepted. They inquired about the baby's gender and age and health, and they wanted to know its name. He was a boy, Shelley told them. His name was Jonathan and he was three weeks old. The doctors told her that he was in good health, although he often cried incessantly for no apparent reason, which worried her greatly.
Eppie found herself fascinated by the new mother and her baby. She watched them closely, trying not to stare too overtly, and studied every move they made. She noticed how deftly Shelley cradled the infant in one arm and rocked him, simultaneously supporting the baby's head, torso and legs between her arm and her body while she snatched bites of quiche with a fork in her other hand. Although she admitted that her arms grew tired after a while, she politely declined to lay the child in a bassinet or hand him over to somebody else while she ate, having learned from experience, she said, that he would begin to wail loudly if he was to be taken from her while he was awake.
The baby lay restlessly in the crook of his mother's arm, his tiny hands waving aimlessly in front of his nose as if he were grasping at some invisible object of annoyance before him, and his feet kicked intermittently under the blanket. He wore a constant look of discomfort on his round face and occasionally grimaced and fussed to the point where Eppie was sure he was about to cry, but each time he did so his mother would rock him a bit more vigorously in her arm and the child would settle down again.
A change in the behavior of the mission residents also caught Eppie's interest. A subdued silence descended over them as they sat quietly sipping their coffee or fumbling with their napkins. The baby's presence seemed to have robbed them of their liveliness, and they now seemed rather sullen, even sad. They did not inquire as to Shelley's personal circumstances or her reasons for taking up residence among them. They seemed to know that nobody came to the mission by choice; they were each forced to abide there by their own unpleasant histories, and they each looked forward to the day when they might move on to a more permanent home of their own. Each of them seemed to feel anew the sense of shame and self-disappointment that had accompanied them when they first arrived at the mission. There was a palpable, unspoken tinge of depression around the table at the thought of this young mother, doubtlessly alone in the world and without support, trying to care for her child while at the same time providing for herself. Experience had taught them certain things about the road onto which their lives had all veered, and they watched with forced smiles as Shelley transferred her baby from one weary arm to the other and tried again to stab a piece of quiche with her fork.
"I'm a bit surprised to see that you're still here with us, Eppie," said Father Andrew, who sat across the table from her. "Didn't your roommates call you back last night?"
"No, they didn't," said Eppie, shaking her head. "I don't know where they could be. They're always at home when I come back from school. Maybe I should call the apartment again."
Eppie left the table and walked over to the telephone which hung on the wall. Most of the residents excused themselves as well and wandered off to attend to their personal business for the day. When Eppie returned to the table only Father Andrew, the Applebaums, and Shelley and her baby remained.
"Still no answer?" asked Mrs. Applebaum.
"No," said Eppie dejectedly. She looked at the others in despair. "I don't know what to do."
"Eppie, I don't mean to pry," said Father Andrew, "but I'd like to ask you a question. Are your roommates involved in any way with the protests going on down at the health clinic?"
Eppie looked at the priest in wide-eyed surprise. Wishing to avoid any uncomfortable discussions, she had purposely said nothing about Rachel and Allison's organizational activities to anyone at the mission. After a moment Eppie caught herself, and she tried to conceal her shock at the priest's question.
"Yes," she said timidly. Andrew nodded his head knowingly and reached into his overcoat. From an inside pocket he removed a folded newspaper.
"I think I have an idea as to where your roommates may be," he said, as he unfolded the paper and laid it out on the table. "There's a story here on the front page that says there was an altercation between the police and some demonstrators at the clinic yesterday. It says that they arrested several people, and one person was hospitalized. Here, you can read it for yourself." Andrew slid the paper over to Eppie.
Eppie held her head in her hands as she read the story. Although none of the protesters were identified by name, she became more convinced with every sentence that Andrew's suspicions were correct. The arrestees consisted of nineteen women and five men. All were charged with assault on a police officer and obstruction of official government business. One male was also charged with aggravated assault and battery. All of those arrested were believed to be affiliated with the organization known as Freedom For Women, a local pro-abortion rights group.
