Feast of the Maid

He was feeling low that day, with all the regrets and bad decisions and missed opportunities of a lifetime revolving before him like a carousel, pulling him into that silent despondent cave where he sometimes found himself, with warmth and light and hope far outside, seemingly unreachable. Those moments felt like eternity, and eternity troubled him.

The phone rang and he answered it, providing the lengthy greeting that was by now so natural for him to recite, the greeting ending with “How may I help you today?”

The voice was female, faint, and warbly.  “I need some help.”

“I’d be glad to help you, ma’am. Is there something in particular I can help you with?”

“I don’t want to live anymore.”

And that set off the alarms in his head, and the alarms drowned out the long-ago training about how to handle such a situation. He heard himself stammering a response to the caller, promising that he’d do all he could to help her, and asking her to tell him more about why she felt this way. At the same time, he began texting his supervisor, explaining what was going on and asking for some assistance.  Within seconds, his supervisor texted back for more information. He stammered and ummed his way through more stalling conversation while texting the woman’s information to the supervisor, who replied in less than a minute and said the police were enroute to the woman’s home.

He continued talking with her, trying to keep her on the line, trying to put her at ease. And in the hour during which they spoke, he listened to the dreary report of a lonely and hidden life.

They’re going to evict me, and it’s all because of Charley. Charley’s my cat. He’s part Siamese, mostly white, not too big, and he’s the only friend I have in this world. The landlady is mean to me, and she won’t even discuss this with me. Said he pees all over the place and makes the place stink, and he’s got to go. But it’s not Charley. I’m the reason for the pee smell. I have a bad bladder, and I’ve had four strokes and I can’t control what happens with my body. I’ve fallen several times lately and laid for hours in my own pee one morning. This place is too small…it doesn’t even have a bedroom. Just a studio apartment with a kitchenette. I sleep in my recliner, and Charley sleeps with me. He’s good company — he keeps me warm. They want to take him from me and they don’t care. My landlady charges me $1050 a month for this place, and I have no friends. I have an upstairs neighbor who sometimes brings me my mail, but she mostly stays away because her husband yelled at her for helping me. She took me to church one time but her old man said she wasn’t a taxi service and not to waste gas on me. Charley, Mama doesn’t want to leave you. I don’t want you to leave me, either. Charley’s a good cat. He’s like my child. He doesn’t hurt anybody, never makes a mess. And he does not pee in the house. It’s my fault. I can’t take care of myself like I used to. I’m 78 years old and my husband died two years ago of the leukemia. Lord, how that man suffered. And my oldest daughter died ten years ago. My youngest, her name is Angie, she won’t have anything to do with me anymore.  She went wild on me when she was young, and she blames me for everything she ever did, and she said she didn’t care if she never saw me again. Lord, what’ll I do if they do throw me out of here? My car don’t run anymore, and I don’t know anyone who would help me move even if it did. What will I do with Charley? I don’t know anyone who would take him, and I can’t live without him. He’s my baby. He’s my life. He loves me so much. He’s sitting here looking at me now. He never leaves my side. My landlady makes fun of me, says my apartment smells like a garbage can and an outhouse all rolled in one. Charley is sitting here with me. Did you hear him? He’s part Siamese and he likes to talk to me a lot. He never causes any trouble. If I have to give him up, I’d just as soon go ahead and die, because I have nothing to live for. No one cares about me anyway, and I’d just as soon die. If I can’t get any help with keeping Charley, I’ll just do something about it…

He talked to her, reminding her that at least one person in this world does care for her, and that she was talking to that person right now. He got her to talking about her childhood, and about how she and her husband met while he was in the Navy during the Vietnam War, and how happy they’d been, and how they didn’t get to enjoy his retirement because of his leukemia, and how she’d lost everything after he died because she couldn’t keep up with the bills and the legal papers, and she’d had to move into her current apartment. He kept talking to her until he heard her say, “Yes, who is it?” and she put down the phone and answered her door. She returned to the phone and said, “The ambulance people and a policewoman are here. I guess I need to go talk to them now. Thank you for talking to me, sir.”

He reminded her that she is here in this life for a reason, and he told her that he loved her.

“I love you, too, sir. And Charley loves you.”

He took a break and went into the other room, and he looked around and thought Charley loves me. He glanced up at a dusty and neglected shelf where some small books and pictures sit hidden in the shadows. He looked at one of the pictures, a small drawing of a young woman.

Was that you? he whispered.

~ S.K. Orr