Rescuing a Snow Angel

The return trip, from grocery shopping, found the courtyard vacant and the vehicles' tracks in the parking lot filling in with heavy-wet snow. The radio's weather forecast was for intermittent sleet turning to heavy snow and icy conditions after sunset. Cold winds were dropping the temperatures and turning the wet-moist flakes into stinging ice crystals, swirling them in circles in the courtyard until it looked like Christmas dinner's whipped-mashed potatoes.

My dinner, I expected would be Dinty Moore Beef Stew in a can; cooking for one is like that for those with uncertain destinations. Although I took comfort and felt glad that I wouldn't be sleeping in the back of the frosty camper for the next two weeks. I cleaned out the office's cruddy refrigerator and put away the perishables then made the security rounds. I felt pretty secure in making the tour since there were no tracks anywhere as I trudged around the perimeter of the lot. I headed back inside, out of the steadily increasing, falling sleet and buffeting winds.

I spent the next two hours in general cleaning mode. Opening a linen closet door, I even found clean sheets and pillows. Behind another door, I discovered a fully functional laundry room with three boxes of commercial laundry soap and leftover fabric softener. "Thanks, guardian angels," I chuckled, as I gave them a nod of appreciation for watching over me. With the floors swept and mopped; I squared away the kitchen and bath, not GI pristine, but at least, satisfactorily sanitized.

With those checked off, I opted for some condensed chicken soup and saved the savory Dinty Moore Beef Stew for tomorrow's meal. I set the pot on the stove to warm; then, grabbing a couple of filled trash bags from my cleaning, I headed out toward the dumpster. I was intending to grab a few things from my truck on the way back before it turned totally dark outside. It was just a quick trip, so I hadn't properly dressed for the weather — just threw on my jacket and went bare-headed out the door. Foolish, I know, but it was just a fifty-yard trip out and then right back into the warmth again.

I began to regret not putting a hood over my head about twenty feet out. The icy rain was cold and trickling down the nape of my neck and into my shirt, sending shivers down my back. I scrunched up my shoulders and picked up the pace, intent on slinging the bags up and over into the thirty-yard construction dumpster.

Ten feet away, I barely spotted an outline traced in the snow. I froze, coming up short. The sight of a prone form caused me to stop dead in my tracks. At first, it looked a lot like a snow angel glistening in the freshly fallen snow. But as I hurriedly approached, I spotted a barely-discernible pair of combat boots buried up to the toes. The unmoving body in them was sprawled in the shadows of the retaining wall beside the dumpster. Nothing good comes from being laid out next to a dumpster in frigid weather.

Flashbacks of passing the bodies of dropped soldiers shook me to the core, as I made my way up the ill-fated charge to the high ridge in Vietnam. It took what seemed an eternity, before I came to my senses; as I looked down at those boots encased in snow. I initiated triage preparations. A quick check found a weak pulse beneath the icy-encrusted soldier, clothed in a tattered, Army-field jacket. Grabbing the collar, with several jerks, I managed to free the limp form from its ice-encrusted tomb. The dim light, from the streetlamp, shone upon the coat's name tag. It read—Murphy.

Murphy was unconscious, unresponsive, and his core body temperature seemed clammy; symptomatic of hypothermia. Speed was of the essence; I knew that I had to get him inside and initiate a warm up of his body, if Murphy was going to have a chance of living. I struggled to pull the rest of his light-weight frame free from the icy-crusted snow and placed him across my shoulder. In a dead-man carry position, I leaned into the wind and moved quickly toward the office. It was not an easy task for a guy with three fingers on one hand and the other hand mangled by blows from my captors, but I had managed to get him upright and began to make my way across the parking lot. The sleet showed no mercy as it pounded down upon us. By the time I flung the door open, we were both encrusted with ice and completely soaked.

Shivering, I knelt down, lowering Murphy to the office floor, cradling his head in the crook of my arm. An icy pool of water flowed from beneath his field jacket. Springing up, I headed to the bathroom, spinning the dial on the thermostat to maximum, on my way to fill the tub. Grabbing a washcloth, I used it to plug the drain. Having spun the dial on the water spigot to hot, I jerked the knob out to fill the tub. Then dashed back to reassess Murphy.

