Butterfly (60 page)

Beverly turned to the woman whom Jonas had described to her. Mary Drake, an offi-

cially ordained minister in the Protestant faith, was in her fifties, lean, completely gray,

and wore blue jeans and a T-shirt as if they were the uniform of the house. The one vari-

ation was the large cross that hung about her neck and rested on her chest.

“I’m Beverly Highland. I believe you were expecting me.”

“Oh yes, Miss Highland! Please, sit down!” Mary Drake spoke a little breathlessly, as if

she had been running or had been interrupted at some vigorous chore. “When Melanie

said there was someone here to see me, and obviously not someone seeking shelter, I

prayed that it was someone who had come to make a contribution! Thanksgiving is com-

ing, and we always have open house and a free meal for anyone who comes here. I still

have to buy a hundred turkeys and there isn’t any money!” Mary smiled broadly and her

face broke into a thousand wrinkles. “But then, maybe you’ll make a contribution any-

way. Now then”—she folded her hands on her desk—“what can I do for you?”

Beverly explained briefly about her long search for her mother and how it had ended

at the cemetery.

“Yes. Dear Naomi. It grieved us all when she died. But it came as no surprise. She was

very ill when she came to us. Your mother was an alcoholic, did you know that?”

“I guessed as much. She must have been when I was a child, I don’t remember.”

“Naomi used to talk about you all the time. Although I seem to recall that she said

your name was Rachel. Anyway, she was very proud of you and swore that you were going

to make a good life for yourself. I often wondered why she didn’t try to find you, but we

never ask questions here. Many of our women are hiding from abusive husbands or

fathers, and don’t wish to be found.”

“Tell me, Reverend Drake—”

“Please call me Mary! Most people are uncomfortable with the fact that I’m an

ordained minister. That’s why I don’t have a church. The parish where I came from

couldn’t adjust to my new status. For some reason, female priests disturb people. I can’t

imagine why, though. Nowhere in the Bible does it say women can’t be priests. And they

were, too, you know, centuries ago, before the men took over.” She smiled again. It was an

energetic, infectious smile, and it comforted Beverly to know that her mother had spent

her last years in this woman’s company.

“Tell me, Mary, about when my mother came here. I’d like to know.”

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Mary sighed and sat back in her chair. “Naomi was in a bad way. The last man she had

taken up with had been pretty hard on her. Your mother had such a capacity for love, and

yet she seemed always to link up with men who abused her. But that’s a familiar story

within these walls. We were crowded to capacity at that time…I believe it was 1972. We

had no more beds. Even the sofas were taken. She said she didn’t care. She was desperate

and tired and just wanted to rest. She slept in the kitchen, in a sleeping bag.”

Beverly looked down at her hands.

“She stayed with us for three years,” Mary Drake said gently, “and in that time we all

came to love her. She was our cook. And what a godsend! I had been the cook, you see,

and I’m not very good at it. Your mother made the most fabulous hamburgers!”

Mary’s smile softened. “But Naomi was more than that. It was as if she had always

been looking for an outlet for her love. You see, many of our women here show up ill or

injured. The worst cases I take to the hospital. But I was a nurse, years ago, and I keep a

well-stocked medical kit. Your mother took up the duty of taking care of the sick ones,

nursing them back to health, trying to encourage them not to return to the old life—

although most of them did, I’m afraid. Anyway, your mother was a loving, positive force

within these walls. We still miss her, greatly.”

Beverly wiped a tear off her cheek. “Tell me about this house.”

Mary Drake told her story of how, having found herself unwanted in a conservative

parish, she had turned to the one thing she had always wanted to do—start up a home for

battered women. The rent was very low on this house, and she received contributions

from local citizens. But there were too many women in need and the house could accom-

modate only a limited number, and many arrived pregnant or with babies, scared and

running, penniless, often without even a change of clothing.

“We receive a lot of cast-off clothing,” Mary explained. “I run an ad in the paper, ask-

ing people to give us their old clothes. Unfortunately, my little operation can’t afford the

press that the bigger outfits like the Salvation Army and Goodwill have. When people

donate or give money, they think of the more well-known institutions first. Nonetheless,

we do manage. There is a psychologist in town who donates two evenings a week for

counseling. I have a doctor friend who comes by when he has the chance. You see, Miss

Highland, donations can come in many forms. We need people’s time, money, skills,

food, clothing—even diapers!”

The phone rang. Mary picked it up and spoke quickly, making Beverly think that

everything this woman did must be done in a hurry. When she hung up, Reverend Drake

said, “That was the supermarket with my turkeys! He says he can only donate fifty! And I

need a hundred!” She smiled. “When it comes to feeding my girls, Miss Highland, I set

aside my pride. So I shall ask you, do you think you could find it in your heart to buy

those turkeys for us?”

“Of course I can.”

A young woman burst through the door. “Reverend Mary! Cindy’s having contrac-

tions!”

“Oh dear. Will you excuse me for a moment, please?”

262

Kathryn Harvey

While she waited for Mary Drake to return Beverly took out her checkbook and stared

at it. She felt the old house around her, smelled its old smells, sensed its frail hopes and

dreams. It was not unlike Hazel’s; the women abiding within these walls, Beverly knew,

would have similar stories to tell, like those of sisters of long ago. And then she thought of

her mother, frightened, hiding from the police, trying to find shelter. What had it been

like for her, stabbing the man she loved but no longer able to take his abuse, and then

running, alone and scared?

