The Pond

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook today. It was Long Hollow Stormwater Pond in Pensacola. It’s unusual in that it was built back in the 1940s as a pond to collect stormwater runoff, but it has since grown to the size of a small lake. Nobody really knows it’s back there and exactly who is supposed to make decisions about what happens to it, so it’s just staying a bit of a hidden gem.

I remembered Long Hollow. About twenty years ago, I had just finished my graduate degree in Counseling and Psychology with the plan to become a counselor. The Christian Counseling Center had their offices on Jordan Street and provided supervision for interns, so I ended up doing my internship with them. We saw clients on a sliding scale. We got experience; clients got the help they needed. I especially loved my schizophrenic clients! I was kinda weird in that, to me, they had this wonderful way of looking at reality. I didn't feel threatened or scared, so I think they were comfortable with me. At least they kept coming back!

One client I will never forget was a man who called himself “Deuce.” Deuce was homeless and definitely had some issues with reality. Most of my work with him was trying to keep him grounded and connecting him to the resources he needed in order to simply survive. Unfortunately, he kept getting kicked out of the shelters I sent him to. He’d come in, disheveled, and I’d ask, “What happened, Deuce?”

“They kicked me out, ma’am.”

He never used my name, only “ma’am.”

“Why’d they kick you out?”

“They said I was a homosexual, ma’am, and they don’t allow homos to stay there.” He’d look at me pleadingly. “But I ain’t homosexual, ma’am. I promise I ain’t!’

“It’s not a problem, Deuce,” I’d reply. “I just want you to find a safe place to sleep.”

I think he’d work his way through three or four different shelters, and in a place like Pensacola, about the only place left for a homeless man to sleep was the county jail! In fact, he had even had a couple of overnights there. That’s why I was surprised when after a month or so, he came in for his appointment and looked absolutely rested.

“Deuce!” I exclaimed. “Did you find a place to sleep?”

He looked around to make sure no one was listening even though we were alone in my office. “You promise you won’t tell, ma’am?” he asked.

I didn’t care for the sound of that, but I said, “I’ll do my best, Deuce. You know most of what we talk about in here is confidential, but there are limits.”

“Oh, I ain’t doin’ anything bad wrong, ma’am,” he assured me. “It is kinda bendin’ the law just a tad, though.” He held his fingers up in a ‘this much’ gesture.

I sighed. “Okay, Deuce. You’ll have to trust me on this one. Where are you sleepin’?”

He looked around a second time to make sure no one was listening. “There’s a pond, more like a lake, over by the Interstate,” he said. “It does have a fence around it, but I found a hole in the fence that’s just big enough for me to fit through. It’s real quiet in there, ma’am. I can lay out my sleepin’ bag and let the stars sing me to sleep!”

His face looked almost beatific. I could tell he saw this as an answer to all his prayers. “Well,” I said, “I think that sounds real purty. But, tell me the truth, are there ‘No Trespassing’ signs hangin’ on that fence?”

His face changed from beatific to little-boy-caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar. He rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling as he said, “No, ma’am.”

I sat back and pursed my lips. Then I said, “So that means, ‘yes, ma’am,’” I said. “Promise me that you aren’t starting any fires or leaving any ‘mess’ in there.”

“Oh, no, ma’am!” he exclaimed, genuinely alarmed. “I ain’t startin’ no fires. I like bein’ under the stars for light. And I don’t do my,” his voice dropped, “my ‘business’ in there. There’s plenty of places around I can use for that.”

If that didn’t sound like a homeless man making the world work for him, I didn’t know what would. “Okay, Deuce,” I said. “As long as you don’t do anything to get yourself arrested or mess up somebody’s property, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

He seemed happy with that and sat back contentedly.

Over the next month or so, Deuce actually started to make some improvements. He was doing better with the grounding skills I taught him. He still wasn’t getting his medication like I wanted, but at least he was trying to find a little work here and there.

That’s why I was surprised when he came in for his appointment looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. I had him sit down, and I honestly thought all he wanted to do was stretch out on the couch and take a nap.

“What happened, Deuce?” I asked. “Did you get caught?”

“No, ma’am,” he said dejectedly. “I just ain’t gettin’ much sleep here lately.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. I waited. Probably the hardest thing I had to do when I was counseling was wait for a client to open up. I started counting to a hundred in my head to keep distracted, hoping he would start talking before I got to a thousand!

