The city was very hot the day Belinda arrived. . It was three O’clock in the afternoon Thursday. She had spoken to the older woman on the phone and was told she would try her out if Belinda could get there by Friday.  She checked into a seedy hotel across from the bus station, used a payphone and arranged to meet Mrs. Granger at nine O’clock the next morning.

The job would be perfect if it was real.

That was ten days ago. Belinda had settled into her studio in the basement of the apartment building across the street from a park.  It was furnished with a twin bed that had bolsters so it looked like a couch, no it didn’t, it looked like a twin bed trying to look like a couch—but failing in the attempt.

On the table next to the bed was a small lamp, a flashlight and a radio. In another spot there was a hotplate, microwave, toaster, sink, and a tiny refrigerator that even had a smaller freezer; there was also a café table and chair, but Belinda had never heard that term. She just thought of it as an ugly little black metal table and chair. There was a bath area that managed to squeeze a shower and toilet into it, and against the wall near the bath, a tiny chest of drawers and a very small closet with one shelf. The desk had a gooseneck lamp and little slots to put rent receipts and envelopes, that sort of thing plus a red pencil, a black ink pen and a ledger where she was to put check marks and dates when they paid and a small safe bolted to the floor for envelopes as they came in.There was a rocking chair with a little footstool and reading lamp; actually it was a pretty cramped space—Belinda thought of it as homey. Tacked on the wall were various phone numbers, plumber, electrician, and police, any and all the things she would need to know; she would have to use the payphone outside her door.

 Her window was at street level. It was a rainy day; Belinda sat and watched people’s feet as they splashed by. She found it comforting.

Outside her door was a sign. MANAGER and under it, hours 8AM-6PM Mon, Tues, Thurs, Fri. and Sat. except for emergencies.

She was grateful she had time to let her physical wounds heal before she climbed on the bus to her new life. The shelter had assured her that as long as she severed all contact with the people from her past, no one would find her. Where she came from, a small defunct mining town in the hills; gone meant gone. There were few modern ways to communicate.

Fortunately, the sheriff got wind of her plight when a neighbor boy came to steal eggs and found her lying semi conscious in the red dirt outside her house. Dehydrated, beaten and raped, she had little awareness of what had happened or where she was. Piece by piece the puzzle came together with warm tea and toast and the comforting, prompting voice of the woman who ran the safe house for domestic violence.

Her common law husband, was found and put in jail for a time, long enough to get her out of town and settled in the new place.  Made to believe he had murdered her in his drunken rage, he was court ordered to not leave and put into a twelve step rehabilitation house. He thought he got away with murder because the woman he killed was a worthless piece of trash. He after many years of daily drinking; had become fairly delusionalIt was hard to think of herself as Belinda, a name she had chosen randomly when asked what she would like to call herself.  Belinda Stone. That was just the name that came to her at the time, and now who she was—and she had the papers to prove it. No kin, no children, well one baby who had passed in the first week of his life, they kept calling him Sid, she had named him John for her father, but they kept saying “Sids”.  John was how she thought of him when she did; grateful now he was also gone from that hell she had called her life.

The local one room school house went to sixth grade, she completed her grades, knew how to read, write, and do basic arithmetic; nobody even thought of her getting on a school bus to go three towns over to complete her schooling, not when she had a sick Grandpa to care for. Her mama had passed when she was eight years old, influenza; the same thing that had taken her grandma before she was even born. She was naive, backwoods, and unfortunately she was scared of everything in her new world. She had only one friend growing up, Miss Parson, the schoolteacher, she passed her love of reading onto the small girl who reminded her of herself as a child. Reading had been her only escape and helped make her a bit worldlier than her small town had. Same was true for Belinda; boy oh boy it was hard getting used to thinking of herself with that funny name, why didn’t she pick something easy like Mary? The shelter had given her a one way ticket far away from anyplace she had ever imagined herself to travel to—let alone live. The job was found from a list that was provided to safe houses from a national resource center. She had a sheet of phone numbers with resources for battered women. Groups that met and helped rehabilitate women back into society. The nice lady at the shelter said it was no different than someone returning from war. She said something like she had, what was it? PTA, some set of letters that started with a P.

Belinda was given two days a week off. She was paid four hundred dollars a month plus her rent, heat and hot water were included (just not electric or phone). She opened her first account with the utility company. When they asked her for a deposit she broke down crying. They told her not to worry and gave her a special account for low income clients and handed her a pamphlet with a list of other services for low income people. She was told to apply for food stamps and medical health at the county office. Belinda thanked them and left the office with a pile of papers that told her how to save water, preserve jams and jelly and freeze vegetables. She thought about her freezer and cooking area and snickered to herself.

One place on her list of help was a church nearby that gave out surplus food products and fortunately noon till two every other Wednesday was when they did this. A city map that she had purchased at a newsstand near the park directed her to the church that was just five blocks from her living space. It was eleven O’clock when she arrived at the church and there was already a long line. It never occurred to Belinda that she might need a cart or shopping bag to hold this food, yet everyone there had some way of transporting the goods.