Beverly’s throat tightened. Her eyes swam with tears.
If only I had found you! I would

have taken you home! I would have made you well! And we could right now be dreaming

together, just as we did so long ago…
.

When Mary came back into the office she was breathless again. “Poor Cindy! It’s her

first baby and she’s terrified. She isn’t having contractions. Just a little stomach upset.

She’s only fifteen, but she’s been on her own since she was eleven. A Good Samaritan

brought her here last month when he picked her up hitchhiking on the Coast Highway.

She offered him sex in return for food.”

She looked at her visitor, who was crying softly into a handkerchief. “Your mother is

with God now, Miss Highland,” Mary Drake said gently. “And she is blessed, I promise

you. She didn’t suffer for long; her end was quick. And she was surrounded by people who

loved her.”

Beverly sniffed back her tears and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “I can never

thank you enough for what you did for her.” Beverly took a small gold pen out of her

purse and uncapped it. “Tell me. Do you have many women coming to your door for

help?”

“More than you would imagine. And the numbers are growing. Unfortunately, I have

to turn many of them away. There just isn’t room. I try to find other shelter for them.

There are a few citizens in town who help me out now and then. And I have a reciprocal

arrangement with a couple of runaway and halfway houses. We try to take care of each

other’s overflow.”

“How many beds would you need, do you think?”

Mary laughed. “At least ten times what I have! There’s a dilapidated old house down

the street I’ve been trying to lay my hands on. It’s been for sale for a long time and the

owner hasn’t had any nibbles. I’m working on him to let us use it in exchange for fixing it

up. He’s a stubborn old coot, but I think I’m weakening him. He might give us the house

just so I’ll leave him alone! I can be a very persuasive woman when I put my mind to it!”

“I’ve made this out to you,” Beverly said as she handed the check across. “I didn’t

know if you had an account in the name of St. Anne’s.”

“Thank you, Miss Highland. You are an answer to my prayers.”

Beverly stood and held out her hand. “I must go now. I thank you for giving up your

time to talk to me. After all these years of looking for my mother—”

Mary took her hand and squeezed it. “I know. I understand.” She held up the check

and smiled. “The good Lord works in mysterious ways. First he brought Naomi Burgess

to this house and now her daughter. With this money, Miss Highland, we’ll be able to

offer a good Thanksgiving dinner to women who otherwise might not—”

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263

She stared at the check.

She slowly sat down and whispered, “Dear God in Heaven!” Then she looked up at

Beverly and said, “Am I dreaming or is this check made out for five hundred thousand

dollars!”

“I want you to build a new facility. I want you to make it exactly the way you want it

to be, modem and clean and full of love, and to be able to shelter as many women as need

it. Hire all the staff you require, make it a home where women can find asylum and

recover from their abuses. I’ll send my attorneys up to help you work it out. Do you think

you can do it?”

“Do it!” Mary said, gazing at the check and shaking her head. “Of course I can do it!”

Tears rose in her eyes. “Praise God in His mercy…”

As they were walking out to the car a few minutes later, out to the white Rolls-Royce

Silver Cloud, where a few children and young women stood shyly staring at it, Beverly

said, “Tell me, Mary. How did you get into this? I mean, why did you choose this partic-

ular area of need?”

Mary looked up at the sun and squinted. “I was married years ago. My husband beat

me up regularly. I don’t know why I put up with it, but I did. And then one night he got

drunk and hit my son with his fist. I took my boy and ran. I went to a shelter run by a

priest. There I found God and my calling.”

“And your son?”

“The blow to his head caused irreparable brain damage. He’s in an institution now.

He’s thirty years old and doesn’t even know his name.”

At the car, Mary turned and took Beverly’s hands. Her eyes were moist as she said,

“Perhaps I started this house to atone for that sin, I don’t know. But I do know that God

brought you here today in answer to my prayers. I’m going to call my new shelter the

Beverly Highland Shelter for Women.”

“No. I want it to be the Naomi Burgess Shelter for Women. My mother was never able

to find dignity in life, but at least in death she will have it at last.”

37

The harsh lights of the operating room shone down upon an unconscious body cov-

ered in green sheets. There was no sound in the room except for the
whoosh
of the anes-

thetist’s ventilator and the steady beep of the cardiac monitor. Four people stood at the

operating table; they were dressed in green and wore white paper masks. The tallest of

them, the surgeon, was sweating so profusely that the nurse had to wipe his forehead with

a cloth. The air was tension-charged. Fear was communicated through the eyes of every

member of the surgical team. If this important patient were to die, their faces said, it

would mean an international crisis.

“Scalpel,” said the surgeon.

The scrub nurse handed it to him. He positioned it, ready to cut through taut flesh.

“Just a minute,” said Dr. Markus from her place in the corner. She walked up to the

table, snatched the scalpel from the man’s hand and said, “That’s not the way I showed

you to hold a scalpel. You’re not about to slice a salami, for God’s sake.”

“What the fuck difference does it make!” shouted the surgeon. “Who the hell cares?”

“I care!” she shouted back, and threw the scalpel to the floor.