Eppie thought back to the meeting which Allison and Rachel had hosted at the apartment the prior week. It all seemed clear now; something must have gone wrong with their plans. She felt relieved to have found a plausible explanation for her roommates' disappearance, but her relief was overwhelmed for the moment by her embarrassment. She felt the eyes of the others upon her as she finished reading the story. What must they think of her now? she thought, living with troublemakers like these who broke the law and fought with police officers and agitated the public, all in an effort to advance the most unchristian ideas. Father Andrew and the Applebaums and all the others at the mission had been so kind to her in her time of need, and now she felt that she had betrayed their kindness.
She even felt ashamed in front of Shelley, who now seemed, in contrast to herself, a model of uncorrupted honesty. She should have mentioned something about Rachel and Allison and their doings last night, she told herself, then she would not have felt so guilty about her situation now.
Eppie looked up meekly from the paper and was about to offer some words of explanation when Jonathan fussed again and started crying loudly.
"I think he's hungry," said Shelley. "I haven't fed him in a couple of hours. Is there someplace I can go to be alone with him for a little while?"
"Of course, dear," said Mrs. Applebaum. "You can use our bedroom upstairs. I'll show you where it is. We'll make some arrangements to get you a place to sleep tonight. All of our beds are taken right now, but we'll figure something out. If worse comes to worse, we have a cot in the basement that George can sleep on. You and Jonathan can share the master bedroom with me until one of the other beds becomes available."
"Oh, please," said Shelley, cradling her baby in both arms and following Mrs. Applebaum out of the kitchen. "I don't want to be so much trouble."
"Oh, hush now," Mrs. Applebaum scolded her politely. "Don't you mention a thing about it. That's what we're here for. And don't worry if Jonathan cries during the night. It can't possibly be any worse than George's snoring. I'll sleep fine no matter what that child dishes out." She giggled aloud at herself as she led Shelley up the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.
Mr. Applebaum shook his head at the table and smiled. "She says that now," he said in self-defense to Andrew and Eppie, "but you just wait until three o'clock in the morning when that baby wants to be fed again. I tell you, I'll be glad to be sleeping on a cot in the basement when that happens."
Mr. Applebaum and Father Andrew chuckled together at the thought, and Eppie grinned shyly. After a few moments passed in silence, Andrew turned to Eppie.
"So, Eppie, do you think that your roommates might have gotten held up by this," he said, gesturing toward the newspaper.
It was a courteous choice of words, and Eppie was grateful for the priest's tactfulness.
"I think so," she said. "I guess I should go check into it."
"Why don't I call over to the police station for you," said Andrew, "and ask about your roommates. I know most of the officers on the force. I don't think they would mind telling me if your friends are there."
"Thank you, Father," said Eppie with relief. "I really do appreciate it. But could you do me another favor first?"
"Certainly," said Andrew. "What is it?"
"Could you call the hospital and ask them if one of my roommates was admitted yesterday? The paper said a woman was injured."
"Of course," said the priest as he pushed back his chair and walked over to the phone. "If we find them, I'm sure George could give us a ride over to the hospital or the police station so that you can talk to them, can't you George?"
"No problem at all," said Mr. Applebaum. "I've got nothing else going on today. That's why I'm always the last one to leave the breakfast table."
He smiled at Eppie and gave her a wink as he finished the last of his coffee.
* * *
"The bars are not working, Jeffrey," said the Mayor. "I found Louise out on the front steps around three o'clock this morning. She managed to get out of her bed somehow. She must have climbed over the bars. It's a good thing I heard the front door being opened, otherwise she might have sat out there in the rain for hours."
The doctor sat across the dining room table from the Mayor and listened intently.
"Anyway," the Mayor continued, "we need to come up with some other way to keep her in bed at night. The bars alone are not enough."
The doctor stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Well," he said, "the next thing to do would be to use a harness."
"A harness?" the Mayor asked.
"Yes," the doctor said. "It's a vest made of nylon that the patient wears around her chest, over her nightgown. It zippers in the back rather than the front, so the patient can't remove it on her own. It has straps in the back that you tie to the bedframe; that way the patient can't leave the bed. It's commonly used with patients suffering from dementia, precisely to prevent them from wandering at night."
"It sounds like some kind of straightjacket," said the Mayor.
"Not really," said the doctor. "The patient has a rather free range of motion while she's in the bed itself. Your wife will be able to move her arms around without restraint, and the straps are long enough to allow her to roll over in just about any way she desires. She could even sit up in bed if she wanted to. She would only be restricted from getting out of the bed entirely. At that point the straps would hold her back."
