A Welcome from Phoebe

“Doing pretty well,” she told him. Sebastine had introduced Beatriz and Rafael to Phoebe shortly after they arrived in town, having met them through St. Elizabeth’s ministry to immigrants.

“The mother has a job,” he had told Phoebe at a similar breakfast three and a half years earlier, “but their living situation is abysmal. I remember your saying last month that you have a flat in your home.” He had looked a bit nervous, not sure whether he knew Phoebe well enough to ask such a big favor.

Yes; the seminarian who’d been renting the basement apartment Phoebe herself had once occupied was graduating, and Phoebe had mentioned that she would be looking for a new tenant. The ministerial network had seemed an ideal source of referrals for the next person in her succession of quiet, responsible renters. She hadn’t, however, expected to be presented with a single mother and her preschool-age son, neither of whom spoke English.

“What about childcare?” Phoebe had asked Sebastine doubtfully. “I enjoy children, but I’m not home much.”

“A Honduran lady in our parish who keeps the boy while the mother works says she will welcome the baby when it comes. She keeps too many children,” he confided, “but she needs the money. And she is kind.”

A baby on the way, too? Phoebe just looked at the priest, dismayed.

“The flat where they live now is no place for a toddler,” Sebastine continued, “much less an infant. I would guess that a dozen people stay there, sleeping in shifts.”

“Surely that’s illegal!” Phoebe protested.

“Oh, yes,” Sebastine said airily, “it’s illegal, but what better option are we offering? People close their eyes to much of this because the poultry plants need workers. They make the local economy boom, you know.”

Before Phoebe could bring herself to ask whether the pair had even entered the country legally, Sebastine told her, “She has a work permit.” Then, perceiving Phoebe’s discomfort, he smiled at her, a little sadly. “Never mind,” he said. “I was impulsive in suggesting the arrangement. I will ask around the parish. Many people in this community have rooms to rent.”

But not many will rent to such a trio, Phoebe thought. “When might I meet her?” she asked, sounding more willing than she felt.

Sebastine clapped his hands together, then grabbed the table’s edge in an effort to contain himself. “Are you free tonight? She comes to the English class in the parish hall from 6:30 till 8. I will ask Father Enrique to introduce you before or afterward.”

To her surprise, Phoebe had felt drawn to Beatriz immediately. She was more mature than Phoebe had envisioned—a widow; not the teen mother Phoebe had expected. Her dignity belied her circumstances, and the little boy was irresistibly sweet. With Father Enrique interpreting after the English class ended, the two women struck a verbal agreement before parting. As soon as Phoebe’s seminarian moved out after graduation, Beatriz and Rafael would move in.

But before she had turned the key in the ignition to drive away from the Catholic church that night, Phoebe had another thought. Impulsively, she opened the car door and hurried across the parking lot toward the van into which she had seen Beatriz lift Rafael. Just as one of the other passengers started to slide the door closed, Phoebe called out, “Why don’t you come sooner? Tonight, even? You could stay in my guest room until the apartment downstairs is available.”

Father Enrique had already left in his own car, but someone in the van interpreted the offer, and Beatriz emerged, trembling. An older man came after her, carrying Rafael. The man smiled, a gold tooth gleaming, at Phoebe. “She is so happy,” he said, “but she wants me to to be sure I understand. Do you really want them tonight?”

“Why not?” Phoebe said. “I just realized I could use some company beyond my cat.”

Again, the man interpreted. Beatriz, incredulous, laughed a little but nodded vigorously.

“If you will make a map,” the man said, “I will bring them with their things after I take the others home.” So Phoebe returned to her car for her purse, in which she kept a notepad and several pens for just these sorts of occasions.

She’d barely had enough time to put a saucepan of milk on the stove, snip some violets from a patch in the yard, and place mint-colored towels in her tiny upstairs bathroom before they arrived. The second floor’s low ceiling made Phoebe feel a little claustrophobic, but the views of the Blue Ridge from the windows in the bathroom and home office and guest room on either side more than compensated. Moreover, the violets on the bedside table looked pretty next to patchwork of purples in the cover Ruth had quilted years earlier. Phoebe noted the swell of anticipation she felt as she smoothed the quilt and fluffed the pillows on the double bed Beatriz would be sharing with her son. When Phoebe heard them knock at the front door, she almost forgot to duck at the top of the stairs in her rush to descend.

She found Beatriz, the boy in her arms, standing in the glow of the electric Moravian star that served as a porchlight. The grizzled man who had interpreted for them earlier stood behind them, carrying a battered black valise and a small, faded backpack.

“Come in,” Phoebe urged, holding the door open wide. “Have something warm to drink.”

The man shook his head. “Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t stay.” He handed her the valise and then pulled from his pocket a slip of paper on which he’d written a telephone number and his name. “Please call if I can help.”

