Being Her

Mason Campbell, reporter with the Atlanta Constitution, feels frustrated. For the past fifteen minutes he’s been trying to interview Miss Chancey Jarvis. Though Miss Jarvis is patiently answering his questions, her answers are vague.

“Miss Jarvis, you have lived here for more than sixty years, Is that right?” He asks.

“Yes, it is my home.”

“But people don’t live permanently in homeless shelters, do they?”

“So, I’ve been told.”

“How come you have?”

“This is where I live. Will you be much longer? I need to put the towels in the dryer.” She fidgets in her chair. Looking distressed at being kept from her task.

“No, Thank you, Miss Jarvis. I appreciate you taking the time for me.” He sighs. He had been warned that he wouldn’t get much information from her.

The eighty-eight-year-old woman rises slowly from the metal folding chair and carries it to where the other chairs are stacked. She smiles warmly. “Y’all have a nice day, now.”

~~~~~~

Seventy years earlier.

On Tuesday at 11:53, belching exhaust, brakes squealing, the bus from Orlando pulled into berth seventeen at the downtown Atlanta bus depot. The day before, seventeen-year-old Chancey had accepted a ride to Valdosta from Mr. Major, the small town’s grade one-through-five teacher. Twelve hours, many stops and one driver-change later, she walked out of the bus depot, carrying her old brown cardboard suitcase. She had earned her bus fare plus change at the Dairy Barn, out on R.R. 2465.

Mr. Major had given up trying to talk Chancey out of leaving the dead-end village. Her father, before he passed, had told her ‘to get out of town.” So that’s what she was doing. The teacher had given her ten dollars, “For a rainy day. Tuck it away, know you’ll always have a cushion.” He had said. She had smiled and nodded, not quite understanding what he had meant by rainy day and cushion. But she hadn’t fretted over it.

Peachtree Street was overwhelming. So much wider, the buildings on either side so much taller than anything she had seen. And so many cars, so many people! To escape the noise and smell, she turned into the first side street she saw, and slowly walked a few blocks away from downtown. She stopped and stared at the window that was full of books. Towers made of identical books filled the display table in front of the window. A pretty picture book was open, showing a photograph of a sailor kissing a pretty girl. Stuck to the window with tape was a ‘Help Wanted’ sign. She had lost track of time when the door to the shop opened. “Come on in.” the man motioned for her to step inside. Not questioning his invitation, she picked up her suitcase and walked into Morris’ Book Shop.

It didn’t take long for Maxwell Morris, Max to his friends, to realize that Miss Chancey Jarvis was living in her own beautiful universe, where her elevator went most of the way up but would never reach the penthouse. That she had all the colors in her crayon box but only used some of them. However, she was careful to color inside the lines and would always send the elevator car back down so someone else could use it.

Knowing that she would be churned up, extruded, and set out by the dumpster at most any job, he hired her. He even called Chip the landlord, and paid the deposit on apt. 1A, the one directly over the shop. He explained to Chancey that he would subtract the rent from her paycheck and make sure that it was sent to the Landlord. She smiled and nodded then followed him up the stairs to her new home.

Every morning at eight-fifty-six Chancey would leave her one-bedroom apartment, walk down the back stairs, exit the building through the back door, take two steps to the left and knock on the back door of Morris’ Book Shop. Every day she’d dust the books and shelves, unpack and file new deliveries, in alphabetical order, mostly, put up and take down seasonal decorations when Max would tell her.

Each evening Chancey would visit one of her neighbors. Every Monday she shared sandwiches with Mrs. Englese in 3A who’d tell her in great detail about her career as a runway model for Belk’s ‘back in the day’. How she’d have to scramble and change clothes that always looked better on her, than on the customers. Mrs. Englese would giggle behind her manicured hand. Before she’d leave, Chancey would vacuum Mrs. Englese’s rugs.

On Tuesdays she’d have pork chops with Mr. and Mrs. Burling in 2B who’d tell her all about how proud they were of their son the doctor, and how well their daughter had done for herself. And show her pictures of their grandchildren. When dinner was done, Chancey would mop their floors after doing the dishes.

