The light quickly turned red, and we came to a stop in the outside turning lane. Behind us, the sky darkened in a menacing black – I peered into the rearview mirror, fully aware of how the clouds gazed back into the car, glancing over the groceries and leftover Chipotle, both of which were stored in the backseat in neat, orderly stacks. Outside the security of the Explorer the wind gusted, bowing lithe palm trees under its force, and scattering beads of rain into opposite corners of the windshield. This weather was ghastly, ghastly and dark. It was good to be dry. It was comforting to be dry, warm, full, and listening to Frank Sinatra.
The cars surrounding us began to shift in anticipation. We eased off the brakes..
But we stopped. Abruptly.
The curb to our right was overrun with water. Excess rain filled the sewers, creating a small current where waves pushed off against the flooded concrete. A large puddle spread across four empty lanes from where I sat, swirling under the pressure of falling torrents.
But this was not what tore at my heart.
No, the rain did not surprise me. The sewers overflow often in heavy downpours. Weather this dreary marks the beginning of the summer months in Florida. No, this was ordinary. This was expected.
She was unexpected.
She, a woman, was drenched – her thin t-shirt clung to her form, capturing the movement of muscle as she strained to push the shopping cart in front of her. With one hand, she steered; with the other, she grasped a black umbrella which hung over the empty cart in front of her. Potholes in the concrete caused her a struggle. Suddenly, her umbrella buckled under the gale and fell, and, just as suddenly, a small, dark hand reached up from the cart, grabbing for one of the metal spokes which now protruded from the umbrella’s frame.
A small boy offered his mother back the broken canvas.
My friend, the driver, also saw what was happening outside the comforts of our Sports Utility Vehicle. Without verbal agreement, we edged across the four empty lanes and followed mother and child into the parking lot of a bank. As we drove, I unbuckled and threw our arranged purchases behind the driver’s seat in order to make room.
Eventually, we pulled up alongside the struggling pair, and I rolled down my window.
We asked if they would like a ride. The boy, in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and checkered gym shorts, captured me in his surprised gaze of wide, brown eyes. His mother, at first, shifted her shoulder towards us and stared blankly – her eyebrow slowly raised in a quizzical nature. Almost immediately, a bright smile of white teeth displayed her relief. Her dark skin, dripping in a mix of perspiration and drizzle, was rich and glossy. I reached around my headrest to open the rear passenger door behind me, as the woman dropped her shredded, buckled umbrella into the Explorer and lifted her son out of the cart and onto the ground.
Both of them clambered into the back seat, shivering. The little boy giggled, his eyes glimmering.
“Eet’s cawld!” He laughed and rubbed his arms to keep warm. “Oh mahma, eet’s cawld!” Droplets shook from his black hair and onto the seat as his mother crawled in beside him. She hid her barefeet underneath my seat.
We asked where they were going. We pulled back onto the street, and headed south.
West Gate. A church. We were going to a church.
For church? No, they lived there.
Oh, they lived there. We asked where she worked, where she was coming from.
Nowhere. She worked nowhere, and she came from nowhere in particular.
Oh. We turned onto a side street.
Her son goes to college in Tallahassee, she told us. She got stuck here looking for a job, she said. But there are no jobs. No job meant no money, and no money meant no house.
“All I have is my little boy,” she would say.
She leaned down to him, and as she kissed his forehead, he would giggle and repeat, “Eet’s cawld!”
He has the most precious laugh, and the deepest, most innocent eyes – eyes that have, unfortunately, seen too many evils a five-year old boy never should see.
We pulled into the church’s parking lot in front of a mustard-yellow building, covered in vines and several spots of missing paint. Every possible inch of grass had become a parking spot for rundown sedans. Most also, were missing occasional spots of paint.
Is this it? Yes, she said. This is it.
Oh, okay.
It was still drizzling – she reached for her tattered umbrella.
Wait, take ours, my friend said.
Really? This big one? This is nice. Really? .. Really?
Really, we said. Please take it. It will keep you dry.
Oh, thank you! Thank you, she replied. She shouldered the large navy umbrella and climbed out of the open door. Her son followed, jumping from the backseat into a small puddle that had collected on the blacktop.
She began to walk away – wait!
Your name.
What?
What’s your name?
Camille. Her name was Camille.
Have a great night, Camille. Stay safe, stay dry.
She smiled.
Camille and her son crept up the front stoop to the church. We waited, the engine hiccuping while we sat, making sure that they got inside safely. As Camille slipped through the front door, little boy in tow, we pulled away from the church.
My attention focused on the air controls in the car. It was excessively warm now. I closed the vents and shut off the heat.
The boy’s words rang in my head.
It was no longer “cawld”.
