There but for the grace of God goes she

She stands on the edge of the median, a few feet from my window, holding her sign at me. Hungry. Need help. God Bless. The words written in mixed capitals and lower case letters in thick black pen on a piece of worn cardboard. Waiting at the red, I wonder who she belongs to, what path led her here.

Being this close to her takes me back to the Fred years.

Fred took his place in a long line of my sister's boyfriends, standing between husbands five and six. He was tall and reed thin, always wearing a dirty truckers cap over his dark and dirty hair. His face looked older than his years, and his fingernails like his clothes were always dirty. I'm not sure Fred was ever clean.

He had a lot of theories in life, Fred did. One being that he didn't believe in working for anyone in any sort of conventional way. To Fred, having a boss was a form of slavery and no one had a right to tell anyone else what to do. I used to watch my father shake his head in complete confusion and disappointment when Fred would pitch his theory in response to the questions, What are your plans? How will you support yourself? Fred did dabble in what he called the recycling business, a fairly white collar term for what is more commonly known as dumpster diving. He and my sister would sometimes bring over salvaged toys to the children that I'd take from their little hands and throw into the trashcan as soon as possible. Fred liked to speak his theories, not defend. If there were ever any argument on the reality of his theory of work, or the likelihood of any success in the recycling business, he'd turn and walk away. Without a spoken word, but with her clinging to his hand and hanging onto his ideals.

What it was about Fred that had her loving him the way she did I never could figure. They left for a better life in Gulfport, Mississippi. His words, a better life. She quoted him when she called from Louisiana to let us know. Hitched a ride to Gulfport. He had family there. He wanted to start fresh.

It was over four years before she was seen or heard from again by her family. There were a few phone calls here and there, well-meaning strangers informing us where she was, telling us she needed help. Dad would send money and hope the well-meaning strangers really meant well and got it to her. One woman called from a flower shop in San Antonio to tell us that my sister was living nearby with her dreadful boyfriend. We asked the address and she hesitated before saying, Well, under the bridge of the overpass. She went on to say that she provided work for my sister in the shop when she could, just to give her some money, you know, for a meal.

So powerful her love for Fred that she'd live under a bridge to be with him.

Can you find your sister?

I can try.

She needs to come home. She's hurting her children and she's hurting your mother.

He looked at me with his own pain flowing from his eyes.

Find someone who can help us, a private investigator maybe? Start in San Antonio.

All roads led to nowhere and the Private Investigator I found got fat on the checks he cashed, but stopped returning my calls and never did return the photograph I'd sent without making a copy, the one I'd borrowed from her son. There's a special place for that man.

Vanished in the name of her love for Fred.

A couple more years passed.

As suddenly as she had disappeared, she returned. Sitting on the front porch one New Year's Day, waiting for her family to come home, a paper sack with her belongings beside her. She'd follow him anywhere, but apparently could not follow him to jail. They'd been back in Gulfport, he was picked up after a couple months. His family didn't know what to do with her so they bought her a bus ticket back to Houston.

She acted as if two days had passed. We were happy to see her but cautious, confused, resentful that she did not come home on her own decision but instead was sent home. How can you trust that? She didn't consider that an issue. To her thinking, she was home and that was that. The project that is her now out of Fred's hands and into ours. An apartment was secured, furniture given. Dishes, pots, pans, towels provided. Groceries put into the fridge and pantry. Another fresh start in her nine lives.

Several months later, Fred got out of jail and returned to claim her. A woman like her though, she needs a man by her side. By the time he returned, her eye and heart had already shifted to the man who would be Husband Six. Another shifty character to be sure but this one had a job, a roof over his head, and considered trash cans to be something you put trash into, not pulled lunch from.

We never saw Fred again.

I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet, roll my window down. Her eyes dilate with the possibilities. She thinks I'm generous but I know she's drawn the luck of cashing in on the memory. I tell her, Please don't drink it. Buy something to eat. Take care of yourself. Please. She says, God bless you. As I drive on, I watch her tuck the bill in her jeans pocket, turn to the oncoming cars and get back to work.