“I knnoowww you. ” It was the only introduction she offered. The woman spoke in an exaggerated sing-song; the voice of an Eastern European gypsy trying to wheedle a few coins out of my pocket in exchange for a glimpse into the future.
Agnes. The nametag was grungy and peeling like it was left on her shirt during many, many cycles in the wash. Other than her dingy Hello-my-name-is… tag, Agnes was so spotless she reflected the bright heat of a Florida summer afternoon like a mirror. Spikes of radiance glistened from the crisp folds of the white sari that enveloped her body like a cocoon. Formal silk gloves, also white, were drawn up past her elbow to disappear in the medieval bell sleeves of pale cream lace. White patent shoes peeked out from the hem of her ensemble. As she moved to cross her lower legs, I caught a glimpse of the ruffle ankle socks that little girls wear to Sunday school. Around her head, she had wrapped a length of white cloth in the fashion of women in Biblical times or contemporary Muslims, but something about the effect of her entire get-up suggested more interplanetary space adventure than religious devotion.
It was not comforting to hear that she knew me. I turned my head away and watched the traffic whiz by, wishing with all my heart that I was in one of those cars instead of stuck there in a grimy bus station on a wretchedly hot afternoon with a clearly senile Romanian Princess Leia who might at any moment hit me up for change that I really couldn’t afford to give, but would feel guilty for keeping if asked.
So we waited like that for the next 15 minutes in an unacknowledged stand-off. Agnes continued to insist she knew me and I continued to avoid any eye contact. It would have been a good day to have remembered my iPod.
The bus finally grumbled up to a stop beside us. I leapt up, eager to be on my way and free of the strain of acting as if someone within a few inches of me didn’t exist. I whipped my bus pass out of my pocket and went to grab a seat in the front half of the bus. As I sat, my hand unconsciously moved to adjust my purse, but clutched at empty air by my side. OH GOD! My rent money was in that purse!
“Wait, wait, stop the bus,” I called frantically, but we had already lurched into traffic and the next stop wasn’t for a good number of blocks up the road.
“Sorry, can’t do it,” the driver shrugged unsympathetically and I collapsed into my seat as my stomach fell to my toes and my nerves went completely limp.
I pictured Agnes enjoying the spoils of her patience like the buzzard that simply keeps pace with the parched desert hare as it searches frantically for water. My forehead burned with fury. The world was so unfair and dishonest and just awful.
At the next bus stop, I practically jumped out, ignoring the protests of the driver and shooting him my dirtiest look. As far as I was concerned, he was a cohort of Agnes’; conspiring against me to make life even more of a living hell than it already was. Everything was so hard lately. My daughter was sick, my husband lost his job, our car had died two weeks ago, and now I wouldn’t even be able to pay rent because of another dishonest jerk in the world who was going to steal my purse.
I trudged back the blocks I had traveled on the bus, not even bothering to hurry, certain there would be nothing but gum wrappers and McDonald’s cups at my original bus stop. I picked up my pace though as I saw through the hazy glass of the bus stop a familiar cocooned figure. Agnes was still there! I felt like a cheetah who spots the unwary gazelle. She probably didn’t think I would miss the purse for some time and she was still sitting there, counting out my money, planning all the ways to spend it and I was going to catch her red-handed.
As I rounded the corner and stepped into the bus stop, I was confused by what I saw. I had been all pumped up to verbally tear into the crazy old thieving bat and wrestle my money back out of her hands, but instead, she just sat there, sweatless and spotless, ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap, humming an old Stevie Nicks song softly to herself and seemingly oblivious to my presence. Beside her on the bench, my purse huddled close like a small child separated from its mother, but it was still closed. I snatched it up and nearly broke the zipper yanking it open. Inside, right on top, the folded wad of hundreds was completely undisturbed. I didn’t know what to say. I had prepared for every possibility except this, and now, I was deeply embarrassed. I fingered the money nervously, counting slowly, giving myself time to think of an appropriate apology, but when I looked up, Agnes had vanished. Grateful for being spared further awkwardness, I continued counting the hundred dollar bills.
"Five, six, seven, eight, nine, one thousand," I counted out, frowning now as I kept going ", one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, fifteen hundred. Fifteen hundred and twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven, fifty eight." Completely mystified, I recounted and came up with the same sum; $1558.
When I had cashed my check that morning, it had only been for $793, minus the $4 cashing fee the bank charged.
"What in the....?"
The money I held in my hands was enough to cover our rent, get the car part we needed and take my little girl to the doctor, plus buy us some groceries as well.
"What...?" I repeated myself, completely confused and bewildered. At that point, the next bus pulled up and I wandered on, moving like a person in a dream. I sat in my seat and pondered the situation. So not only was Agnes not dishonest, she was also eccentrically generous. Who in the world goes around town putting money INTO people's purses and how could she have known to give just the amount I needed? My mind kept turning it over and over, but found no satisfactory answer.
At that moment, a voice across the aisle interrupted my thoughts.
"I know you," the words made me jump. They were exactly what Agnes had said to me, but this was a masculine voice, warm and friendly with no weird accent. I looked up into a vaguely familiar face.
"You're Trisha's kid, right? Susan?" I took in the speaker and registered he was wearing a priest's collar underneath his button down blue denim shirt. The name Jack came to mind, Father Jack.
"I know you," he repeated, smiling at me in a way that made the fist around my heart loosen just a touch. I smiled back and said hello. He asked about my Mom and Dad and we chatted for a little ways on down the road in a comfortable fashion. Part of my mind was still busy though trying to puzzle out what had just happened to me at the bus stop.
I shared the unusual experience with Fr. Jack, thinking he might help me laugh it off a little and get rid of the odd sensation that was lingering over me, but instead, he grew suddenly serious and in a voice as kind and warm as a grandfather's kiss, he said
"But, He does know you, Susan. Sometimes you just may not know Him".
No comments:
Post a Comment