One day last fall, I drove a friend up to Boston for a medical appointment at Beth Israel Hospital. She was going to be there for several hours, so I parked the car in the hospital garage and took the T to the Arlington Street Station. From there I walked leisurely through the Boston Garden and Common toward Tremont Street. Already it had the feel of a place shut up.
The swan boats were gone, the carousel empty, the Frog Pond and playground deserted, no vendors on the paths. But the huge willows lining the Swan Lake were alive and dramatic, their long tresses dancing in the wind and brushing the waters.
As I walked down Tremont Street, I passed a young blond-haired woman crouched down on the street edge of the sidewalk facing a restaurant. Her face was hidden in her hands, and there was an empty paper coffee cup in front of her. When I paused in front of her, she looked up at me with one of the saddest faces I’d ever seen. Her watery blue eyes seemed devoid of any hope or anticipation, and for some reason I wondered if she were a refugee from Ukraine.
I pulled two dollars out of my wallet and placed them in the coffee cup.
“Thank you very much,” she said expressionlessly. She was young, no more than twenty.
I walked on, turning down West Street to the Brattle Book Shop, where I purchased a used copy of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Coming back I saw that she was still there, her position unchanged. There were now a few coins in her coffee cup. I went into the restaurant for breakfast, and after ordering I went outside and placed a ten-dollar bill in her hand. “Here.” I said. “Go get yourself a sandwich or something.”
“Thank you – thank you very much,” she said again, in that same expressionless voice, looking at me this time, but with no sense of recognition. I went back into the restaurant and ate breakfast, knowing that if she was still there when I came out I would have to speak to her.
She was, and I did. Crouching down beside her, I said, “Excuse me, but are you all right?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Of course.”
“I don’t mean to intrude, but – I wish I could help you more, but I can’t. Do you have some place to stay?”
“Well” – she hesitated.
“I mean, some place you can go - if you need to?”
“Yeah – I guess.” There was no accent in her voice. She wore good running shoes that looked new, and though her hair was unwashed, her clothes were in good condition.
“You know,” I continued, awkwardly, “if you don’t, there are shelters – ”
“Sure-“ she interrupted me. “But thank you – thank you very much.”
And this time, finally, there was direct eye-contact, an acknowledgement of my presence, if only for a few seconds. Perhaps that was what I really wanted – not so much to actually help her, but simply the recognition that I was willing to.
When I got back to the hospital, I told my friend about the encounter. “Yes,” she said, “and there’s probably a mother and father out there somewhere, wondering where she is.”
