PUTNEY — The alarm's buzzer is jarring, and I awake, unsettled.
Mark is already up and out of bed; the coffee's on and fire's lit before I can truly roust myself. The coziness of the heavy down comforter keeps me in bed longer than it should. I was never good at night with sick children or nighttime feedings. Why would I choose to do this now?
I pull on leggings and sweatpants and thick socks, too. I know I'd be more comfortable without a bra, but decorum dictates one, so I fumble for it and wrestle it on. More layers go on top and I know I'm ready for the chill that permeates the stone walls of the overflow shelter at the First Baptist Church in Brattleboro.
The drive in is uneventful. The highway is eerily empty; we sip our coffee and cannot think of anything to say. A sleepy police officer sits in his car. The glare of neon lights still halfheartedly advertises Putney Road businesses. We wonder why the traffic lights are still regulating the flow of imaginary cars through the intersections at midnight. We run every one.
* * *
The smell is the first thing that accosts us as we walk into the overflow shelter in the wee hours. At 1 a.m., technically it's Tuesday morning, but it sure as hell fells like the middle of the night to me.
The smell is bad tonight, but it no longer triggers my gag reflexes, as it did when we first began volunteering here.
It's more than the smell of 20 men sleeping in a close space that gets to me. It's more than stale breath, unwashed bodies, urine, flatulence.
It's the smell of addiction and alcoholism, mental illness, hopelessness, lost love, lost self-esteem. It's the smell at the bottom. No place left to go, no family, no friends.
It's the smell of broken promises, of betrayal, of lost communication, lost jobs, lost homes, lost wives, and abandoned children.
We light a highly scented candle to mask the smell, but we can't mask what's before our eyes.
The men lie scattered around the floor of the table-filled room - some tucked under the tables, some in between. They lie on bedding pulled from black plastic bags. Every night, they make their private nests, a thin pad between sore, tired bodies and the floor.
When we arrive, most of the men are sleeping and settled for the night. But it's far from quiet. Dan is back from the hospital with taped up ribs and sleeps fitfully. His bronchitis throws him into coughing fits, and he moans from the pain.
* * *
The steady hum of snoring is punctuated by loud farts and the occasional shout brought on by night terrors.
At 3 a.m., Hank starts his half-hourly zombie walk to the bathroom, carefully stepping over his sleeping roommates. We pretend we can't hear what goes on in there.
Jim and Ken go out in the frigid night air for a smoke. The loud clattering of the door announces their return. They rub their hands together and cup them around their red noses, breathing heavily on their fingers to warm them.
Brian gets up hacking and manages to cough up a big glob of phlegm which he spits into the trash barrel that sits uncomfortably close to my elbow.
By 4 a.m., the movements of the men and their sounds have increased.
We start the coffee at 5. Up until this point, we've sat in chairs at the front of the room behind a big wooden table covered with faded plastic sheeting. Although we sit facing out like judges in a courtroom, safe behind our impenetrable bench, after two years at our watch, we've learned not to judge them.
At 6 a.m., we turn on the lights to encourage the rest of the men to wake up.
* * *
I go upstairs to wake the women. Luanne is here tonight, and Jeanette and Jan, too. I know from the sign-in sheet that a woman and her 7-year-old daughter are also up here.
I announce myself quietly. “It's time to wake up,” I say before I flip on the lights.
The women have the entire upper floor of the church to themselves. Jan likes to sleep in the nursery. Jeanette sleeps in the teen room. The mother and child are in the prayer room. To my surprise, another women is tucked in beside them.
“It's time to wake up,” I say again, and then turn on the lights.
“We know,” the young mother rasps, her voice low and rough and a bit nasty.
As I turn to leave I see her shake her daughter. “Get up, Brandy, we gotta go,” she croaks.
Later they come down the stairs; the daughter is shoved along in front, her hair in a tangle, her eyes dull and sleepy.
The mother's mouth stretches into a big, ugly yawn. They leave without a word. They're new at the shelter and still angry with their situation.
The other women don't like them.
“They don't clean up after themselves,” one says, one of many complaints I hear. There is code of behavior here at the shelter. Some rules are written, others not.
The written rules are clear and simple.
No alcohol or illegal drugs on the property. No weapons, violence, threats, or disrespect. Clean up after yourself. Quiet time must be observed after 10 p.m.
Women must sleep away from the men. No sexual advances or nudity are allowed. (This also means you must keep your shirt on.)
No inappropriate language or conduct. No smoking or fires of any kind allowed in the building.
If you break these rules, you must leave. If you are asked to leave, you will be given a blanket. If you refuse to leave, the police will be called.
Most of the nightly residents are polite to one another and to us. Some mind their own business, keeping mostly to themselves; the others talk and joke. They are well acquainted with the ways of the street. They know whom to stay away from. They know who has cigarettes to bum.
* * *
It is 7 a.m. on April 4, and our last night of the season is done. We walk out into the fog and drear of a chilling rain.
Joe and Al are waiting, shoulders hunched up around their ears, for the bus to take them up to the methadone clinic on Putney Road. Some of the men are headed for the Drop In Center, where they will shower and spend the day out of the cold.
Luanne has gathered her things in a two-wheeled shopping cart that she will pull around for the rest of the day. Jeannette has a car and will go to work.
Some wait for the library or the River Garden to open, places where they can sit safely away from the weather.
Hank and Bert gather their belongings and wait for Ernie to drop them at the encampment out behind the local big box store.
Our job is over until November, when the weather turns frigid again and the people who are homeless can no longer sleep outside. We're relieved to be done with it.
When we first volunteered, we couldn't eat the next morning, even though our stomachs told us we were hungry. Now we head right for the diner for hot coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast.
A couple of days later, we receive this email of thanks from Melinda Bussino, executive director of the Brattleboro Area Drop In Center, addressed to Lucie Fortier, Volunteer Coordinator for the overnight shelter:
Our final numbers are as follows: We served 114 separate people, and only one child for one night, the people numbers are down 17.5 percent over the previous year.
We provided 2,517 bed nights, which is down 12 percent over 2009-2010. We served, between dinner and breakfast, over 5,034 meals!
We had 21 folks left when we closed on April 16: 14 went to tents, four of them are housed come May. Four are in cars, three are housed in May. Three are couch surfing, one of them is housed in May.
On behalf of our volunteers, staff, and board, and most particularly on behalf of the folks we sheltered, thank you to everyone who helped with keeping the Overflow Shelter open, and saving lives.
Blessings to you all.