Charlie and Sheila

Charley and Sheila—1967 to 1970

A light breeze wrapped us in the newness of spring; the warm sun cast leafy kaleidoscopic patterns upon the ground. I was out for an afternoon walk, pushing my twenty-month old daughter Annie in her blue canvas stroller, joined to the play of light and shadows, soaking in a perfect day—until the thought came again to go there. I didn’t want to go there; to spoil the tranquility; to interrupt our walk.

There was one of several decaying large Victorian homes built near the five-way stop, the busiest uptown intersection. It was becoming an unhealthy blight on a town whose proud slogan read, “A Nice Place to Live.”

The house had deteriorated slowly; paint flaked, the lawn scuffed to dust, dirty windows got dirtier; the porch sagged. The owner, said to be one of the richest men in town, did nothing. He ran the town’s dry goods store, with a monopoly on the high school’s orange and black athletic jackets and the elastic legged blue shorts and white slip over blouses required for girls’ gym classes.

No one called him a slum landlord, our town had no slums. Perhaps he was a man ahead of his time, a good Samaritan, blessing the needy, but folks were asking questions. Watching his tenants, transients and the homeless poor, become visible right close to the center of town was hurting hearts, bothering consciences and stirring indignation—as well as concern about property values.

The gracious old places had rundown so gently I’d  grown used to them and ignored the increasing shabbiness.  Until recently—for the last several weeks, every time I stopped at the five-way stop, every time I took my daughter out for a stroll, the thought rose up—front and center—a steady, persuasive, pulse in my heart, “Go there. Someone lives there who needs to learn to read. Find out who and help them.”

I disbelieved the direction; I tried to ignore it. I wasn’t used to listening to inner voices or following impulses. Stepping out of safe roles felt risky, but the call persisted; it wouldn’t go away; it grew stronger. After deliberately pushing the stroller two blocks in the opposite direction, I turned a corner, reversed direction, and headed there.

Standing at the bottom of the worn stairs, I waited, apprehensive, hesitant. I picked up my daughter from the stroller and held her close. Should I go up? The push in my heart grew stronger, with a courage beyond my own. Slowly I climbed the steps to the wide front porch and rang a doorbell, hoping no one would answer.

I didn’t have to wait long. A wrinkled old woman with a southern accent must have seen me coming. Her suspicious face relaxed the second I asked if anyone living there wanted help learning to read. She invited me into a messy room where every surface, the dining table, chairs and the fireplace mantle, was cluttered with papers, dishes, clothing and household items. With gracious hospitality, I was welcomed and introduced me to her lean and equally gray headed wrinkled husband and her leaner tall hangdog looking son. His name was Charlie.

Charlie looked to be older than me, in his thirties. A forelock of brown hair fell over his face. He was shy. He didn’t talk much. I asked again if they knew of anyone in the building who needed to learn to read. The lady told me nobody in their family needed reading but just to go on upstairs. The lady up there might want to read better. She might know. She knew everybody. Ask her. She was the only one up there. Everybody else was out.

Holding Annie tightly, I walked up the first flight. Patches of plaster had fallen off the walls, one shade-less ceiling light bulb hung from a bare wire. The stairs needed sweeping, the stairwell window glass was cracked. At the top, a door was open to a tiny closet, now converted into a makeshift kitchen. Its only window was open wide, letting in clean sunshine. The light breeze, playing through leaves of an old American elm with branches almost close enough to touch, freshened the stale air. A heavyset woman with naturally bright red curly hair was stirring up a can of soup at the stove. I told her why I was there.

She seemed interested, said, “I’m Sheila,” turned off the soup, and invited me to sit down. Shelia knew how to read. She showed me. But she thought maybe someone else who lived there might be interested. We visited. She wanted to talk. She needed to talk.

She rented one small room—for herself, her boy and her girl—both at Central School. I told her my boys were at North School and I couldn’t stay long; I needed to be home before school let out. She needed to talk more.

I learned that her husband had moved them up north and dumped them for a waitress. Now he was divorcing her. She was homesick for Southern Ohio, but stuck—no car, no money. She worked odd jobs— housecleaning was best—when she could find it.

All the second floor tenants shared the kitchen— the smart ones shopped every day and hid canned goods and crackers in their rooms because food disappeared. All the tenants shared the same bathroom; the men upstairs used it too—a real problem when the plumbing broke. Her concern was factual, no whining, no indignation. Just fact. “That’s way too many  for one toilet. There’s no privacy. I can’t let my children go alone. I stand in the hall. I guard when they go and we bring our own soap.” She was a hefty woman, bigger than me, with a gentleness under her ferocity. She spoke with more sureness than I felt about anything.

She said, “You’ve got to see it.” Insisting, she led the way. Turning Annie’s head away from the bathroom door, I peered into the tiny dark cubicle and drew back. Still insistent, Sheila opened a closed hallway door and led me up a narrow stairs to the attic. Sunshine from small attic windows made bright squares on the clean swept floor. Empty mattresses lined each wall under the slanted eves. Sheila said that some nights every mattress was filled, men only, for $25 dollars a night. They left early every morning.

Climbing down the narrow attic stairs, we sat at the tiny kitchen table. I wanted to leave; she wanted me to stay.

She checked her watch, a feminine one, with a narrow tight band on her plump, fair, freckled arm and said, “There’s time before your boys get out of school.”
I said, “But if no one needs reading then I don’t know why I came.”
She said, “Wait. Have a cup of tea.”

She boiled water for tea, offered my daughter a cracker and eventually broke the chitchat to say slowly, “Charley, downstairs. He’s my boyfriend. He doesn’t read. He doesn’t think he can learn. Do you think you he can learn? Can you get help for him? He needs a man teacher. Not you.”

