SECRET RADIO blog

Carrie felt the pull of the reports like a temptation to some secret delight. She would have preferred a quiet, sunny session in her office, closed in with the information until it showed her the answers that she needed. But there had to be some legwork done.

The Salvation Army Thrift store was not too distant from Ninth Street, Durhams's popular hub for shopping and eating among the college students and junior faculty. She found a tiny southwestern café, had an early lunch, and then---as the day was sunny and traffic on Ninth street was heavy and slow---she walked to the thrift store. The wind whipped her reddish brown hair about her face, but she didn't mind. Unlike the typical "absent minded professor," type, she was quite precise in her grooming. And she had the advantage of what she called "obedient hair." She could sweep it back, fluff up the bangs, and it usually fell into place. She enjoyed her own good looks. As she passed the many wide storefront windows, she glimpsed herself---not very tall, her dark green sweater wrapped around her, her posture upright, her face youthful and alive.

One benefit of examining the dead, she realized, was it could make you enjoy being alive, so much more aware of how this very moment was important: the sun, the wind, the satisfaction of a good lunch, the happiness of being a bright and attractive research scientist. But then a Greyhound bus--its sides painted jet black to advertise a local performance of PHANTOM, roared past her, filling all the storefront reflections with perfect obsidian blackness. It made her look small and insignificant, surrounded by a wall of black, and the roar drowned out everything else. Then it was gone.

* * * * *

The thrift store interior was neither dim nor bright. The front windows were not curtained, but they were not cluttered with goods, so they let in some light. Overhead, ancient hanging lights that looked like they'd started life in a textile hall cast a yellowish glow onto things. The store smelled like wool, mostly.

The circular racks were overstuffed with second hand garments. Other items crammed onto shelves lined the small store. After a brief search along the wall, during which a woman at a cash register in the very center busily worked inventory sheets, Carrie found the sleeping bag that Anne Thomson had mentioned. It was clearly second hand, but in good condition, and a cardboard tag affixed to it boasted that it cost only $25.

She pulled it out with some difficulty, now aware that the woman at the cash register was watching her keenly.

Goodness, I'm not going to steal it, Carrie thought. She didn't like tugging and pulling on great big things. Awkwardness displeased her. Trying to lift things that were too large to carry displeased her, too. There was something disproportionate about it. But the woman at the register did not offer to help.

At last, Carrie got the rolled up bag free of the shelf and lugged it to the cash register. It wasn't heavy---just big. The woman, who had jet black hair that had been dyed, wore glasses on a slender chain around her neck. She plucked them up and put them on, and Carrie could see that she was not entirely pleased.

"You know, that's not water proof," she said. "And it is old. You could spend 20 dollars more at Wal-Mart and get something much better. Much better. Warmer, too."

She'd made no effort to move aside her inventory sheets, so Carrie ungraciously slung the roll of cumbersome sleeping bag right onto them to give herself a rest. The woman didn't react to this at all, but neither did she move closer to the cash register.

"I was directed to purchase this sleeping bag," Carrie said. She would have been glad to buy Anne Thomson a better sleeping bag, but she wasn't sure that Anne would be pleased by a gift.

"I see. Is it for a child?" She tried to make her voice pleasant, but it was too late. As she rang up the purchase on the ancient, roll-fed cash register, Carrie fished in her purse and wondered why a thrift store worker would be unwilling to make a sale.

"We have a very young woman who's been looking at that," the woman said lightly, aware that she had annoyed her customer. "A very poor girl. I had been hoping to save it for her."

Carrie stopped and seized the opportunity. "Not a very thin, very tall girl?" she asked.

The woman took off her glasses and let them hang. She looked at Carrie.

"Does Anne Thomson visit your shop?" Carrie asked.

Instantly, the lined face of the cashier became more friendly, softened at this mutual connection. "Yes, she does. I sometimes bring her a little bit of lunch." She realized that Carrie was making the purchase on behalf of Anne, and all suspicions and hesitancy were dropped. "Oh praise the Lord. Are you some sort of social worker? I've been praying somebody would come to help that child."

This mix of concern and religious devotion startled Carrie, but she adjusted at once. "No, I'm trying to track down a copy of her book."

"Book?" This puzzled the cashier.

"Anne Thomson wrote a book," Carrie said.

"Are you serious?" The woman put her hands on her hips. But after a moment she said, "Well, she certainly could if she wanted to. She's had an amazing life. But she's never mentioned it. It must not have done very well."

"I think she allowed only a single printing." But that scotched any hope of finding a copy through Anne's friends. Apparently Anne did not discuss her book voluntarily.

"Did you meet Anne through one of the churches?" the woman asked.

"Oh no." Carrie hesitated and then said, "I met her through my efforts to understand her-her way of martial arts."

"You know, she's been to China," the woman said.

