The Encounter

The Encounter

I noticed the glassy eyes first, then her unsteady stance. Before she could speak, her son, William, rushed to the door to receive the box of food I was offering. She backed away demurely and unsure of my presence. I knew William from the mentor program, but this was the first time I met his mother. There was no father, only older siblings who had moved out of the apartment of this Title 8 housing complex. William thanked me and quickly bid me goodbye. I gave a cursory glance inside before leaving—two pieces of furniture and a stained carpet- typical for these homes. I had made a slew of conjectures about William's situation before I even got to my car, the most notable being that his mother was drunk.

My deep-set meliorism, which is why I joined the program as a mentor, told me to work harder with William. Push him harder. I ideated a better life for William. He would graduate, attend college or a training program, and work a job that offered a decent wage to rise above Title 8 housing. Wasn't that the goal of the mentor program, to inspire young people to rise to their potential? To strive for better?

Some of the parents in the program were involved, but I had never seen William's mother attend any of the events. Alcoholism took people away from their families. Children of alcoholics tend to take on a caretaker role while trying to cover up the family problems that the disease brings. William was always cracking jokes, and I wondered if that was his way of putting a veil over the sadness of his home life. Nonetheless, I would ameliorate the situation as best I could by giving him extra attention during the weekly meetings.

Wednesday, William didn't show up to the program. I surmised he was caring for his mom or, worse, off gallivanting with neighborhood gangs. One of our program's goals was to keep the kids from fraternizing with gangs. He was caught smoking weed several times at the mentor program; the drugs he probably got from the gangs. William's young age of 16 left him impressionable and vulnerable to the influence of the streets, especially with the lack of support from home. It seemed to be a dire situation, which drew me in deeper.

I mulled this over a bit and decided to take another box of food to his house before next week's meeting. Our program kept a stock of food for situations like Williams's. I also used my own funds to buy additional food- fruits and vegetables, dairy products, chicken, and fresh bread. The program's supply mainly consisted of cans and boxed foods. William needed more than a box of processed foods. I talked with Deidre, the program's director, and she agreed to call William's mother to let her know that, once again, I was bringing a box of food to their house. The rules of the program didn't allow us to show up unannounced. Deidre lauded me for my efforts.

Hoping to find William at home, I came after school hours. I pulled my vehicle into the complex and parked right outside his building. Loud music boomed from the building next to William's, and a Mercedes Benz with tinted windows sat idling adjacent to where I was parked. I could see an outline of a man in the driver's seat. The smell of weed drifted through the air.

I pulled the box from the trunk; it sagged heavily in my arms, heavier than the last time I delivered a box of food. I set the box in front of the door before knocking. Time sat still as I listened for movement beyond the door. No one answered. I noticed the door, tattered and scratched as if it had been in a brawl, and the window blinds, broken in places, looked forlorn.

I knocked again, and finally, a throaty voice eked out, 'Who is it?' I told her who I was and why I was standing outside of her door. The silence that ensued was swarming with trepidation. I pictured William's mother splayed out on the couch half passed out.

"Commmmminnnng," came from behind the door. A two-syllable word strung out and laboriously spoken.

A voice from behind caused me to jump. "Miss Amy!"

I heard the twisting of a doorknob; the person on the other side was struggling with the mechanism.

"Commmmmmmminnnng," a muted but slurred word penetrated the door.

I glanced at William who hid burgeoning emotions behind a wide grin. "It's Miss Amy, Ma! She brought more groceries. I got it. You go lay down!"

"William, you missed the meeting last week. We missed you. I wanted to make sure you were getting your..."

William interrupted, "I was taking care of mom." His shoulders slumped.

"...homework done. Wait. You were taking care of mom. William, I'm so..."

"I gotta go, Miss Amy. Thanks for the food."

The door opened. I noticed the glassy eyes again. The woman swayed as she held onto the doorknob.

"...sorry." Suddenly, I felt like my apology was for the mother. Her contorted face looked angry. Maybe she did not welcome my goodwill.

William pushed past me and rushed into his home. The mother stumbled backward but caught her balance, warding off a fall.

"Bye, Miss Amy." I noticed him take hold of his mother's hand before he shut the door.

The loud music and the mysterious man in the Mercedes Benz drowned my thoughts. I rushed to my car and raced home.

Wednesday, William showed up at the meeting. As I was getting him started on his homework, Deidre pulled me aside.

"I need to speak to you about William's situation," Deidre stated soberly.

"I know, Deidre. It's disheartening. How can a child focus on his education when his mother is an alcoholic? His home life must be chaotic."

"Alcoholic? Amy, William's mother, is not an alcoholic; she's a stroke victim."

"Stroke?" That would explain her slurring words, imbalance, and contorted face that made her look angry. I melted into my clothes and shrunk like the Wicked Witch doused with water. After realizing it was a medical condition, not alcohol, that caused her to appear drunk, I knew I had some soul-searching to do. Right then and there, I was forced to face the prejudices that hid inside me about people who live in poverty. I came from a middle-class family where health care is a given, college is expected, and health problems don't typically lead to poverty.

"Deidre, I didn't know what William was dealing with at home. I'm ashamed to say this, but I assumed his mother drank, you know, like an alcoholic. I feel horrible."

"She permitted me to share this information with you. She also appreciates how much you are doing to help William. Next time you take food to the house, she would like you to take some time to visit with her. She wants to thank you for being so attentive to William."

"Deidre, how can I face her after what I assumed about her."

"That's a viable response considering that some of the children that come to this program do have parents on drugs. The streets are filled with negative influences. But William's situation is different. His mother lost her job after she suffered a stroke, and William had to take care of her basic needs. Our program is working on getting in-home help to relieve William of some of the responsibilities."

Before leaving the program that night, I packed another box of food from the program’s pantry. The next day I made an early afternoon trip to William's apartment. Things were quieter than the last time I was here. The music wasn't thumping, and there was no sign of the mysterious Mercedes Benz.

William's mother answered the door after several knocks, this time with a cane in hand. Inside the apartment I noticed details that showed a caring mother, one being a series of pictures of her children in their graduation gowns. The last picture frame was empty. William's mother noticed my inquiring look.

"I'm waiting for William to graduate to fill that frame, and I'm hoping you can help him make it through. You see, Miss Amy, since I had my stroke, William has taken it upon himself to see that I am taken care of. It's a lot of responsibility for a 16-year-old. I ask that you do your best to get him involved in school and keep his grades up. I need to fill that last frame. Do you think you can do this for my son?" She spoke slowly and often paused to find the words she was trying to put forth.

I was dumbfounded and at a loss for words. This woman loved and cared deeply for her son. Eventually, I managed to stammer, "Of course, I will, Ms. Umm."

"You can call me Patricia."

"Yes, Patricia. I will see to it that William walks across that stage in two years. Furthermore, I will come by periodically to check on you."

In the two years that it took William to reach the age of graduation, he developed regular study habits, which, in turn, earned him high grades. He passed all his classes and was invited to graduate with the class of 2024. I was with Patricia when William walked across the stage and turned his tassel. On my next visit to the apartment, William's graduation picture filled the frame.