THE MAKER OF SAINTS

A Story by Willys Watson

THE MAKER OF SAINTS

A Short Story By Watson Boyd

No matter what our station in life might be at any given moment, we all seem to adhere to one ritual or another. From the more rigidly conservative to the more flamboyantly free-spirited, from the higher income levels to the lowest, from the more educated to the less, we all feel compelled to maintain some kind of grounding element that provides any kind of tangible anchor, in various forms of structured mental or emotional security, to our lives. And most of our rituals are explained with a reasonable amount of justification. But what about those of who have crossed over and beyond the realm of commonly commutable explanations?

The people in this neighborhood, some of whom are themselves just a paycheck or two away from living on the street, called her Santa Maria or Saint Mary. A few called her Crazy Mary. And still others, mostly the children, called her Auntie Mary. No one here seems to recall who originally anointed her Saint Mary. Or even why. Nor could anyone agree on when she first began to assume her rightful place as a permanent fixture.

But when I first saw her frail, sixty-something year old frame lumbering up the street, wearing, even on the hottest days, half her wardrobe on her back, pushing the rest of her worldly belongings in a shopping cart, the last image in my mind was that of celestial sainthood.

Almost like clockwork, amazing considering a wristwatch had probably not graced her arm in many years, Mary came up the street every day in the early afternoon, stopping on the street corner in front of the local liquor / grocery / convenience store.

Although her mind had long ago slipped beyond even the more liberal classifications of measured coherence she knew enough to always stop just short of over-stepping the unmarked boundaries of the store owner’s tolerance.

Twenty to twenty five feet away from the front door of the store, as long as she never obstructed foot traffic, was where Mary was permitted to take her regular place as some undefined spoke in some cosmic wheel that would probably never carry it’s passenger to any earthly reward. And so began the ritual that, unless superceded by some outside force, would continue until dusk.

From the respectable distance of the curb across the street, or sometimes the store’s doorway, I often watched her sitting on the sidewalk, her eyes closed, her legs crossed, her back inches from the wall as she swayed back and forth, humming an unintelligible tune. She rarely spoke, never smiled, never even seemed to acknowledged life outside of her own head until the recognizable sound of metal hitting metal became more muted..

Then Mary would open her eyes, reach down and pick up the tin can she had sat in front of her, instinctively knowing it was nearly full, and turn it’s contents upside down. Whether there were ten, twenty or a hundred coins, the ritual never varied. One by one she would stack these coins in separate piles. Dines, pennies, quarters, nickels and the rare half-dollar all had their own stack. After each was stacked in it’s designated miniature tower, Mary would then pick up one stack at a time, counting the coins in that stack before pouring them back into the tin can.

If, for any reason, this ritual was interrupted, usually from a passerby tossing a few new coins into the can, Mary would stop the process, pour the can’s contents back onto the sidewalk, and start the stacking and counting ritual all over again.

I had watched this process many times, once for at least a half hour, and there were only three exceptions that would alter the ritual.

The first exception happened if someone were to toss a foreign coin into the can. Whether it was Mexican, Canadian, El Salvadorian or from anywhere she would glare at the coin for no more than a few seconds, then sling it into the street.

The second exception to, and amendment of, the ritual is the one that was so fascinating to me. No matter how good your intentions may have been, you learned never to toss paper money into the can. When Mary opened her eyes to see a bill she would snatch it from her cylinder vault, crumple it up, spit on it and sling it into the street. And then, as equally perplexing, she would reach over to her cart and grab a dingy, damp rag and wipe her hands off as if cleansing her soul of some infringing evil.

The third exception occurred if you tried to speak to her. She would shake her head back and forth, repeating "No, no, no, no" until you passed by or turned and walked away.

Whatever connection there was to paper money, to foreign coins or to not responding to human contact, whatever parts of her mind had shut down to protect and shield her soul from any more pain, would never be revealed. I knew this. The people living in this neighborhood knew this.

I perceived Mary as a complex puzzle that would never be put back together again after having so many pieces of her life scattered. Perhaps a good person who had caved in under a weight she could no longer bare? Perhaps someone who had suffered one too many emotional heart attacks? And I knew that I could not reverse whatever damage there was. But I also wanted to believe that some day, somehow, perhaps I and the neighborhood people who cared, could help her.

And I believe that the people living around here at least wanted to see that she had something to cling to, something material to take with her when she got up from her place on the sidewalk and went to wherever it was she went at night.

This Saturday as I was responding to an electrical repair job I was called about, I parked close to the curb on the side street directly across from where Mary normally sat because I, too, have my grounding rituals. On the hotter days I work they encompass a bag of ice, a two litre bottle of Pepsi, the LA Times and, when I can afford it, a cigar.

Although it was still too early for Mary to have been there I knew that something was wrong as I stepped out of the truck. Her rusty tin can sat alone against the stucco wall. As I approached it I noticed it was almost full of coins.

Inside the store Jose told me that Mary, the evening before, had closed her eyes and did not open them again. A phone call was made. An ambulance came. Her body was carted off to wherever the bodies of the homeless are taken. I asked Jose about the can and he begged me to take it with me, saying everyone in the neighborhood was afraid to touch it.

After I went back outside and picked up the can I brought it into the store and suggested he take it to the nearest church and donate it to the Sisters because, more as likely, they were the ones who had provided her with whatever comfort and shelter she might have had. Jose stared at the can a moment and finally shook his head in agreement, taking it and placing it on the shelf behind him.

"We can do it the Sunday after tomorrow after asking everyone to put in one last coin," I said.

"She would have liked that. And I’ll make up a sign saying it’s donations for her," he replied.

Then I took my bag and left the store. I really had no way of knowing whether or not Mary, from wherever she might be watching, would have liked the gesture. I only made the suggestion because I thought it would make the people living in this neighborhood feel a little better. I know the idea made me feel a little better.

When the wealthy or famous offer token gestures to help the poor, praise is lavished upon them, the media becomes saturated by the event and statements are recorded and articles are written.

But when the poor and near-poor, people who are themselves only a heartbeat away from being on the lowest rung of the social ladder, toss a handful of coins into a rusty tin can, cameras do not capture it, by-lines are not assigned and mass public recognition is not received or expected.

Perhaps in the poor, and near-poor, giving to the even poorer, a saint makes saints of the giver.

Perhaps Saint Mary was a saint after all. If not, then I can only hope that karma, or God, will provide the peace of mind and comfort to the soul that Mary must have felt at one time in her life.

© 2015 Willys Watson

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Samuel Dickens

This is outstanding, both as a piece of writing and as a great, touching story. I grew up in poverty and whether it was that environment or something in my dna, I still relate to the world's have-nots. Inside, between my ears and in my heart, I'm still one of them.
When in the Navy, and on more than one occasion, I assisted in taking up a collection for someone in the outfit whose house had burned, been in a bad accident, etc. Invariably, the lower ranking fellows gave the most, while higher-ups tended to be stingy.