Finally, he said very quietly, “I don’t want to tell you, ma’am.” He looked up at me with those sweet, innocent eyes and added in a whisper, “I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”

My first thought was, ‘Too late for that!’ Don’t judge me. I was a good counselor, but I was hardly perfect. In fact, you should be proud of me for keeping it to myself.

Anyway, what I SAID was, “I won’t think that, Deuce. Something is obviously troubling you. Tell me about it.”

“Well,” he began. “I’m not sleepin’ because of the lady.”

“The lady,” I repeated.

“Yes, ma’am,” he continued. “The lady what lives in the pond.”

Red flag number one started waving in the back of my mind. “The lady that lives IN the pond?” I emphasized.

“Yes, ma’am”

“Deuce, humans can’t live in water, honey. We need air to breathe.”

“Yes, ma’am. She ain’t exactly human.”

Red flag number two. “Then what is she, Deuce?” I asked.

He took a deep breath and said, “She’s a haint.”

Red flag number three. I stayed quiet this time.

“I saw her a couple nights ago, floatin’ above the water of that pond. It was a moonless night, and the only light was from the stars. The pond is so isolated, you don’t even get a lot of streetlight back there,” his eyes seemed to focus on the memory inside his head. “I was lookin’ at the water, and she just showed up, floating across the water. She came over toward me and asked what I was doin’ there. I told her I was just sleepin’ and she said, ‘Well, there’s a shed over there you can sleep in. At least on nights when it’s raining.’ I looked where she was pointin’, and there was a shed. But,” he said quickly, focusing back on me, “I don’t want to take the risk of goin’ inside a building. I’d get in a lot more trouble if I got caught in there than if I get caught in the woods around that pond.”

I nodded my head but said nothing. I have no problem acquiescing to his experience on being homeless.

“Anyway, she said that she was real lonely, and it was nice to have somebody to talk to. We ended up talking until sunrise. She said she had to get back in the pond, and I had to leave.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s been like that ever night since. I grab what sleep I can durin’ the day, but there just ain’t a lot of places to lay my head when the sun’s shining.”

He looked so forlorn, it almost broke my heart. “Maybe you should think about trying one of the shelters again,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “She’s real purty, ma’am, and I do enjoy our talks. She likes hearing about my adventures on the road and how I wound up there.” That wistful look returned. “It’s the first time in a long time I’ve felt like somebody saw ME and not my problems.”

‘Ouch!’ I thought, but, again, kept my own counsel.

“Anyway,” he said, “last night she said that I could come live with her in the pond.”

Red flags four through five THOUSAND!!! “What?” I said.

He heard the edge of panic in my voice and added, “But I told her that wasn’t a good idea,” he insisted. “I told her that I just couldn’t walk into the water like that.”

“She wants you to walk in the pond with her?” I asked. “Deuce, any idea where my head is at right now?”

“Oh, please, ma’am,” he said, “please don’t call the sheriff! I promise you I am NOT going to do that. I don’t care how purty she is or how much she tries to talk me into it. I promise, promise, promise I’m going to stay on solid ground.”

I sat back, uneasy. He definitely didn’t sound suicidal, but I knew how lonely he was. Shoot. All my schizophrenic clients were profoundly lonely. I also knew that despite the fact he was doing better, he was still a fragile human being who could be persuaded to do something that would harm him.

“I’ll be honest with you Deuce,” I began slowly. “I would almost rather have you admitted to the Behavioral Health Center where you could at least get some sleep for the next couple of days than take the risk of you going back to the pond.”

He stood and started pacing agitatedly. “No, ma’am. No, ma’am!” He fell on his knees in front of me and put his hand together like a minstrel singer from an old silent movie. “Please, please, please don’t put me in that place! I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t do that! PLEASE!!”

My pity got the better part of my good sense. “Okay, Deuce,” I said. “Go sit back on the couch. Let’s talk this through. If you can convince me that you have the ability to tell this lady no, AND you PROMISE me you won’t go swimming in that pond before your appointment next week, we’ll see. You’re going to need to sign a contract with me to assure me you’re going to keep your promise.”

“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am!” he promised with his whole being.

We worked that entire session on refusal skills. It’s something we use with recovering addicts to learn how to say no when they’re tempted to use drugs. Before he left, he was showing himself to be adept at the process and he willingly signed what I normally use for a suicide contract. I felt confident that he would be okay.

He returned the next week even more haggard looking. “Deuce,” I said. “Are you okay?”

