Margie

“There’s a woman trying to cross Main Avenue. The traffic is stopping for her – she doesn’t seem to be aware of the cars,” Lenny spoke to me as we were eating an early lunch at the Fryn’ Pan restaurant.

He had a good view of the very busy thoroughfare as he made the off-hand comment on the outside street surroundings.   

“Did she make it across? I asked. “Yes.”

It seemed like an odd occurrence to me, but I didn't give it another thought really until we were walking out of the restaurant. Standing by the window near the cashier’s desk, a tall ponytailed young woman was pulling off a hoodie and stashing it in a small black bag. I could just catch a glimpse of her face as she rearranged the items she carried. Tears fell from her face. She was clutching a big fuzzy blanket and her wide-striped tan and cream shorts showed off her long legs atop of tan ankle boots. Her shoulders rose and fell with quiet sobs.

I was going towards the door when Lenny said to me, “That’s the woman I saw trying to cross the street.” He stepped up to her, touched her shoulder and said,“Can I help you?” Her head bobbled a bit and she gurgled out some words. Lenny looked perplexed and he turned towards me. 

“I can’t understand a word!” he said. Lenny and I both stood a few seconds as she approached the cashier. After an exchange with him, she turned around again, shoulders drooping, her face still streaked with tears.

I stepped up to the counter and asked the cashier. “What does she want?”  “She wants to charge her phone and needs an outlet, but I told her that we don’t have any.

There was a momentary pause and then out the door she went. We followed. Our car was a short distance away and once again, I watched her hoisting her belongings, still looking forlorn and rather distraught. Lenny and I started getting in the car and we wondered what we were to do. “She could maybe use my phone cord, but it’s so very slow,” Lenny said.

“I’m going to talk with her,” I said. Walking over to where she’d paused on the sidewalk, I too touched her shoulder and said, “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Her face contorted and her shoulders shook, “My boyfriend threw a paint can at me and pushed me out of the car.”  More tears and sobs followed. “And I can’t use my phone because it needs charging.” I was struck by both her sorrow and her beauty. Her face was broad and tawny with full lips. 

“Oh! That’s terrible. I’m so sorry this happened to you. He shouldn’t have hit you.” She looked at me and then more sobs. “You didn’t deserve that.”  My words seemed to bring some steadiness to her body. I took hold of her shoulders. “Let me think how we can help you.”

Because of her need for a charger, I asked “Do you have any cash?” More sobs and a shaking of her head no.

I headed back to Lenny, “Her boyfriend threw a paint can at her and pushed her out of the car by the roundabout. Do you have $20 for a phone charger?” He pulled out a twenty from his billfold and I returned to her. “Here, take this $20 and then you’ll be able to buy a charger.” She put up her hand against the cash, “No.” She didn’t want to take it. But I insisted.

“Oh! I wish I knew of a place nearby where you could get one.” I scanned the neighborhood in my mind, but nothing came to me. 

Back at the car again, I wondered aloud “What is there to do?” Neither of us knew what to do.

Then the perfect answer came to mind.  Rape and Abuse Crisis Center. Of course! I had a history there as one of the founders. Picking up my phone I searched for a number, called and briefly described the situation: “We’re here - unexpectedly - with a young woman who was pushed out of a car by her boyfriend after he threw a paint can at her and it hit her.  Do you have someone available she can visit with?”

“Yes, but she might have to wait a bit.” 

“That’s okay,” I replied. “We’ll be over shortly.”

Because she was so unsteady on her feet, weaving a bit, I’d initially wondered if she had been drinking or was on drugs. But Lenny said, “After I learned her boyfriend had thrown a paint can at her, I looked for a ring around her mouth – I thought she could be a huffer herself. But there was nothing that said she was a druggie.”

All of this was new to me. A ring around her mouth? A huffer? 

Yes, when he’d heard that a paint can had been thrown, he thought of aerosol cans that people inhale to get high. I hadn’t a clue – here I’d been thinking of paint cans that you use to paint a room and then further wondered how something that could create beauty was instead being used as an instrument of violence.

Her unsteadiness wasn’t due to drink or drugs but to the trauma she’d just suffered.

In the meantime, the young woman had slowly plodded her way through a gas station area and across the street to a bank parking lot. She still appeared slightly unsteady with her shoulder slumped, her blanket kind of dragging.

Lord, let us get there before she’s out of reach or disappears.  

Pulling up to her, I stepped out, called to her and again took her by the shoulders. “I want to tell you again that I’m so sorry this has happened to you. You deserve a good man that will treat you right.” I think this  encouraged her. I smiled and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ve called the Rape and Abuse Crisis Center. I used to work there. They have somebody you can visit with. Is this okay? We can take you there.”

“Is it far?” She didn’t know if this was a good idea or not. “No, it’s just the other side of downtown. You just need a place where you can settle for a few minutes and gather yourself.” In a burst of good thinking I added: “They’ll likely have a charger for your phone.” 

She thought about that for a bit and then nodded. 

Alleluia! 

Back in the car we went. Lenny started the car and I said, “Okay, everybody buckle up.” I glanced back and saw her putting on her seat belt. Her face brightened and it was clear she was happy to be sitting down, safe and secure.

Driving to the Center, I turned and said, My name is Jean and this is Lenny. What’s your name? “Margie.” 

“Has he pushed you before?” I knew enough not to ask if he’d hit her before – oftentimes women are hesitant to say yes to that question, but a push doesn’t seem quite as awful. “Yes,”she replied. Then I asked how long she had lived here. “8 years,” she said. “And your boyfriend – how long have you been together?” I asked

“A year.”

“Do you have family nearby or somewhere?” At this her face crumpled and tears appeared. Apparently not. 

At the Center, I said, “I’ll come in with you” and we stepped out. Once again, she gathered her fuzzy blanket and shoulder pack. Stepping into the Center, I said, “Hi, I’m Jean and this is Margie. She’d like to be here for a bit, charge her phone and talk with someone.” I gave Margie a hug and said, “I’m glad I met you and I’ll remember you.”

Back in the car Lenny and I sat silent for a bit. “I hope she doesn’t come right out,” Lenny said. I turned to look at the door and said, “I don’t think she will.” When I glanced back at him, I was surprised to see that he’d bowed his head over the steering wheel and begun to pray for safety and care for Margie. 

“I guess we were supposed to be at the Fryn’ Pan today,” Lenny remarked. “I usually figure God’s involved in our daily lives.” 

~~~

In our women’s group the night before, Mary Ann posed the question: Why does this happen so much? She was talking about a report on native women disappearing, being assaulted or killed at 8 times the rate of white women. We talked about the why’s. The reasons why are myriad and complex and actually too, somewhat starkly simple, but the resulting tragedies are enormous in number and devastation.

Later it dawned on me – why does it happen? This is one way. 

I pictured Margie again – a striking young Native woman – as she stood in the bank parking lot. Clearly vulnerable. All it would take is a man with an urge to control or have power over another, being on the look-out for a woman to hurt, driving up, opening his door and either quietly coercing her to get in for supposed aid or simply demanding she get in. It could happen in less than a minute. And it does.