Surprised by Strangers

Homelessness and mental illness are not unique to the South, but Southern culture does offer its own approaches to them. The small towns and families of the South often lack the resources to aid people with mental illness, but beliefs about community within these places can offer ways to fill in the gaps. In this essay, we find a nonlinear narrative about one Georgia writer’s struggles to care for her brother, whose mental illness led to homelessness, and we learn more about the community that supports him as best as they can.

Surprised by Strangers
by DeLane Phillips

Last night’s mascara lingers. If only for a good reason, she thinks to herself. Rubbing her eyes, examining herself in the mirror, she wonders if she can get by with this look at the office today. There’s too much to get done. To hell with it, let’s go.

The cell phone rings, interrupting her momentary introspection. A Georgia number pops up on the screen. Without hesitation, she answers.

“Hello . . . Yes, this is her.”

The voice at the other end explains the situation and says, “Ma’am, he gave us your number.”

I’m sure he did. No matter the distance between them, she can never escape the calls. The voice at the other end replies with the same familiar questions.

“Yes. I’m his sister.”

The prosaic replies are always to the same questions. In each response, she is transported . . . to years long, long gone by, into vistas of barefoot summers . . . of dust and red dirt clinging to their feet long after Saturday night baths for Sunday morning church, their heels permanently stained red from running down the road past the homeplace. Running, down the road that leads to woods where their construction of pine straw and oak fortresses take place… the road where bicycle stunts and races mark him with so many bruises that his teacher questions their Momma in the grocery store. The road that dead ends to where old man Stanley lives, along with his brother, whose name they can never remember. The road where a dog bites her on the behind while he watches as a five-year-old from his bicycle. She has to go to the hospital and has a bruised ass for weeks. The dog has to be tested for rabies.

“Ma’am, does he have insurance?” The questions ensue, always the same kind of robotic voice at the other end. It’s as if it’s the same person calling, each time.

“No,” mockingly I respond. “He is homeless.” The questioning always pauses at this point in the conversation.

“Oh, Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. That is so sad.” That is always the best anyone can respond. Yes, it is sad . . . is the only reply I can ever offer.

“Do you mind me asking where you picked him up?” and I want to add a this time.

“Ma’am, he was sleeping behind the dumpster at a Hardee’s. Someone called 9–1–1 and reported it. We transported him to the hospital.”

“Ma’am, what is his place of employment?”

“He hasn’t worked in over ten years.”

“The balance now is $6,000. When might we receive a payment?”

I am my brother’s keeper.

—

Riding his bike as fast as his short, chubby legs will allow, pushing himself down our dusty dirt road, his cheeks ruddy from summer sun, his wide bright brown eyes like mine and Momma’s. Giggling, I yell, yur gonna wreck goin’ that fast! Ignoring the instructions from his big sis’ as always, he pushes himself farther and faster, only to be wiped out by the big white oak at the bottom of the hill.

—

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“As long as he pays $30.00 a month, the account won’t go to collections. This way it won’t ruin his credit.”

That’s good to know . . . I’ll take care of this.

“Thank you, ma’am, and you have a good day.”

“You too.”

—

The fragrance of gardenias is sweet on the afternoon June breeze. Now the town’s sidewalk jester, entertainment for the local haves and have-nots, who on some days make themselves feel better by giving a dollar, or two, or . . . not, he is postured at the corner of the four-way by the church.

“Don’t look at him. Just look straight ahead and keep walking,” the white mother advises her startled pre-teen daughter as they cross the street onto the First Baptist Church campus. Mother and daughter, like squirrels dodging an oncoming car, scurry up the sidewalk to avoid the large man standing on the corner. The pair enter through the church’s heavy oak polished double doors. The church, founded in 1829, is surrounded by magnificent magnolias, bearing witness to hundreds, maybe thousands of weddings, funerals, church services, and vacation bible schools for the town. Down the street below a much smaller version sits a black church.

Passing by the white and the black churches, a truck slows to pause at the four-way. Pink and blue hand-painted letters down the side of the truck reads, “This truck transports the redeemed of the Lord.” The driver rolls down the window of the old Ford F-150.

“Hey there, man! I got an extra burger. Here ya’ go . . . ,” handing off a Hardee’s dollar cheeseburger wrapped in red-and-white waxed paper through his truck window to the man. “Thank you, sir. God bless you,” he replies, and the stranger speeds away just in time to make the yellow light at the intersection of Broad and Church, where the Hardee’s faces the CVS pharmacy. He pulls a trailer filled with junk metal probably destined for sale to the local dump. As truck and trailer bounce, they cross the tracks with their load of vacuum hoses, broken dryers, and old microwaves going air borne.

By the metal building behind the Hardee’s near the churches, someone has left a twenty-dollar bill secured by a rock as a paperweight. Next to the rock is a sleeping bag, as if the money was left by someone’s bed, along with a Christian tract titled “If you died today where would you spend eternity?” Scattered litter surrounds the makeshift bed. A large stone serves as a nightstand. Huddle House coupons, pilfered from the local post office garbage where folks toss the weekly coupon inserts, are cut and arranged neatly underneath the stone table for safekeeping. One of the coupons offers $3.99 breakfast of two eggs, bacon, and buttered toast with jelly this week through Friday. Empty water bottles and a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, courtesy of a nearby church, are full of hotel sample-sized shampoos, body wash, and lotions.

