denial

 

            It was Monday morning, and the open can of Campbell’s in her left hand read Creamy Potato and Garlic in lighthearted lettering. With her free hand, scraped and scabbed as it was, Sheila used a toothpick in lieu of a utensil. By the dozens people passed her by, entering and exiting Sacred Heart, hungry and hopeful for something—anything—to help them survive another day. Eating the cold chowder, thick as a shake, Sheila mumbled unintelligibly between each oily bite.

When I approached her that morning, Sheila had eaten about a third of her chowder, and now it was becoming difficult for her to reach the remaining contents with her paltry piece of wood. She pressed her knuckles against the rim of the can, holding the thing at an angle while trying to skewer the congealed lumps of starch. She seemed determined to use the bit of timber as a spoon or ladle, and it was painful to watch her frustration mount with every failed attempt. The roosters kept behind the house that adjoins our parking lot were crowing emphatically—it was unnerving.

Sheila’s face was furrowed with the telltale trenching of one who has been on the streets for far longer than the stint of a temporary setback. Her hair was a tangled nest, her skin dry and brittle. She spoke in rapid bursts of anguished nonsense while her eyes rattled around in their sockets looking everywhere but at the person she might be addressing.

“Can you call fluoride?” she said quickly, suddenly somehow lunging her arm and leg at me without warning. I had no idea what she meant.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, squinting at her mouth to assist in my comprehension.

“Can you call for a ride?”

“Oh,” I said. “You need a ride?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she retorted, without a hint of eye contact or exasperation.

“OK. Got it. Sure.”

I took out my cell phone, and Sheila removed her foot from her shoe. Peeling away her stocking, she showed me a foot that was desperately malformed. The toes were shriveled and fused, and the foot itself bent sharply at a right angle. It looked partially crushed. I shuddered and nodded at it.

“See,” she said softly, speaking it seemed both to me and to herself. “This is what they did to me.”

I called the number she recited and spoke briefly with someone by the name of Abraham (although I have reason to believe that this was not his real name). The conversation went absolutely nowhere. I explained that I didn't know Sheila, and although Abraham gave no indication that it was peculiar for me to be placing the call, the exchange ended unresolved with Sheila picking up her pile of odds and ends and traipsing across our lot and up the street.

As she disappeared from view, the rooster crowed again.