"I knew she'd participated in the World Games a few years ago." Carrie made her voice cautious. This woman knew Anne far better than Carrie did, and Carrie didn't want that to be obvious. She decided to hit the one item that they would both understand about Anne. "It's difficult to get to know Anne. She doesn't say much."

"Not if you come out and ask her." And the woman smiled. It was clearly a motherly smile. "Food works, though. She's very appreciative of any kindness. I mean, if it's done right. And not overdone."

Carrie cocked her head over. She wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to Anne's family. It seemed unlikely that a mere runaway would have acquired such an interesting life or such a unique and elaborate personal philosophy. But she didn't ask that question. She didn't want to give herself away.

The cashier, assured that Carrie was in no hurry, folded her arms and leaned back against the opposite counter. "She goes down to our soup kitchen on most days, but she felt she ought to earn her meals, so she showed up here and asked if she could clean out the restrooms. We're not supposed to just let them in off the streets here at the shop. It can be dangerous, and sometimes the homeless people steal from us. But she was such a dear little thing. Those huge eyes. And she looked so hungry, I thought she wanted food. So I said yes."

"She cleans every day?"

"Oh, about every other day--no, less than that. We're closed Sunday and Monday. Let me see. She's pretty regular about being here first thing on Tuesday morning. She'll show up again on Thursday or Friday. She does a very good job."

"Yes I'm sure she would."

"There was one week, when she was sick. She showed up every morning. I think she wanted help and more warmth than what she gets otherwise." The older woman's eyebrows knit, and Carrie realized with a slight jolt that this woman was actually a very concerned person, one who would have done more for the young martial artist than Anne Thomson would allow. A good woman. "But I realized then that if I made a fuss, Anne would never permit it. She's got that----code of hers. So I understated everything."

"How?"

"Oh, after the third day that she came, I made up a bed for her in back, in the little office. Put in a cot and sheets and a blanket and asked her to stay nights and watch the place because somebody had tried to force the door. I know it was a lie. May the Lord forgive me. Told her I was very nervous to be here alone, and if I would feed her, would she stay close by. She said yes, then."

The eyes in the woman's face were very dark, and they settled onto Carrie with an almost soulful expression. "I put her to bed right then. Looked after her with tea and soup and cold medicine. Took her a full day before she would take medicine from me. She doesn't trust pills or drugs."
Her eyes became thoughtful. "She's a very sweet girl in a lot of ways. And I knew she was grateful to me. Once she got her legs under her, she did do a lot of work. I'd lock up at night and come back to find the place all spic and span: all the boxes cut and flattened and bundled with twine, the bathrooms all scrubbed, the floors perfectly swept."

"Couldn't you have let her stay on?" Carrie asked.

"I asked her to. But once her cough went away, she wanted to go back to the street. I know that she holes up somewhere. And she makes her way without selling drugs like some do. Or prostituting. But I don't know how she gets by."

Carrie prompted her. "The soup kitchen?"

"Oh yes, but that's only one meal a day, and only five days a week. There's a black church across town---old Durham. They have a dinner on Wednesday nights for the homeless, and she goes there as well."

Carrie was startled. "With the black people?"

"Oh yes, dear. It's not like that any more. Some of the older white homeless don't go, but Anne's not like that at all. From what I understand, the people who run the Wednesday night dinners are fond of her. They don't understand her any more than I do, and they think she's wasted herself, living in such poverty. But they're so good to her. She just won't let folks do much for her."

Christians, Carrie thought. At least some of them served a good purpose. They refused to give up on people. Christians fed them and hoped for the best for them. Ordinary people, anyway. Very few Christians would want anything to do with a scientist who believed in evolution and had gone through an abortion, Carrie thought.

"Anne told me I could buy the sleeping bag as payment for some information," Carrie said. "Do you think I could convince her to take more?"

"I know that she needs the usual things: underwear and socks and soap and toothpaste. If you take her food, it has to be pretty utilitarian: no candy or soft drinks. She'll eat anything from a health food store, and she likes peanut butter on crackers."

"Thank you," Carrie said. "If you don't mind, I'll leave this sleeping bag with you while I get my car."

The woman nodded and punched the high, old fashioned keys on the register. "And one thing," she said. "Don't ever talk to Anne about the hospital or doctors or medicine or drugs or anything like that."

Carrie passed over the bills, but the warning arrested her. "Why not?"

"I don't know, but she's terrified of hospitals, and she hates doctors. She thinks they're evil." The woman counted out the change and passed it to Carrie. "I think that whatever drove Anne over the edge, it must have happened in a hospital somewhere. But the only time I ever saw her turn violent was when a doctor from the homeless clinic tried to see her and offer her a vaccination. He came to find her here, and if I hadn't stopped her, I think she would have killed him." Eyes troubled, she looked away from Carrie. "I hadn't thought she could be a very good martial artist until then. But she is. I never saw anybody move with such speed."