A note from someone named Wanda reads, “I came by to check your blood sugar but you were gone. Come by around noon before lunch and I’ll check it. I’ll be at Fish.” The Fish, a local Christian nonprofit, serves the down-and-out of the town.

Walking from the four-way stop, the man arrives at his makeshift home with his dollar burger. Setting the burger on the stone table, he attempts to ease his way down to the ground, to his sleeping bag for a bit of lunch. Suddenly breathing seems a struggle, and the man feels faint. A lady from a passing car slows, noticing the man struggling.

“I’m dizzy, I can’t get my breath,” the man whispers to the passerby.

Someone call for an ambulance!

The cell phone rings. It’s a Georgia number.

“Ma’am, are you a relative? I’m with the hospital. He’s been here since noon. He gave us your name.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I want to add again, this time.

“Congestive heart failure, A-fib, diabetes . . . ,” the voice sounds off a plethora of maladies. “We’re trying to get the fluid off his legs.”

“Oh. Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can, I’m out of state but I’ll be there. Please let him know I’m on the way.”

Entering his room, I can’t help but notice his legs, with leathery skin that is dark purple, swollen from the knees down. I notice the fingernails on his hands and his toenails, overgrown and separated from the nail beds. He recognizes me. Gingerly I hug him, trying to pretend he appears normal and that nothing in the world can be wrong. We exchange small talk then a long period of silence ensues.

Our silence is interrupted by a tall, elderly black man, wearing a dark suit, entering the hospital room.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” I question the tall stranger.

Ignoring me, the man glances in my brother’s direction, “Here you are.” He has a kind smile. “I went by to see you and you weren’t there. So, I figured you might be here.”

“You know him?”

“I’m a friend,” the man says. “For several years, my wife and I have fed him and check on him.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m retired. I drive the hearse for the funeral home to make ends meet between checks. We became friends several years ago. I’m Pearce Giles.”

We shake hands. Surprised by this generosity, I release my suspicion and smile.

“Has anyone got his bags?”

“What bags?” I have to ask.

“His bags. You need to get his bags. I can show you where they are. I’ll be leaving soon. I can meet you over there where he stays.” We exchange phone numbers. “Just text me when you’re close by. It’s near the Hardee’s restaurant. Up the street from the First African Baptist that’s down the hill from the First Baptist Church off Broad Street.”

I’ll be there.

I ease my car by the curb. A metal building stands across the street behind the local Hardee’s. There lies a sleeping bag on a concrete loading ramp, scattered hoodies, some large Ziploc bags filled with body care products and a couple disposable razors. There’s a pair of scissors on the sleeping bag. A young athletic woman appears from around the corner of the building. She is muscular, obviously the figure of a bodybuilder. “Is Lee okay? We saw the ambulance pick him up.”

“ My husband and I own this building. We have a gym, and my husband allows Lee to sleep here.” Two canvas bags lie tossed in the corner.

“Lee stays here in the morning until the afternoon sun gets too hot then he moves across the street to the Hardee’s or the CVS. They let him sit inside in the air sometimes,” Pearce informs me.

Smart thinking. I pick up each bag then turn and head to my Honda. I bought it after driving an old Camry until it almost fell apart. I’m worried about what’s in the bags and if there’s an odor, will it stink up the Honda?

“Ma’am, those bags belong to someone,” shouts a white lady driving by. She then slows down to park by Pearce’s Tahoe and my Honda Accord coupe. Pearce moves by me, standing guard. “This is Lee’s sister. She’s here to get his things to take to him. He’s in the hospital.”

“Oh,” and the scowl disappears. “I wondered where he was. I wuz’ ‘bout to take out’a warrant on somebody cuz’ those are Lee’s things. I don’t know if you know me. I’m Barbara Parham Breedlove. I was a Farmer. I check on Lee. “

“Farmer? We might be related. That’s our grandma’s maiden name and I thank you for checking on Lee.” I press the key fob, open my trunk and toss the bags inside. Then, Barbara Parham Breedlove, with the maiden name of Farmer, drives away. Pearce smiles and says, “I wasn’t sure what she was going to do when she drove up yelling about warrants and Lee’s things.” He chuckles.

“Well, it’s nice to see so many people who care about him,” I reply.

I finish loading and return to the hospital.

Outside Lee’s door, the doctor on call, named Emily, introduces herself. “I met your brother at the free clinic in town. I volunteer. Do you mind me asking some questions, was he born this way?”

“What was he like in school?”

“He quit. My parents took him to a child psychologist at the University. They wanted to put him on Ritalin. But my daddy wasn’t hearing of any medicine. You know how that generation was and especially with religion. You did not take medicine for behavioral issues. You did not see therapists. He was thrown into a behavior disorder class and fell through the cracks of the public school system. He quit high school. But he managed to end up working as a mechanic at Honda, then driving a truck for Wal-Mart. He could put anything together: our father’s watch, an engine, anything with bolts. He just couldn’t put together a stable life and home . . .”

Emily nods, emphatically listening.

Strangers have become my brother’s keeper. But they cannot see what we did.

DeLane Phillips is a Southern writer, former teacher, empty nester, and parent of two dachshunds Mac and Sasha. Much of her writing is inspired by the rural life from her childhood in Monroe, Georgia and various characters of the small Southern towns she has lived in.

Originally published at http://modernsouthernfolklore.com on November 28, 2023.