“Buy me a bell pepper. Please!”
She stood on the sidewalk at the back corner of the grocery store silently holding up a cardboard sign seeking food for her children. This was a strange location, I thought, away from the entrance to the store with customers walking up in droves from the huge parking lot in front. I rolled down my window and slowed down to call out that I carried no cash, only credit cards, and I would bring some cash the next time.
But by the time I got to the first intersection my conscience constrained me. ‘What was the guarantee that she would be at this same spot the next time I came to the store? And why can’t I buy her a sandwich with the credit card I had on me?’ I made a U-turn and headed back.
She seemed surprised to see me. “Hop in,” I said naively, “I’ll buy you a footlong from the Subway.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want anything for myself. Please buy me something I can cook for my children.”
“Let me park the car. I’ll be back.”
As we walked to the entrance at the front of the store, she introduced herself. “My name is Christina. I no speak English.”
“That’s OK. I don’t speak Spanish. My name’s Alex,” I responded.
“I speak no Spanish,” Christina replied.
Seeing the puzzled look on my face she added quickly. “I am Italiano. I’m from Italy.”
“From Italy?” I blurted out, unable to hide my surprise.
“Yes, Italy.” She confirmed.
“How come you are here? What happened?” I asked as gently as I could.
“I came here with my husband and children looking for work.”
I decided not to press further about how she got here. ‘Did she come on a visitor visa and not go back? Or did she fly to some place in South America and cross the border seeking asylum.’ It was not my business, and I decided not to ask anything further.
As we walked to the store, she said, “Sandwich is good. But my children prefer vegetables. They no eat meat. I also no eat much meat.”
We entered the store and moved to the produce section. She read my mind. “I am alone with my two children. My husband left me. I stay with my sister. Apartment. Temporary.”
“Your husband is working at some other place?” I ventured.
“No. He got a – how do you say – mis … mistress. And they go to Canada.”
I was overwhelmed by the pathos of Christina’s situation and tried, probably in vain, to hide my emotions of anger and sympathy.
Christina added, “I want to work. But my papers still processing.”
“What vegetables would you like? Could I buy you a bag of potatoes and some onions and tomatoes?” I ventured.
She was overcome with happiness. “Thank you. Thank you. My children no like meat. They like vegetables. They will be happy.”
I picked up the potatoes and onions and Christina carried the bag of tomatoes. As we walked to the check-out counter, she stopped abruptly.
Pointing at the shelf, she looked at me and pleaded, child-like, “Buy me a bell pepper. Please!”
I was overcome with emotion and at a loss for words. I gestured as if to say, “Please help yourself.”
Christina did not hide her immense joy.
***
Four days later after a sumptuous dinner at the Italian restaurant, Olive Garden, I asked the waitress as I signed the check, “Was that bell pepper in the chicken and shrimp carbonara?
It was.
Abie Alexander
© September 1, 2024