Each Wednesday was soup night with Mr. Johnson in IB. He’d have a can of soup waiting for Chancey to heat up and often a small, sweet dessert. He rarely said much and Chancey never started a conversation, so their dinners passed quickly and quietly. She cleaned his bathroom after she did the dishes.

Thursdays she’d make macaroni and cheese from-the-box in her apartment and bring at least half of it to Mr. Smith in 4A. While he was eating she’d change his sheets and gather his laundry. When she’d bring the clean linens and clothes back, she’d take the empty bowl with her.

Mrs. Golden in 3B would make a fish dish on Fridays. Chancey never did learn to pronounce it exactly the way Mrs. Golden said it. Mrs. Golden told Chancey she had a daughter in Athens. Her son-in-law was a professor, she said, at the university. Maybe one day, she’ll move there. But she wasn’t ready to leave Atlanta, yet. Soon, maybe. After dinner Mrs. Golden would have a different task for Chancey each week. Often, she’d ask Chancey to clean out a closet, only to have her put everything back in. Mrs. Golden wasn’t ready to give up any of her memories and nick-nacks.

 Saturday was special. Chancey would visit with Ms. Jeffers in 2A, who always sent out for something exotic, like pizza or Chinese, and would tell Chancey stories from books she’d read. Ms. Jeffers, secretary to a bank manager, said that Chancey didn’t have to clean, but never objected when Chancey did it anyway.

Sunday was her day off from the bookshop. Max had given up trying to send her back home on Monday morning, which was her other day off. No matter how many times he’d explain it to her, she would still stand at the back door and knock, waiting to be let in.

On Sundays Chancey went to the small market in the next block. She would go five or six times. She’d fill Mrs. Englese’s shopping list, deliver it, then go back out to fill the next wish list. Later in the day she’d do Mr. Johnson’s and her own laundry. She was usually too tired to eat her peanut butter sandwich by the time she finished.

She was happy.

Mr. Johnson in 1B passed away. Mrs. Golden in 3B, went to live with her daughter and son-in-law in Athens. New people moved in. They didn’t need her help. She made peanut butter sandwiches on Wednesdays and Fridays. Her Sundays were a little less hectic now. When her tasks were finished she’d sit on the lumpy couch, her only piece of furniture, not counting a wobbly chair in the kitchen, and wait till Monday.

For ten years she worked at Morris’ filing books, carrying empty boxes to the dumpster, discovering Christmas, Easter, or Book Week decorations in the storage room, dusting the shelves, and occasionally helping a customer find what they were looking for. And for ten years she helped her neighbors and did chores in return for a meal and company.

It was quiet in the shop that January morning.

“Chancey, do you have a minute, dear?” Max called out. She dropped what she was doing and hurries to the check-out desk.

“Yes, Mr. Morris? What do you need me to do?”

“No, just listen. I’m going to retire.” He paused.

She smiled and nodded, waiting for him to tell her more.

He sighed. “I will be closing the shop.” He added.

Chancey smiled and nodded.

“Chip, the landlord, has sold the building. Do you understand what I’m saying.”

She smiled. Then her smile faded slightly. “Not really, Mr. Morris.” she admitted.

“The building is sold to a developer, there won’t be a bookstore anymore and everyone will have to move.”

“Oh.” She was quiet. “Where to?” she then asked cheerfully.

“I don’t know.” Max sighed again. “I will find some information for you. People to contact. People who will be able to help you.”

“Okay, thank you Mr. Morris. Shall I go back to what I was doing?”

A week later she carefully placed the envelope with information, phone numbers and services available through Social Services in a drawer in the kitchen. Right next to the rubber bands and saved twist ties, on top of the three letters from Chip, the landlord.

She cheerfully helped pack up the store and seal the boxes of books that would go back to the various publishers. She helped Mr. Smith pack and waved him off. She hugged Mr. and Mrs. Burling when they left. She was sad for a moment when Ms. Jeffers left without saying goodbye.