Belinda felt foolish, and turned away with tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.  She was overwhelmed and exhausted from the heat and the emotional energy it was taking just to leave her tiny room. Someone tapped her on the shoulder; it was an elderly woman with a tissue and an extra bag for Belinda. She spoke softly and kindly to her saying we all have to begin somewhere. She explained how the food system worked and how much or little she could take depending on her cooking and storage area and the amount of people in her household. She asked her if it was just for her and how big her cooking area was then instructed her to say one person, studio apartment. Grace, the elderly woman, made Belinda feel like she had just met an angel.

The two women chatted about everything from the weather to how they liked to prepare tuna fish. It made the time in line go quickly. Afterwards, Grace invited Belinda to her apartment for some iced tea; it was two streets toward her house so Belinda agreed to go.

They approached a huge building with a tall chain link fence around it. The sign on the gate read Community Senior Housing. There was a panel with about fifty buttons and apartment numbers next to the button. Grace said “if you ever want to come over, just press 302, that’s me”. She took out a large key and opened the gate. They went through a cement courtyard with benches the ones facing each other had a table between them, Belinda guessed they ate lunch or something; the idea of playing games was foreign to her. Other benches were in rows facing the street on either side of the building. No trees, bushes or flowers, no dirt, nothing but smooth concrete, everything looked very institutional, but Belinda had no awareness of what that would even mean.

Grace’s apartment had two rooms plus a bathroom. Her kitchen looked like it was a real kitchen but all the small appliances were stuck together along one wall. She had a sofa, a chair, a television set that made Belinda’s eyes grow wide. No one owned a television where she came from, well one that worked anyway. She had a neighbor as a child, who tore one apart and used the “wood” to make a guitar; that always impressed Belinda and to hear him make music with it made her heart happy.

Grace mentioned she belonged to a church and maybe Belinda would like to go one Sunday, she said even if she wasn’t religious, the choir was worth sitting through the sermon for. It sounded really wonderful, well the music part anyway. The only church she had been to was a midnight service on Easter Sunday, that was before her mama died, so she was really young; the memory lingered as a piece of something she couldn’t quite see, just fuzzy outlines of long ago. Grace had to ask her twice if she wanted milk in her tea; Belinda was miles away in thought.

Grace recognized trauma and PTSD when she saw it. As a recently retired aide in a county funded psych ward she recognized a lot of things. She also had the good sense to not pry into anyone else’s business.

Grace didn’t have a lot of books; she had a bible, the Sunday comics and magazine section that she always picked up in the trash room and a woman’s magazine Belinda had seen on the rack at the corner store. She asked politely if she could look at the magazine and Grace insisted she take it home saying how she was finished reading it and it was going out with the day’s trash at six PM, her usual clean up time of the day. Belinda looked up at the clock and saw how late it was getting. She didn’t really know how or what to say, she had never been a guest at anyone’s house before. Grace sensed her insecurity and said she guessed it was time for her nap and how she would love to meet with Belinda on Sunday for church. She handed Belinda a piece of paper with her phone number, Belinda looked at her feet and said she just used a payphone, Grace patted her on the back saying “well, now you have someone to call” and laughed taking the shame away as quickly as it had come up. Yes, Belinda had found her an angel alright; she just didn’t know how good her angel was going to be for her.

It was early evening when she got home. She put her new groceries away, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a long rectangle of “government cheese” at least that is what they called it back home, some packages of instant oatmeal, 2 boxes of milk, 2 boxes of juice, a box of crackers, a tin of assorted cookies six dented cans, two cans of soup, a can of corn, a can of green beans, a can of peaches and a can of tomato sauce. There was a small plastic bag of elbow macaroni and a box of corn flakes. Belinda felt so good she almost cried, almost, tears were not a part of her allowable emotions just yet.

She inventoried her kitchen. She had a sauce pan with a lid, a plastic pitcher with a lid and a round hole for pouring, a small skillet and a little aluminum coffee pot. There was a drawer that held a can opener, two forks, spoons, knives, a small sharp knife and a spatula that looked like a toy. In another drawer were two plastic place mats that looked like fake lace, two pot holders and a large spoon for stirring, a peeler and a small grater. The cabinet above held  cardboard salt and pepper shakers,  two hard plastic cups and saucers, two plastic glasses, plates and small bowls. No two things were matched, but that was OK, Belinda wasn’t used to having much of anything, she felt pretty comfortable with what she had today.

She took two slices of her bread, opened her peanut butter and tried spreading it with a knife. The result was a hole in the bread and a glob of peanut butter. She wadded it up and nibbled at it while she wandered over to her rocking chair sat and opened her magazine.

Belinda looked up and out her window, shadows of night were falling, actually it was kind of dark already from her view. She stood up, pulled her window shade down, turned on the lamp and smiled like she had never smiled before. She was home at last.

End of Chapter 4