Welcome
to this month’s Charity Sunday.
I’ve
been thrilled at the great response from other bloggers who’ve
joined Charity Sunday over the past few months. It’s always
enjoyable for me to see what causes my colleagues choose to support.
I’ve noticed that many of you donate to local rather than national
or international charities. So today, I thought I’d focus my
Charity Sunday on a “local” charity, too: Rosie’s
Place.
Rosie’s
Place was born when its founder Kip Tiernan saw poor women disguising
themselves as men to get a meal at men-only shelters. Think about
that. Think about the danger, and the shame.
Rosie’s
provides free meals 365 days a year; a food pantry with
non-perishable items and fresh produce; showers, laundry and lockers;
overnight beds for up to 21 days; and providers who offer health and
wellness care. Rosie’s Place also offers job and life skills
training, and connects its guests with legal and financial
professionals who can help them navigate the complex maze of
government assistance programs.
I
could say more – but I urge you to go check out the organization's inspiring website. The bottom line? For every comment I receive on today’s
post, I’ll donate two dollars to Rosie’s.
I
have the perfect excerpt for you, too, from my lesbian tale The
First Stone, first published in
Cheyenne Blue’s anthology Forbidden Fruit: Stories of unwise lesbian desire
and now available as part of my own short story collection, Burn,Baby. This story takes place in
a women’s shelter in Boston, not all that dissimilar to Rosie’s,
and explores the unlikely relationship between a recovering drug addict
and a nun.
“You're
kinda pretty, for a nun.”
The
voice was low and throaty, laced with echoes of the ghetto. It
dragged me away from the columns of figures marching down the screen
in front of me, out of the well-ordered realm of accounting and into
the messiness of our inmates' lives. Our guests,
I corrected myself. Nobody was forced to stay at Serenity House.
“Um
— excuse me? Can I help you?”
My
interlocutor grinned at me. Her plump, mauve-painted lips framed
teeth that were a shocking white in her ebony face. She shook her
head. Cheap, brassy earrings dangled from her fleshy lobes, swinging
back and forth over her bare shoulders.
“Just
wanted to say hi. Oh, an' to ask if I can stay out past curfew
tonight. Heard you were in charge.” She extended a hand tipped with
hot pink fingernails. “I'm Magnolia. Me and Moonbeam just got here
yesterday.”
November
in Boston, two weeks before Thanksgiving, but Magnolia's skin felt
August-hot. The woman's breasts almost overflowed the sequined tube
top that constrained them. Below, she wore baggy sweatpants with a
Celtics logo that didn't hide her more than ample curves. Her feet
were crammed into open-toed high heels of scuffed gold-toned plastic.
She towered over me. I felt pretty sure that would be true even if I
were standing.
“Moonbeam?”
Confronted by this apparition, I couldn't seem to manage more than a
couple of words.
“My
kid.” Magnolia indicated a diminutive toddler with kinky pigtails,
sprawled on the floor of the common room, surrounded by alphabet
blocks. Hard to believe that delicate child was the offspring of this
Amazon.
“Ah
— um — well, you're very welcome here, Magnolia. We're glad to
have you with us.” I struggled for the warm yet professional manner
I'd learned to adopt with our guests. Rising from my chair, I gave
her hand a firm squeeze before relinquishing it. My skin tingled in
the aftermath. I'd been right; she stood half a head taller than my
five feet six inches, and probably weighed nearly twice what I did.
“Have a seat, please. I'm Sister Kathleen Patrick, the assistant
director. But I guess you know that.”
She
settled her bottom into the chair I'd indicated. “Yeah, the other
gals told me. Pleased to meet you, Sister.” Her plucked eyebrows
knotted into a frown. “That what I should call you? I ain't had
much experience with nuns.”
Her
obvious concern made me chuckle. “'Sister' would be fine. Or you
can just call me Kathleen. We don't stand on ceremony here at
Serenity House.”
“Not
like at Baystate Rehab. You forget to call one of the nurses 'Miz' or
'Mister', you lose privs for twenty-four hours.” She swiped the
back of her hand across her brown forehead, which was beaded with
sweat. The woman must have a furnace inside.
There
was something lush and tropical about Magnolia. Her name fit her. She
seemed totally out of place in this shabby office lit by the
unrelenting gray of the late autumn sky. I could imagine her wrapped
in a rainbow-hued sarong, dancing barefoot on a beach beneath swaying
palms. Or swimming naked through the waves under a golden moon...
I
hauled my thoughts back to the present. “Is that where you've just
come from?” Not all our guests had substance abuse problems, but it
was pretty common.
“Escaped
is more like it.” She giggled. “This place's like heaven after
Bayhab. Six fucking weeks — oh, sorry, Sister — I mean, six long
weeks in that hellhole! Away from my baby, too. 'Course, I deserved
it. All the junk I pumped into my veins, not thinkin' about who'd
care for her if something happened to me. Then the OD — I really
fucked up. Oh, I'm sorry, Sister!”
“Never
mind. So you've made yourself comfortable, then? You're happy with
your room?"
Yesterday
had been my day off. Rachel must have done the intake. I reminded
myself to check Magnolia's file after she'd left the office.
“It's
great. I'm sharing with Lou-Ellen and her little boy. He's only a
couple months older than Moonbeam. Food's good, too.” She flashed
me another grin and glanced down at her generous body. “Not that I
need it!”
Her
laughter kindled mine. Our eyes met. Hers were espresso-brown,
practically black, fringed with mascara-augmented lashes. They
snagged me like magnets.
Something
jolted
through
me
— a
lightning
strike,
a
sudden
storm,
some
personal
earthquake.
The
floor
dropped
out
from
under
my
chair
and
I
found
myself
suspended
in
space.
My
breath
caught
in
my
throat
and
perspiration
soaked
the
armpits
of
my
gray
wool
sweater.
I'd
been
chilly
before
— we
tried
to
stretch
our
donor's
generosity
as
far
as
possible
— but
now
I
burned.
I
couldn't
tear
myself
away
from
her
gaze,
though
I
knew
I'd
been
staring
far
too
long.
****
Magnolia
could easily be one of Rosie’s guests.
Please
be sure to leave a comment. Every one helps women in need.
And
I hope you will visit the other bloggers joining today’s Charity
Sunday blog hop. You’ll find links to their posts below.
Thank
you!