None of this stopped her from going into 4A, 2A and 2B on her regular days and doing her usual chores. She did miss getting dinner and hoped everyone would come back soon. Mrs. Englese was the last one of her neighbors to move out. She gave Chancey a lovely little paperweight, a starburst of green trapped inside glass.

On Monday, when Chancey went to 3A to vacuum, she returned Mrs. Englese’s paperweight, for surely the woman would miss something this beautiful. Each evening, she continued with her chores and returned to her apartment to eat a peanut butter sandwich, except on Thursday, when she made macaroni and cheese.

On the first of May, a lovely spring morning, Chancey left her apartment at eight -fifty-six, as usual, and knocked on the back door of Morris’ Book Shop. Mr. Morris did not open the door. She stayed at the back door, knocking at regular intervals, till six in the evening. The next day she was back, and the next.

On Monday, the fifth of May, Chancey heard unusual, ominously loud noises coming from somewhere in the building. The sounds confused and scared her, she sat on her sofa, that also served as er bed, and waited for the racket to stop. At five o’clock the building fell silent. She walked down the stairs and knocked on the backdoor of the bookstore. At six-thirty Chancey let herself in Mrs. Englese apartment and vacuumed the empty rooms. On Tuesday morning the loud noises were back. Again, she sat and waited for the sounds to stop so that she could go to work.

For the next few days, this became her new routine. Waiting for the noise to stop, knocking on the bookstore’s back door, and doing whatever chore she was scheduled to do that evening. Wishing there was someone who’d talk to her.

Until Thursday.

Stunned she surveyed the chaos, the otherworldly moonscape that greeted her on the fourth floor when she stepped off the elevator, ready to clean Mr. Smith’s apartment. There were no walls. Conduit wires hung like so many nooses from the ceiling. A haphazard pile of rubble with toilets, bathroom and kitchen sinks lay in the middle of the open space.

Frightened, she returned to her own apartment and sat staring at the door all night.

On Friday morning the screeching, pounding, and drilling resumed. Again, she sat on her sofa to wait out the sounds of destruction. Trembling, her heart racing, her knuckles white while she clasped them tightly together in her lap. Come five o'clock she was still in too much turmoil to venture to the backdoor of the bookstore. And even though the building remained silent on Saturday morning, Chancey was unable to resume her regular routine. She was too shaken up to even go to the market to restock her meager cupboard.

The next week the screaming and pounding of machines were back at eight sharp. That evening all the apartments, including Mrs. Englese’s and Mrs. Golden’s on the third floor had disappeared. Shaken to her core, she did not leave 1A again until Sunday when she dared to dash to the little market for a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. She had stopped trying to go to work or clean her neighbors' apartments. She spent her days and nights sitting up, staring at the door, fearing that something would happen, though she could not imagine what that could be.

On Friday of that third week, the doorknob of Chancey’s apartment rattled. Her breath caught in her throat; her knuckles turned even whiter with the effort of clasping her fingers together.

“Oh, man!” A deep, unfamiliar voice mumbled. “Hey Pete, bring the crowbar, will ya? Why in the world did these people lock their doors?”

Chancey scrunched up her face and squeezed her eyes closed when the wood of the door and frame groaned. The lock tore away from the frame with the sound of splintering wood. The door fell open.

“What the f…!”

She slowly opened her eyes and stared at a man standing in the open doorway. The evidence of too many Pabst’s hung over his tool belt. The buttons of his shirt strained but bravely did their job.

“What?” A taller, leaner man looked over the chubby man’s shoulder. “No way!” He mumbled and stepped back while reaching for his radio. “Yo.” Squawking and static. “Nah, you better come see for yourself.”

Which is how Miss Chancey Jarvis, whose elevator never reached the penthouse, but who always sent the car back for someone else to use, who only used a few of the crayons in her box while she colored carefully inside the lines, came to live at the women’s homeless shelter in Five Point. For the past sixty years she has washed the towels and scrubbed the showers and toilets meticulously in exchange for a bed and a meal.

She has been happy to be useful.