There is also a young woman, but she doesn’t seem to interact with the rest of the group, to talk with them or sit with them or even look at them. Bernie and I see her almost every night during our walks, usually somewhere near the Basilica. Bernie always spots her first. I’ve noticed as soon as we get near her usual places, he begins to look for her.
Her hair is choppy short, no doubt a do-it-yourself haircut, and is probably brown but is always in various stages of blonde tips and dark roots. It’s hard to say how old she is. I would guess she’s in her late teens or early 20s. She’s slender, average height — maybe 5 ft 5 inches? — and delicate.
She’s shy, almost like a wild deer, ready to bolt at anything. But she and Bernie have a crush on each other, so she’s a little more open with me becaue of him. She tells me her name is Priscilla.
I look for her every day, and if I don’t see her, I worry. I think of her on rainy nights and wonder if she’s found a safe and dry place to sleep. One very cold night, Bernie and I fretted to the point that we got up in the middle of the night and looked for her. We took a blanket and warm jacket for her with us and searched in all the usual places. We couldn’t find her. It was a long time before I finally got to sleep that night.
I worry that she’s easy prey for men at night — the homeless men whose inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol or drugs or mental illness. And the men who are out on the prowl looking for a dangerously vulnerable pretty young thing.
I worry about Priscilla’s mother. Is she looking for her? Has she given up on her? Does she stay awake on rainy nights too, hoping Priscilla has at least found a dry place to sleep. Every time I look at Priscilla’s face, I think this is someone’s daughter. And my heart breaks a litttle.
If I had the courage, I would try to persuade her to go home with Bernie and me. I would feed her and bathe her and give her my clean bed to sleep in. Now I do understand that there are few people who think that would be a good idea. Her real problems are so beyond what I can imagine how to fix. And once she’s fed and clean and has slept, then what? Drop her off on the street again? That’s unbearable. So I live with the shame of not acting on my kindest instincts.
Priscilla’s obsession is food. Not eating it. I’ve never seen her eat at all. But doing other things with it. First, she’s looking for it, going slowly from trash can to trash can, pulling our napkins and pieces of paper and aluminum foil and paper plates and cardboard containers. She goes through each carefully, checking for anything edible. Discarded paper plates or flat containers are also important. As soon as she gathers enough food, she will need them.
It is, of course, the food that first drew Bernie to Priscilla, but their spontaneous friendship soon went far beyond that. Does he also sense her child-like vulnerability and feel protective of her? Bernie himself was homeless and alone for a very long time. He knows much more than I ever could about what that really means.
When Priscilla has saved enough food and plates from the garbage and trash cans, she cuts all of the food into very precise, small squares, and symmetrically arranges them on the plates. Dry bread, moldy meat, vegetables, smashed fruit, remains of all sorts of lunches, bagels, croissants, unidentifiable mush.
She sits on the ground and encircles herself with the filled plates while she works, and when she is done, she arranges the plates of food in a straight line. She pushes a filled plate towards Bernie and me as we approach, and asks me in a timid voice, “Is he hungry?” Bernie looks at the plate, drooling over whatever garbage it holds and then looks at me expectantly.
I know it would please her if I let Bernie eat it. And it would please Bernie if I let him eat it. But I’m sure he would get sick. At the very least, he would probably throw up, and at the worst, he’ll get salmonella or botulism. I just can’t. So every time I say, as gently as I can, “His doctor makes him eat a special diet.” Priscilla pushes the plate back in line. Bernie continues to drool.
This time, she hesitates. “Can I touch him, “she asks.
“He would like that,” I tell her.
And she kneels in front of him, reaches out and ever so softly caresses his large head. He stands perfectly still, obviously being careful not to frighten her away. My big burly Bernie, who goes out of his way to avoid being touched by strangers, slightly closes his eyes in pleasure as Priscilla lays her small hands on his whiskered muzzle, across his velvety ears and along his cheeks. She is like a blind person memorizing the face of a loved one.
The moment between them is so intimate that I must look away. Bernie and Priscilla. A match made in heaven.