Salem Street

by G. Jack Urso

 

The other night, about 10:30 PM, I'm in my den when there is a BANGING on my front door. Because my hearing in one ear isn't as good as it used to be, I have trouble hearing knocks on my door and the doorbells don't work and I don't fix them because, generally, I'm fine with ignoring people.

Finally, the cats' movement alerts me something is up, and then I hear the knocking. I go check it out and through the enclosed front porch I can see an elderly woman walking off my stoop back onto the street. I call after her, “Can I help you?”

“I've been knocking on the door! Won't anyone help me?”

"What's the problem?”

“I'm lost! I have no idea where I am and nobody will help me!”

I look around to see if there are any cars or people nearby, in case this is some kind of scam, but there's no one about.

Thinking she has dementia, I ask, “Can I call the police for you?”

“No! I just want to go home! I've been knocking on doors. I'm an old woman, but no one will help me. I forgot where Salem Street is.”

The street sounds familiar. It's nearby, but as I can get lost going to the bathroom, I told her to wait and let me check where it is. It takes a couple minutes, but it turns out to be just one block down. I throw on a pair of shorts and go back to the porch. She is walking away, thinking I just said what I said to get rid of her, like the others whose doors she knocked on.

“I know where you live,” I said, “Come on.” I turned on my flashlight and she follows the beam as I point it on the street. I live in a slightly run down area with lots of side streets and few working streetlights.

She explains she is 75 and here visiting her friend Michael. She went out to buy some toilet paper but, not being from around here, forgot where he lives. She knocked on a couple doors, but no one helped.

Salem Street is just about a block away. It is a small, short access street with only the side entrances of a couple houses and an old mobile home dating back to the 1960s when the area was last zoned for them.

I flash the light on the side entrance of the apartment where her friend Michael lives. She is so relieved, she is nearly to tears. She thanks me profusely. I ask for her name.

“Penelope.”

“Hello, Penelope. My name is Jack.”

I waited for her to get inside and then went home.

Regarding the name of the street she was looking for, Salem Street — “salem” is a word found in both Hebrew and Arabic. In Hebrew (salem), it is often translated to mean “peace.” In Arabic (salim), it means “safe” or “undamaged.” 

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