The Mayor thought about the doctor's description of the device. The idea did not appeal to him. "Aren't there any other methods that we could use?" he asked.
"You could use the sleeping pills which I've already prescribed for her. They would keep her sedated through the night. I know you don't like to use them, though, and for this purpose I would have to agree with you. I think it would be excessive to sedate her just to keep her in bed at night. The only other alternative would be to have somebody sit up with her while she sleeps. That seems a bit excessive to me as well, but it's an option if you really don't want to use the harness."
"What about moving her back into the master bedroom with me?" asked the Mayor.
"We've been over that before, Calvin," said the doctor. "I know it's difficult, especially after so many years of marriage, but Louise has to get used to sleeping in a bed of her own now. Eventually she is going to reach a point where she will not recognize even you. When that time comes she is going to need a familiar place of her own where she can go to rest. If she was to wake up and see some strange man lying in bed beside her, there's no telling how she might react. And if we wait that long to get her adjusted to sleeping in her own room, then it will be all the more difficult to make the change at that time. Believe me, it's better to make the change now while she's still lucid some of the time."
The Mayor sighed with resignation, but he maintained a resolute air. He trusted his doctor's opinion—the man had been their family physician for over thirty years—and he would abide by his recommendations. He would do whatever was best for his wife, regardless of his personal preferences. She was all that really mattered.
"Where can I get one of these harnesses?" he finally asked.
"I can order one for you," the doctor said. "If I place the order today it should arrive by Tuesday. If you want one sooner than that you may be able to borrow one from a nursing home. They use them all the time for some of their patients."
The Mayor thought for a moment. "I'll call my housekeeper," he said, "and have her pick one up from the nursing home where her sister works on her way over here this afternoon. No sense in putting it off. I don't want to find Louise sitting out on the front steps in the middle of the night again."
* * *
To Eppie it was perhaps the barest room she had ever seen. She sat at a rectangular wooden table on one of six plastic chairs. There was no other furniture in the room. Recessed into the middle of the ceiling was a long, unshaded rack of florescent lighting tubes which buzzed monotonously as they threw down a harsh glare. The blank walls stood watch over her, standing back from the edges of the table just far enough to allow a person to circle the room, provided that the chairs were pushed in all the way under the table. Eppie was not claustrophobic by nature, but this room had a suffocating effect on her.
In the far corner of the room, a heavy wooden door with a thick, narrow window cut into it marked the only entrance to the room. The door was closed, as it almost always was—moved into that position mechanically by a spring-loaded gray steel contraption that was bolted to the top of the door, an elbowed arm reaching out to grab the doorframe and pull the door to it. Eppie thought it strangely ominous to see such a device on a door which led to an interior room such as this. Like the self-closing door to a public restroom or the kitchen area of a restaurant, it suggested that the happenings which occurred in this room were not to be observed by passersby.
Eppie sat at the table and waited patiently for Rachel and Allison to be escorted in. She wondered how they would look when they entered. Would they stroll in casually, wearing their regular clothes and smiling, appearing undaunted by their arrests? Or would they be clad in bright orange jumpsuits, shackled at the wrists and ankles, their heads bowed and their spirits broken? She did not know what to expect; she had never been inside a jailhouse before. All she knew of such places was what she had seen on various police dramas on television. They were, she thought, staring up at the walls, a pale representation at best.
She sat in silence and listened for the sound of her roommates' voices or the tread of approaching footsteps, but she could hear nothing. The heavy door and the thick concrete walls which surrounded her blocked out the sounds of whatever activity might be going on in other parts of the building. For all she knew, the entire police station might be occupied with all sorts of noisy happenings at that very moment, or it might be everywhere as dead and empty as this room was. She had no way of knowing. All she knew was that this one room, cut off and insulated from the rest of the building, seemed an entirely hollow and lifeless place.
After a few minutes had passed in such muted isolation, Eppie saw a shadow pass across the glass of the door's narrow window. The door swung open and a uniformed guard entered the room, followed immediately by Rachel and Allison.
"You've got fifteen minutes," the guard announced brusquely to all three of them. He stepped back out of the room without waiting for a reply.
