lost and found

i was walking down seventh aveune, fresh from resupplying max's pain drugs, threading my way through clumps of high school students spilling out of one school, middle school kids a few blocks down, then finally some wild-haired children of a variety of ages flowing out of an experimental school. i was thinking about a boy who had yelled at me today, screamed really, in front of a whole bunch of people right in the main office. his yelling (and mine, at some point) brought the whole administration out of a closed door meeting and brought a bystander student running after the child who was at that point screaming about smashing my face in. the security guard sat at his station doing nothing. the screaming child himself was no threat, being maybe four feet tall and seventy or so pounds, but still i was grateful for the student, somewhere close to six feet of him, who rounded the corner after that little gnat and grabbed him. so i was thinking how i wanted to put that in a blog entry when i heard behind me a sound like a calf. a scared calf, bellowing. i turned around and saw a boy, maybe eighth grade, walking behind me, crying. it was that tearless sort of crying some children do, moaning a bit and wailing, that's looser than the sound of a baby crying and far more disturbing. the boy was full grown, dumpy, not a pretty child at all and his wailing made him even less so. he continued so after two blocks i turned and asked him if he needed help. he stared straight ahead, not even registering my existence, and continued his cow sounds. we came up to the corner just before the train and an elderly woman was looking our way, puzzled. she reached out a hand and i just assumed she belonged with the weeping boy but her hand rested on my arm.

she was lost. she said the number of her house and the street name and wanted to know if i could see it from where we were. i couldn't. she said thanks and began asking everyone who walked by. nobody stopped. i asked her which cross street. eighth or sixth? she did not know, but again repeated the house number. we walked up the street far enough to find that we were going the wrong way and turned around. we crossed the street and she blessed me. she told god to bless me and mary and jesus. she told me she could never tell her son this, that he wouldn't believe it. she told me her eyes were fine when she left this morning but something happened. i looked at her eyes a bit. they were coated with something white, sticky. maybe allergies or an eye infection. but what i really noticed was how beautiful she was. is. she's the sort of woman you can look at at 80 and tell she must have been nearly unbearably beautiful in her younger years. if i can look like her at 45 i will be grateful. beautiful. she wore a sheath dress, knit and a sort of cream color, with thick wool socks and boots for today's rain. she had a long black puffy coat and even with all that michelin man stuffing she looked sleek and elegant.

so we walked down her street, with her alternately calling on everyone in heaven to get off their butts and bless me and then worrying that this had never happened to her before. we had to stop after two blocks because her eyes were too messy to see out of. i offered her a tissue and was met with a new set of instructions for god and friends to watch and keep me. she told me god sent me to her. she told me again that her son would never believe her and that she would call her doctor in the morning. she continued to talk to god and to me. each house we'd pass, she'd look up. "is that it?" she'd ask and i'd tell her the number and say, "not yet, but we're getting close." "i know," she'd say after each house. "i'm following you. you'll find it."

when we got to her number i realized i'd walked past it countless times. an old four story brownstone split up into floor-through apartments, with the heavy iron railing of the front fence painted the colors of africa. she put her hand on the gate. "we're here," i said. "we made it." and she started to cry. she put out an arm and pulled me to her, hugged me. she smelled like urine, but not the way homeless folks do or even the way nursing home residents do. she smelled like she had been afraid earlier in the day and had an accident she hadn't yet noticed. like a small child. she was crying so hard she couldn't talk for a bit. finally she asked my name. i told her and asked hers. it's a pretty name, hers. she said it over and over, asked me to remember it. she dropped her bag when she hugged me and i picked it up for her, a big plastic bag full of plenty of things but on the top burgundy shoes, the clunky square high heels old ladies won't give up wearing. that's just like her, i found myself thinking. wanting to wear pretty shoes like that but being smart enough to have her boots for the rain.

i walked her up the wide steps to the massive front door. she had a set of keys in her hand, four of them. she tried the first one, one that looked like an outer apartment key, the one i would have tried first. it didn't work and she was overwhelmed. "i just can't see," she whispered, almost entirely to herself. i told her i'd try and the second key fit. the lock turned and the great door opened. she wanted me to come inside for tea. the part of me that wanted to was smacked on the back of the head by the part of me that lives in new york city. i told her i had to get home. she was still crying and i was holding onto her, promising her things would be fine. i told her to make a nice cup of tea and rest a bit. i imagine her sitting in a room with an old but incredibly neat overstuffed sofa. i know there are quilts everywhere. the television set she has is one her son brought over, an old one of his, color, with a remote she can't figure out. there are plants in every window. her bed is made. i know this because we walked three blocks together and she held onto me. next time i walk past, she said, i should stop and ask for her. she would be home and would love to see me again.

i told her thank you. i told her i was glad i met her, that i'd been in a bad mood and was feeling sorry for myself and then i got to spend some time with her and didn't want to feel that way anymore. she started to cry again. i wanted to cry too, but i didn't. not sad crying. not at all. that kind of crying where it feels like everything ugly washes off and leaves just what is supposed to be there.