1943

The cuts and bruises from Mac's beating of Florene had healed slowly. There was no hiding from her friends the debasing level to which the marriage had quickly crumbled. Though it was probably whispered about in circles unfamiliar to Florene, the beating and drug addiction was not something one discussed aloud. Nor did young women in the 1940's go to their pastor or a counselor readily. There were some things it was taboo to speak of. Regardless, Florene was not the type to "air her dirty laundry" in public. Still there was the haunting subliminal accusation that she had caused his addiction because she was somehow inadequate.

Mac was nowhere to be found. Predator that he was, he slithered under some dark rock and hid until his young wife's divorce was final. No apology. No plea for understanding. There was nothing left, and Mac knew it.

Physical bruises had diminished and her stitches had been removed for weeks when Florene was given back her secretarial position. She had been a hard worker. Of course they would be happy to have her in their employ again. Emotional battering does not fade so quickly; and, because it did not look so dark and bloody, was not treated. Life goes on. Head up! Shoulders back!

Packing up her belongings from the little home she shared with Mac brought waves of nauseating hopelessness and loss. Each curtain had been created with hopeful hands; each dish was to be laid upon a blessed and happy table. Children were supposed to run about gleefully in the yard and down the halls. What had she done wrong?

There was a room for rent not far from the office where Florene worked. It would be a short walk to the bus stop. One warm Saturday her friends and their husbands helped the young divorcee rearrange her life there. Cheerful and giggling, the young women waved an oblivious good-bye that day, and Florene closed herself into solitude. In those days and nights of pressing need, the young divorcee had a friend. She prayed. He listened. Then she could retreat into a fitful sleep.

On a winter evening in 1943, Florene had stayed late finishing some paperwork at the office. She missed her usual bus and had to wait several minutes for another. The early darkness of the winter day cloaked a stranger who meandered about near the bus stop watching this young woman sitting there alone and vulnerable. Unaware of his presence, Florene was not alarmed but thinking only of the events of the day and the other miscellany that chases thoughts in and out of the way. The stranger boarded the bus at the same time she did, then pressed up close behind her so that her nostrils were filled with his stale nicotine-soaked breath and splashes of musky aftershave wafting from his body. Peripherally, she caught a glance at him as she turned to walk the crowded aisle and took a seat. The man passed her then and did not ogle her or give her reason to fear; but, a palpable dread accompanied him so that Florene gripped the bus rail and prayed.

When the driver announced her stop a few minutes later, Florene was relieved to be free of the uneasiness she was experiencing. Quickly, she gathered her purse and rushed to the doors of the bus that had been swung open for her departure. But when the woman glanced behind her, there he was, lighting a cigarette and watching her walk away. Clutching her purse to her chest and breathing a prayer for protection, Florene began walking quickly, stoically, away from the stranger. His legs were longer and with ease he caught almost up to her so that his odors tried to wrap themselves around her from behind as the ominous sound of his footfall pounded in her ears. She was terrified and could not decide what to do.

"Lord, help me! Please. I need help!" Her whispered desperation.

By then, the boarding house was in sight. Safety was only a few feet away. "Run!" An inner command. "Run!"


Without looking back, Florene wrapped her coat tightly around her, pulled her purse closer into her, and commanded her high-heeled shoes to make it to her door now! Propelled by fear and fueled by her instincts to survive, she made it to the door, dug frantically for her key as her chest was heaving, and never looked back to see if she was followed. The door fumbled open and she fell through it, out of breath and sweating. Slamming the door shut as fast as she could, Florene fell against it and dead-bolted the lock. Her body relaxed against the comfort of the secured door as she began to catch her breath. Purse and coat slipped from her and fell to the floor as the realization of what almost happened to her began to stir her understanding. The deep breath she took transformed itself into a bottomless and shocking sob. Loneliness and rejection heaved from her body as she slid down the door to sit on the cold hardwood floor. From a cavern hidden in some soulish retreat of her psyche came hopelessness to engulf her. She could not cry enough to ease her sinking despair. The relief of tears had vanished and Florene was awash in endless grief.

Her friend, however, was there. He heard her crying out and caught her tears. "Please help me, Jesus! Please...." she sobbed.

The fount of Florene's tears finally ceased its flow and the deafening quiet of her room surrounded her. In the silence, seemingly from within the solitude, came a soothing imperative.

"Be still and know that I am God."