Inasmuch
She sighed, muscles relaxing, tension draining as she began the drive south through the bland Southern California suburbs. The boredom of her new job was exhausting, more so than physical exertion, and yielded only a paycheck. She was still untangling the gaggle of emotions caused by the sudden loss of her dream job. But a monotonous job in a beauty salon and the commute were a small price to pay to remain independent in her rented beach cottage.
At home, she cherished the quiet, away from the salon where she pampered clients day after day, watching the clock while half-listening to their stories. They didn’t notice that their manicurist shared no details of her life, preferring to remain tightly coiled within. The cottage was a sanctuary where her needs took priority.
If she washed her clothes this evening, she could have the next two days entirely to herself. Revisiting the art museum or taking a book to the beach would provide the solitude she craved.
With a brimming clothes basket wedged into the left side of her waist, she yanked the heavy laundromat door with her right hand, stepped in, and caught the door with her butt. Leaving the night’s comforting darkness, she stepped into the glare of cold fluorescent lights. The laundromat was a fishbowl; anyone could see her in there doing her laundry alone. Everyone else had better ways to spend a Saturday evening.
She sorted her laundry into three machines, fed them quarters, and settled on a hard bench to pass the time by reading John Grisham’s latest novel. Still aware of her conspicuousness, she occasionally glanced up to look outside. Her eyes focused on a young man ambling under the streetlights, listing to one side as he clutched the handles of a bulky duffel bag. He turned and came toward the laundromat. His pressed trousers and polo shirt made her think he was probably a professional who liked to live at the beach, despite the lack of laundry hookups in many cottages. He didn’t look like a vacationer, staying in a rental for the week.
Entering, he nodded in her direction, a sufficient acknowledgement of her presence. No smile. No chit chat.
She smiled politely. The silence that followed the brief recognition confirmed that neither of them wanted to break their barriers with superficial talk. His movements were unhurried, as if he had all night. He found a change machine, converted some bills to quarters, and bought a small box of laundry detergent. The small box and the fact that he dropped all his laundry into a single machine made her think he wasn’t used to doing his own laundry. With his back to her, she noticed in furtive glances that he moved as if he were in a trance. Slumped shoulders seemed out of place on his muscular frame. His clean-shaven face was expressionless, hiding his emotions. After starting the machine, he left the laundromat and sauntered out of view.
Meanwhile, as her machines shut off, she emptied each load of clothes into the dryers and resumed reading. After a while, the young man returned with a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag and a drink. Before eating, he threw his damp clothes into a dryer.
With a pang of painful familiarity, she read the “what now?” feeling on his face. A few months prior, when her employer ended the job she loved, she had retreated inside herself to process the disappointment and disbelief alone.
He ate without savoring, as if watching a silent video in his mind. She could only guess at the scenes that played in a continuous loop, monopolizing his attention.
They folded their laundry on separate tables, silently, under the cold fluorescents. After folding and neatly stacking them, he returned them to the duffel, taking care not to wrinkle them. They finished at the same time.
“Do you want a ride home? I think I saw you walking here.”
“I don’t have a place . . . yet . . . I can’t go back.”
The police would surely make him leave if they saw him trying to sleep in the laundromat. She couldn’t stand the thought of him sleeping on a cold, hard park bench, using his duffel as a pillow. The damp beach breeze is bone-chilling at night.
“Do you want to sleep on my couch? . . . Just tonight?” she offered with little thought.
“Yes . . . yes. Thank you,” was his surprised acceptance.
Her offer was a simple reflex, conditioned by a Christian upbringing instilled by her parents, who modeled and involved their children in acts of compassion for the “less fortunate.”
In her compact Nissan, he did not explain his circumstances, and she continued to respect his silence. Had his wife or his girlfriend kicked him out of the house? Did he learn of infidelity? Was it a last-drop-in-the-bottle incident that his dignity could no longer tolerate?
After parking in the carport, they entered the tiny house. He stood awkwardly until she invited him to sit while she got fresh towels, sheets, a blanket, and a pillow from the linen closet.
“You can have the bathroom first,” she said, laying the towels on the toilet seat. She extended the sofa bed, which almost filled the living room, and made it up.
When he came out of the bathroom, she entered, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and changed into sweats.
“Sleep well, as long as you want,” she signed off, entered the bedroom, and closed the door.
In bed, a wave of contentment washed over her, the kind that follows a good deed. Had she been in the right place at the right time? It was a feeling long absent and welcome. Exhausted, she slipped into sleep.
She must have slept for a few hours when the squeak of the sofa springs awakened her. The couch had seen better days. Whatever was bothering the stranger must have made it difficult for him to sleep. She tried to ease back to sleep when she heard another squeak. Then she thought she heard the wooden floor creak. Was he getting up? Suddenly, the darkness felt ominous. She realized there was no lock on her bedroom door.
A tsunami of fear rose, gained full height, flooded over her, then surged through her veins and arteries. Fear consumed her, disabling reason and logic. The monstrous wave ridiculed her altruism, crashed and drowned it. Taking shallow, silent breaths, she listened like an animal, ready for fight or flight.
Please God, You know I had only pure intentions. You know I felt only empathy. I had no other interests. I sensed his heavy sadness, and he had nowhere to sleep. Please God, spare me from my poor judgment! Please God! If my naivete causes me harm, people will say, “What did she think would happen, taking in a strange man?”
Listening intently, while seconds and minutes passed, an hour dragged on. She heard no other sounds. Drained, her muscles finally loosened, unable to hold their tenseness, and her breath found its natural rhythm. She dozed until blackness yielded to dawn’s grays that filtered in through the islet curtains.
Red digits glowed 6:00 am on the alarm clock when she heard water running in the bathroom sink. The toilet flushed. Soon, the bathroom door opened. Without a sound, he passed her closed bedroom door. She listened motionless, feigning sleep, straining for a sound. Then, a soft closing click of the front door broke the suspenseful silence. Her legs found the floor, and she hurried to the front door and bolted it. Almost palpable, exhilarating relief flowed through her.
She was also aware of conflicting, confusing thoughts: self-reproach for her naivete and a promise to be more prudent in the future; guilt for letting unjustified fear commandeer her; profound gratitude to God for her safety, despite her indiscretion. Yet, this same God urged his followers to provide for those in need. She had long forgotten chapters and verses, but the message remained.
“I was a stranger, and you invited me in . . . Inasmuch as you did it for one of the least of these . . . you did it for me.”
“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.”
Slanted shafts of sunlight streamed in through the living room windows, warming, chasing away the night’s dark thoughts, and fell on the open sofa where the stranger had folded the sheets and blanket. Then she noticed a torn scrap of newspaper on the table. In the margin, she saw the word “Thanks.”
As sunlight replaced shadows in the room, her numbness retreated, and she realized her capacity to feel, even to empathize, had returned. She prayed that the stranger who had unknowingly broken down her carefully constructed barriers would also begin to heal.
.