Back in the living area, I began untying Murphy's boots intent on getting him stripped down and into the tub as quickly as possible. His boots, even with the frigid water in them, smelled rank; as did the rest of him when the warm air began to circulate the odor from his field jacket around the room. Unsnapping and then unzipping his soaked OD green uniform jacket was next as I tugged, first one arm, and then the other, from the frayed sleeves. It was then that my eyes widened! I saw the tattered University of Notre Dame sweatshirt underneath his Army jacket. My thoughts took a different direction at that point as I blinked in surprise.

I had to stop thinking of Murphy as a combat soldier. I had to stop thinking of Murphy as a soldier, period. My snow angel rescue had become something else. The lumps beneath the exposed sweatshirt, now, told me I had to start thinking of this unconscious person as someone whose name was probably not Murphy at all. I continued to work at pulling the frozen stocking hat away from its icy grip on her hair. Her face matched the dirt on her clothing, except for the welt mark on her forehead. In the dark, I'm guessing, she must have walked into the handle of the dumpster's open door and got knocked out at least an hour before I found the hypothermic victim.

I paused for a few seconds after getting the stocking hat off, then decided that the rest could wait; I scooped her up once again and gingerly lowered her into the slowly filling tub of warm water. I watched, mesmerized as water worked its way up the length of her legs, creeping up between her crotch and then spilling over her waist. As it flowed across her chest and reached just below her breasts, I turned the water off. The warm water soaked the dirt loose from her clothing, slowly forming a muddy yellow tinge in the tub. That same warmth also released the odors from what must have been months of stink accumulated within her garments.

Murphy, or whoever she is, remained unconscious but breathing on her own. After a few minutes as I watched over her, the pale color of her skin began to take on normal flesh tones again. The heat from the water was doing its job of warming her body, increasing the blood circulation. Perhaps, I thought, it's a sign that she was going to make it through the hypothermia episode with some possible frostbite. The girl should get medical attention, I figured. But without a telephone to call for help, that would mean carrying her back outside into the frigid weather. And trying to find my way to some medical facility would certainly not be an easy task when you have no idea where that would be or how far you would have to travel to find someone that did. Nearly everything was shut down for the holiday season and the road conditions were only getting worse.

The dirt from her clothing and the associated smell compelled me to take further steps. I had thought to wait and see if she regained consciousness, but that didn't seem to be happening soon. So, my inner-self debated with my practical-side and determined that even if she woke up her clothes still needed to be removed. I reached over the tub and untied the electrical cord that she used as a belt, unsnapped the men's jeans she wore, and gently tugged down the zipper. Carefully, I lifted her by the waist and scooted the jeans down below her butt, then tugged them off one leg at a time. In the murky water, you could see her legs bore the battle scars and bruises of a harsh life on the streets.

Next, I attempted to remove her sweatshirt. I was able to scoot it up above her tits, but had little success from there up. Fortunately, I didn't have to remove a bra; she wasn't wearing one. I was afraid of hurting her head wound and try as I might, I couldn't get her arms out of the waterlogged sleeves. So, I retrieved my scissors and sliced it from the hem at her belly button level to the collar of the sweatshirt and then peeled it downward, easily sliding both arms out as I did so.

I stared at her; not with lust, but with sadness at the gaunt body before me. Most girls her age, probably nineteen or twenty, wouldn't be rail thin. You could tell her frame wasn't meant to be this way. There should be meat and bones with curves and softness flowing around her body — not these skinny bones lying in a pool of murky stench. I felt my jaw tense with anger at the thought of such mistreatment; it reminded me of 'Nam. I took the scissors to the last garment hiding her modesty and pulled it from between her legs. Pulling the washcloth from the drain, I let it empty and then refilled it with clean, warm water. Despite my empathy with her, watching the water retrace its path between her legs. This time, it did stir me in a way that had me thinking about her as a source of pleasure rather than as someone in my care. I tried to brush those thoughts away knowing that I had a moral responsibility of caring for her — a wounded warrior or not.

As the tub re-filled with water, I gently washed the dirt from her face. An alabaster skin replaced the grime. It bore a soft luster beneath it, as the blood flow warmed her bluish-purple lips once again. This face had once known kindness; you could just sense that it had once known better times. I managed to work shampoo through her tangled hair and worked out some of those tangles as I rinsed away months of accumulated grime. Similarly, I worked my way down her body, lathering and wiping away the soils. Nothing in her body tremored the way it would have if she had been conscious, as I found my way between her legs. Not the way Gennie's body shuddered and flexed when my hands wandered around her body the night the lights went out in the dorm, during my MBA days.