I said, “His parents said nobody there needed to read.”

She said, “They think he’s dumb. They think he can’t. They don’t want him to read. If he could read he could get a job. He could get a driver’s license. He could learn to drive a car. He could marry me. He could leave them. He wants to leave them. Real bad.”

I said, “Oh. I’ll tell my husband. Maybe he can help Charlie learn to read.”

She said, “Thank you. Come tell me. Not them. They wouldn’t like it. I’ll set it up.”

I agreed.

I had a lot to think about that walk home. That night I told my husband.

He said, “I’ll teach Charlie to read.”

We had Frank Laubach’s Each One Teach One little learn-to-read picture books back then in the 1960’s. I walked back to Sheila’s the next day, told her where we lived and when my husband wanted Charley to come. He arrived early. He sat in my favorite chintz chair with white and yellow flowers and the reading lessons began. Charlie never missed one. Mostly he wanted to get a driver’s license. So Ed got the Illinois Rules of the Road, found some practice driver’s license tests and soon taught from them. Charlie learned enough to read the questions and the answers. Then Ed taught Charlie how to drive. I don’t think he needed a permit back then.

Ed helped Charlie and Sheila whenever they asked. When Sheila’s girl got impacted, Ed took them all to the doctor and waited with them. Ed met Charlie’s Dad and admired his bright shiny red Chevy truck. Ed told me he saw Charlie’s mom hugging Charlie tight, like a baby, embarrassed for a mother to so hug a grown man in front of strangers. So that’s how we met Charlie and Sheila and got to know them.

It took the better part of a year, before Charlie could drive and read enough to pass the test for a license. He missed it the first time. But Ed helped him study harder and told him not to give up and took him again, and again, until he passed the tests. After that we didn’t see Charlie and Sheila for a long time.

In the interval, Charlie got a job, his parents moved back to Appalachia, and he and Sheila saved up a bit of money. Things changed for my husband and me too. In 1969 my husband begged me to leave him. So I did.

I didn’t expect Charlie and Sheila to come back into my life again, but in the spring of 1970 they did. For one day. One spring morning Bob, the assistant pastor of the Congregational Church unexpectedly phoned to say that Charlie and Sheila were getting married on Saturday. Could I come to their wedding?

They’d gone to our house to invite us, but the children and I had moved out and Ed was away so they asked the pastor to find us and invite us. They weren’t asking anyone else. Pastor Bob’s wife was baking a cake. Sheila wanted the pastor to ask if I could “Please bring the flowers?”

It was more than a bit unusual. Our church catered to established, conventional families, not down and outers. But Charley and Sheila wanted to “do it right” so they picked the church they knew Ed went to, drove over together, walked in, and asked for a real church wedding. Pastor Bob had guided them through getting a license and all the blood tests. He chuckled to tell me that when they needed extra money for the license, they drove East, over near Grays Lake, and spent a day skinning a horse at a place they knew paid cash right away. They were good at it, both growing up in the hills with families that hunted for food.

On their wedding day I was glad spring came warm and early that year, with flowers galore. After settling my children with doughnuts and toys at their grandparent’s house, I took off to forage through friends’ and neighbors’ yards for flowers and greens—bridal wreath, early roses and lilacs, whatever was offered.

Arriving early at the church, I arranged huge bouquets in the chapel vases. I fussed over Sheila’s bridal bouquet with ribbons and greens and then I waited, quiet and alone in the small silent chapel. Everyone came about the same time. Charley and Sheila and her children had driven over together. It was all simple and casual, yet a bit stiff and awkward, too. No one had been to a wedding quite like this one. Although the ceremony was scheduled for noon, no one looked at the clock. The pianist began to play when everyone was ready. Sheila’s short skinny son walked her down the chapel aisle. The only other witnesses were the church pianist, a soloist who disappeared after she sang and the pastor’s wife. Charlie wore a suit. Sheila wore a white cotton short-sleeved summer dress with eyelet. Sheila’s children wore clean new clothes. At first they both stood up beside the bride and groom. When her little girl began to fidget, Pastor Bob suggested they sit in the empty first pew. After the wedding we all ate cake and drank coffee together.

My husband didn’t come to the wedding. He was involved with his new wife and her family; Sheila and Charlie missed him. They said to be sure to tell him good-bye and thank him for everything, to tell him they’d bought a car and saved enough money for gas to move back home. Their car was packed and they were taking off right after the wedding. Charlie was from Kentucky and Sheila was from Southern Ohio and they never said where they were headed. But they did say that they didn’t fit into our town and they didn’t like the North and were longing for their kin. Both were ready to settle down for good—back home. Charlie was a good Dad, Sheila said. Her children loved him. Then we said our goodbyes and I never saw or heard from Charlie or Sheila again.

Fifty years later, though, their memory is alive. That whole morning was a gift. It gave amazing closure to the first time the Holy Spirit unexpectedly moved me wide out of my comfort zone for another’s benefit. I’m grateful for the gift of courage that walked me up those worn steps and helped me ring the bell. It also marked a transition in my own life. The night before had been a sleepless one, marred by violence. I’ve written about it in an autobiographical essay called Unfinished Business. I needed a transition. Charlie and Sheila’s wedding, filling my arms with spring flowers, arranging their bouquets and listening to their exchange of vows was a gift of beauty, hope and love. I hope they ended well. My ending, so far, has been well. I still get unusual promptings from the Holy Spirit now and then. Following them hasn’t gotten any easier, often I never see the results, but when I do, I usually see the hand of God.