“My number is in the telephone directory,” she told him. “Phoebe Lied. L-i-e-d. But we’ll be fine.”

“I looked at the bus schedule,” the man said. “She can catch the 5:40 bus from here on campus tomorrow morning. She should be able to get Rafael to the babysitter and get to work on time.” He shook Phoebe’s hand, then smiled past her at Beatriz. Beatriz smiled back wanly, obviously exhausted. The boy’s eyes were closed, his head on his mother’s shoulder.

“Come,” Phoebe whispered, gesturing toward the stairs after bidding the man farewell. She could bring a cup of milk upstairs to Beatriz; there was no point in taking a sleeping child to the kitchen. “Watch your head,” she cautioned as they neared the top of the stairs. How much could the woman understand?

In the bedroom, Phoebe pulled back the bedcovers, and Beatriz positioned her son, fully clothed, on the side of the bed closer to the wall.

“I’ll draw you a bath, if you’d like,” Phoebe told her, “and bring you some warm milk.” Beatriz looked at her questioningly, so Phoebe led her to the bathroom and switched on the light. Beatriz’ eyes widened, and then she smiled again, nodding emphatically. Without commentary, Phoebe showed her how to plug the clawfoot tub and operate its taps. As warm water gushed forth, Phoebe opened the medicine cabinet above the sink to point out a pair of toothbrushes, still in their cellophane wrappers, a tube of toothpaste, and an assortment of hotel shampoo bottles. She’d been bringing them home from her annual chaplaincy conference for several years. Pulling forth a jar of lavender bath salts her niece Joanna had given her for her birthday, she uncapped it and sniffed the contents, wordlessly inviting Beatriz to do the same. In response to Phoebe’s raised eyebrows, Beatriz nodded again, so Phoebe dumped nearly half the container into the stream of bathwater. Beatriz chuckled, obviously surprised, but happily so.

“I’m going downstairs to get you a gown and a robe,” Phoebe told her. “You might need something fresh.” Beatriz just looked at her, so Phoebe left the room, closing the door behind her. She found a clean yellow cotton gown at the bottom of her chest of drawers and the matching robe, never worn, at the back of her closet. More birthday gifts. The gown had proven too long for Phoebe, and she had decided to save the robe as a replacement for the one she’d been wearing for who-knew-how-long. Now Beatriz could have it, instead. Phoebe hurried back up the stairs, tapped on the bathroom door, and then reached in without looking to hang the garments on a hook to the left of the door. Scented steam wafted into the hallway.

“Muchas gracias señora,” Beatriz called softly from where she was soaking.

By the time Beatriz emerged and came downstairs, Phoebe had begun to wonder if she had fallen asleep in the bath. Perhaps she had, briefly; the woman who joined her at the kitchen table looked considerably more rested than she had when she arrived. Her cheeks were pink, and a crease between her eyebrows that Phoebe had noticed earlier had faded.

“Could you eat something?” Phoebe asked. “I imagine you’ve had a long day.” She slid two slices of buttered toast on a plate across the table to her guest and then rose to pour hot milk into a white mug. She had left the mug on the upstairs bedside table a little earlier, but when Beatriz hadn’t appeared, Phoebe had retrieved it and poured its contents back into the pan. Here in the kitchen, Beatriz accepted the mug and held it in both hands briefly before drinking. When her toast was gone, she drained the mug and then carried it and the plate to the sink. She reached for the bottle of dishwashing liquid on the counter, but Phoebe shooed her away. She gently took her elbow and led her back to the bottom of the stairs.

“Wait just a minute,” she said, heading into her own bedroom. She returned with the travel alarm clock she kept in her suitcase. “Do you need this?” she asked.

Beatriz took it from her, slipping it into the pocket of the velvety yellow robe. “Gracias,” she said again. Then she reached out for Phoebe, hugging her fiercely. Her damp hair felt cool against Phoebe’s cheek. Then Beatriz kissed that cheek, and then the other. “Dios la bendiga por su amabilidad,” she whispered.

The emotion in Beatriz’ voice had summoned tears to Phoebe’s eyes. “Good night, my dear,” she said.

Now, Sebastine’s voice brought Phoebe back to the present. “I haven’t seen them since they started attending the Spanish-language Pentecostal church,” he told Phoebe, “but I know you are taking care of them.”

“They take care of me,” she corrected him.

“Good,” he approved. “We all need each other, don’t we?” Then his tone changed. “Has she told you what’s going on at the plants?” he asked.

Note: Here is a link to another PLOUGH article I read around the time I wrote this section—something Phoebe would have had in mind, too.

https://www.plough.com/en/topics/justice/reconciliation/for-the-love-of-neighbor