The Mitzvah and the Mayhem

Sunday morning. A blindingly bright, frigid day, the kind that always evokes the particles pair of sunglasses and down parkas. My mother and I had just run an errand and were returning to the car with the resigned, shivering stroll that winter so deftly breeds, when we were approached by an elderly woman. She was the sort of lady whom you try to avoid in public, deterred by a concoction of intimidation, pity and awe, the woman you kiss at family greetings and pray never to become. She wore a black felt coat with a colorful kerchief draped over her dull, thin hair and tied beneath her chin. Her body was like a fragile cane, the shoulders hunched and rounded, the head pitched forward in an intrinsic gesture of concentration. She was crying, whimpering in helpless terror.
She came up to us like this, a beacon of need almost painful in its stark clarity. Her desperate eyes passed over me and swung to my mother. Did we know where she was? Did we know where the stores were? The stores, the stores, she was on the bus and she went to far and she got confused and the bus driver didn't tell her where they were and oh, where was she, so confused...
Gently, my mother took her by the arm. Where did she want to go? The beauty parlor, it turned out. Which beauty parlor? She wasn't sure, the one near the synagogue- it was on this side of the street, where all the stores were. Of course, the synagogue, said my mother, she knows where that is. Our car is right over here, why don't we drive her down and we can find where she wants to go? It isn't any trouble, no trouble at all. A simple thing, and we help this lady into our car. Silently, I scurry into the front passenger seat, awed by the tumult ensconced in a body so frighteningly small.
As my mother pulled away from the curb, she delicately brushed aside all protestations of gratitude and asked the woman about herself. Her husband died a few months ago, she has a daughter in Florida and a daughter upstate, and grandchildren. She was so terribly grateful, she hoped she could reciprocate in some way. My mother steered the car, gentle and steady as cursive, down the sunny, snow bleached streets until familiarity dawned on the woman. As she helped her down from the car, she told my mother her name was Dorothy, and could she perhaps buy us coffee, or anything? No, my mother told her with a smile. She was glad to have been able to help. And Dorothy went to get her nails done.