The women's appearance seemed quite normal to Eppie. They wore their own clothes and they were unmanacled. They seemed at first glance to be in good spirits, although Rachel appeared to be rather emotional. Eppie stood up to greet them.
"Oh, Eppie," said Rachel as she came forward and threw her arms around her. "I'm so glad to see you. Allison and I were so worried about you last night." Rachel hugged her tightly, smothering her in an embrace, the strength of which took Eppie by surprise. Allison hugged her as well, but with considerably more restraint. The three of them sat down at the table. Rachel's eyes were puffy and she looked like she hadn't slept very well.
"Where did you go last night?" Rachel asked her. "We had the police send a car over to the apartment three times looking for you."
"Well," said Eppie, "I waited outside in the yard until it got dark. When you guys didn't show up I didn't know what to think. I figured I would walk over to my friend Mary Beth's house to wait for you. But on my way over there it started to rain pretty hard, so I ducked into the first dry place I could find, which happened to be the doorway of the church down on Thirteenth Street. I was standing there for about twenty minutes or so, waiting for the rain to let up.
"Then the priest came out of the church and saw me standing there. He asked me if I was all right, so I told him about my situation. He told me that I could wait at the women's mission over on the next block until you guys came home. I figured I didn't have any better alternatives at that point, so I took him up on the idea. I called the apartment and left a message for you there, but I never heard back from you. So I wound up spending the night at the mission."
Eppie looked at the two women and shrugged, as if to indicate that that was the best she could manage to do under the circumstances. Rachel and Allison looked at each other with guilt-stricken faces.
"Eppie, we are so sorry," said Rachel. "I can't tell you how bad we feel about this."
"How did you find out where we were?" asked Allison.
"Father Andrew found you for me," said Eppie. "He showed me the story in this morning's paper about what happened at the clinic yesterday. It talked about this big fight between the police and some protesters. The story didn't mention you guys by name, but Father Andrew and I both kind of figured it must have been you. I mean, why else would both of you just disappear like that?"
Rachel and Allison looked at the table in a dispirited silence. They seemed incapable of formulating a response.
"So, anyway," Eppie continued, "once we figured out where you were, Father Andrew and Mr. Applebaum gave me a ride over here. And so here I am."
Rachel saw Eppie shrug her shoulders again in that completely innocent, nonjudgmental way she had about her, and the gesture made Rachel feel all the more disappointed in herself. At that moment Eppie seemed to her the most resilient person she had ever known. No matter what misfortune might befall her, Rachel thought, this young girl seemed incapable of succumbing to her victimhood. She held no one else responsible for her hardships, and she carried no outward grievance against anyone who abandoned or mistreated her, whether they could explain their actions or not. If Eppie had complained or pouted at the way she had been forgotten, Rachel would not have been able to blame her. But Eppie did not do so. She remained in many ways as forgiving a person as ever a human being could be, despite the myriad and unjust ways in which the world too often wronged her. Rachel was amazed.
She took one of Eppie's hands in hers and looked directly into her eyes. "We're never going to put you through that again, Eppie. I promise you that. Allison and I talked to the duty officer out front. He'll give you one of our keys to the apartment when you leave here. It's yours to keep. You can use it to let yourself into the apartment any time you like, day or night. We'll have another key made for ourselves when we get out of here. Okay?"
"Sure," said Eppie, nodding her head. "That sounds good. When are you going to be released?"
"Not until Monday," said Allison in a disgusted tone. "We have to appear at an arraignment first, and apparently judges don't work on weekends around here."
"We'll be fine, Eppie," said Rachel. "Don't worry about us. Help yourself to whatever is in the refrigerator and the pantry. If anybody calls for us, just take a message, all right? Don't tell anybody where we are unless it's a real emergency. Just tell them that we'll get back to them in a couple of days."
Again Eppie nodded her head. She could take care of things until the women were released.
The door clicked open, and the same guard who had escorted Rachel and Allison into the room stood in the doorway once again. "Time's up, ladies," he announced. "Let's go."
The women stood up unenthusiastically and moved toward the door, which the guard held open for them. Rachel looked back over her shoulder at Eppie and tried to smile, but failed in the attempt. "Bye, Eppie," she said as she followed Allison out of the room. "Take care of yourself. We'll see you in a couple of days."