He just sat there. His apparent inability to answer me made me wonder if he was decompensating. After a few minutes I said, “If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to call the sheriff to come get you.”

He sighed deeply and tears begin to gently flow down his face. “The lady told me a real sad story,” he said.

Again, I waited.

“She said that she lived with her mama and daddy in one of those houses they tore down awhile back to build that Interstate spur, I think she called it.” I nodded to acknowledge he used the right word. “Them developers didn’t give her parents near enough money for their house, but it was all they was goin’ to get. They packed up all their stuff and started lookin’ for another place to live.” He was wringing his hands and starting to shake his leg. He had done this before, so I was keeping an eye to make sure he was staying in control. “The day they moved, Emily, that’s the lady’s name, snuck back to the house to get something she hid under a floorboard in her room.” He looked up at me for the first time. “She didn’t want her parents to know she had some money hid there because she was saving it for their Christmas present.” That was as long as he could hold my gaze. Looking back at his hands, he continued. “Somebody broke in the house looking for a place to sleep, she thinks. He found her and saw the money in her hand. She was so scared, she just stood there. The next thing she knew, he rushed forward and knocked her down. She started to scream, but he covered her mouth with one hand and started strangling her with the other. She said it took a few minutes, but…” He stopped. I waited. Finally, he finished in the quietest voice I ever heard him use. “she died.”

“I’m sorry, Deuce,” I said. “That must have been upsetting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “She said that when the house was tore down the next day, one of the workers found her. His supervisor said to keep his mouth shut if he wanted a job. He had that worker pick up her body and some lumber from the house and dump it in that old pond. That’s why she has to live there now,” he said. “She has to stay there until somebody finds her body and frees her spirit.” He sighed heavily before he finished. “She tried to drag me into the pond last night. She said if I disappeared, they’d come looking for me and when they tried to find me in the pond, they’d find her so she could finally be loosed from that place.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Face it, ma’am, I ain’t nobody. I ain’t doin’ no good on this earth. Maybe I need to go in the pond with her if it means she’d get to go to heaven.”

“Deuce,” I began slowly. “I think it’s time for you to go to the Center.”

Before I could react, he stood and screamed. “NO!!” Then he ran out the door.

I jumped up and tried to follow him, but he was a man on a mission. He was out of the building and had disappeared before I could catch up with him.

I came back to my office and gave the sheriff’s department a call. They said they would get with the city police and see if they could find him. I told them about the pond and my concerns.

I didn’t feel reassured when I hung up.

I got on the internet and started doing some research. As it turned out, there was a 16-year-old girl who disappeared at the time homes were being demolished to make room for the Interstate.  And her name was Emily. I tried to find out if anyone admitted to dumping in the retention pond, but the only thing I could find was the opposite. It had been used for a borrow pit during construction of the I-110 spur, a process where they would have dug soil out, not put it back.

Like so many things that involve the destruction of neighborhoods, usually the African-American ones, there simply wasn’t anything else for me to find out. I tried not to worry, but when Deuce didn’t show up the next week or the next, I feared for the worst.

A month after that last session, my phone rang. It was the receptionist informing me that a police detective was there to see me. I told her to send him back and waited by my door.

After introductions, we sat. “What can I do for you, detective?” I asked.

“A while back you called in a concern about a homeless man that goes by the name of Deuce.” He said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“And you said he was sleeping by that old stormwater pond,” he said.

I nodded my head.

“I’m sorry to tell you that we found his sleeping bag and other belongings there a couple of days ago.”

“And Deuce?” I asked.

“Nowhere to be found,” he said. “His stuff has been there for at least a month, but there was no sign of him.”

“Did you drag the pond?” I asked.

He looked at me with just a hint of surprise. “Yes,” he said. “We didn’t find his body, but we did find the skeletal remains of an unknown woman.”

I said, “Her name is Emily. She disappeared in the 70s when the Interstate spur was being built. If you check, I think her people are still in the area. You should be able to get a DNA match.”

Now he was suspicious. “How do you know all that?” he asked.

I turned my back to him and stared out the window. “You need to drag the pond again,” I said. “Drag it until you find him, or he’ll never get to go to heaven.”

The detective said nothing and left.

I sat in my office, staring out the window, until the sun went down. The receptionist came back to tell me she was locking up. I followed her out the door and got in my car to go home. I drove toward the interstate, but turned and found the pond. I stood outside the fence and stared at a beautiful lake, protected from street lights, with nothing but stars to illuminate it.

Deuce rose from the water and waved good night.