It’s amazing what a new dress did for my spirits. A flouncy floral with a scoop neck and flattering cut, it made me feel ten years younger. Tea-length it’s called, an anachronistic label, but as I strode through town kicking a flurry of melon-orange ruffle, I could almost picture myself a guest at the colonial mansion where I give tours.
I felt like a million bucks and then some, especially as I got the dress half-priced at a store where I generally can’t afford to shop. Granted, my price threshold is lower than my income dictates or my affluent town generally offers, but sixty years are not enough to negate the austerity of my raising.
It was my third day as docent, and I was just starting to feel comfortable enough to indulge a fantasy of sharing tea with the mistress. We could chat over our needlework. Perhaps she’d pour from her Qing Dynasty pot. Wouldn’t that be something, the great-granddaughters of nobility and penniless immigrants united in the sisterhood of motherhood? And why not? I hope that’s what America is about.
I turned a corner and saw a woman up ahead perched on a low brick wall. She wore jeans, a blouse that was little too warm for the weather, and blindingly white sneakers. New shoes, so often a pain. Poor thing. Drawing closer, I saw that she was not so much resting as wrestling with a dilemma. I nodded hello, and she gathered herself to speak.
“I’m sorry to ask,” she began, “truly ashamed . . . “
I knew, of course, what was coming, but I waited for her to finish. Her rush of words told me she needed a sounding board as much as a handout. A woman on the streets, an older one at that, is one of God’s most vulnerable creatures. That’s why I volunteer at a shelter.
“I used to be homeless, but not anymore,” she declared. Emphasis on used to. Urgency in anymore. Anguish in some muttered words about poor choices as she spilled her request. “I have a place to stay now, but I’m twenty-nine dollars short on my rent.”
I recall my student days living nickel to dime, trusting in providence. It is a dismal feeling.
I opened my thrift-shop wallet to find a twenty and three singles, silently cursed the contents, and gave her the three bucks with some encouraging words.
A week later, I’m still second-guessing myself. Will I ever be ready for the responsibility that comes with privilege?