I drained the tub, doing my best to dry her off and scooped her up. I was glad at this point, that I had made up the double bed in my earlier cleanup session. At least, I had a place to let her rest. Her breathing seemed normal and her core body temperature seemed to be also; she just wasn't conscious — I figured it had to be the blow to her head. I laid her down, covering her with the sheet and blankets. Then placed a couple of towels over a pillow and placed it beneath her wet head. Unfortunately, I had no quick way of drying her hair. As an afterthought, I pulled out a tee shirt, from the one bag that I had thankfully carried in earlier today, and placed it on the foot of the bed — just in case she awoke.

It was at that point, I realized I was just as soaking wet as Murphy, or whatever her name is. The office suite heater was still cranking out waves of heat, struggling to reach the maximum range I had dialed in my haste to revive my patient. I dialed it back to eighty degrees as the perspiration formed on my brow. Eighty degrees would still keep Murphy's body warm and help dry her hair at least. I could tolerate that level, as well. I peeled off my soaked clothing and tossed them into the tub with Murphy's stuff. Standing in my underwear, I mopped up the lake of icy water on the floor where she first lay.

As I put the mop away, it dawned on me that part of the earlier smells was not all Murphy's! I had left the soup on the burner to warm when I headed out to the dumpster. Nothing tastes like a good old can of dried condensed chicken soup. It was salvageable, but just barely. I sat down at the table and crushed in a few crackers, eating the soup out of the pot — no sense in wasting passible food or washing another dish, I figured.

Marking increments of an hour, I had checked on Murphy three times. The second time, she had changed positions, a good sign; but she was still out cold. In the interim, I threw her jeans and field jacket into the washer and hoped one wash would get the grime out. The panties and sweatshirt were useless and I tossed them into the trash can. I left her to rest. Sitting at the table, I pulled out a worn copy of Roots, by Alex Haley, from the used bookshop bag and began to read. If Murphy didn't come around soon, I would have to find something to dress her in, then attempt to find medical care for her.

I was in the third chapter, when I heard, "Did you fuck me, asshole!"

I looked up. Framed in the bedroom doorway, pissed-off, she stood looking at me. Her hand held onto the doorframe to steady herself. The rise in her arm pulled up my tee shirt that she wore to where you could see her pubic hair peeking out below the hem. Her cocked arm against the door had raised one breast at an angle to the other one. It took on the look of a pole dancer's stance as she glared at me. Well, at least Murphy is alive, even though thankless it seems!

"No," came my calm, measured response. I had learned, during my military time, that responding with the same level of hostility as your aggressor wasn't going to be to your advantage. Staying calm and soft spoken more often than not, would defuse most hostile situations.

"Why the fuck should I believe you, asshole? I woke up naked in your bed and you're sitting out here in your underwear, ass-wipe! It looks like you certainly must have done something!" came her vitriolic response.

"Murphy, I found you knocked out cold by the dumpster in the freezing rain. You were frozen to the ground and nearly dead from the cold. Do you remember being by the dumpster earlier today?"

"My name isn't Murphy, asshole!" came her answer, then just a bit softer than before she huffed, "It's Rachel." Progress, I noted in her toned down, yet still defensive, response.

"My clothes?" she asked, looking around the room. Now, the tone of her voice was definitely down by several measures and I didn't get called asshole this time.

"In the dryer. They should be ready in about forty-minutes."

Still leaning on the doorframe, she seemed to be collecting her thoughts. "I remember climbing into the dumpster to grub for food, but it was empty, just building junk. I was heading for the gate and that's the last thing I remember." She related as she sniffed the air, looking at the pot in front of me.

"Hungry?"

"Yeah! You got any more to eat? ... And I'm not fucking you to pay for it, in case you're thinking about payment in return!" she promptly declared, as she added that zinger.

"I saved your life! I didn't fuck your unconscious scrawny body. And I'm not the type of guy to take advantage of a young woman that is down on her luck. So, if you don't drop the attitude, you can get your fucking wet clothes out of the dryer and go back where you came from, Rachel! But you better consider that it's about twenty-five degrees outside by now. The wind is howling and the time for hypothermia to set in, when you are soaked, is about twenty-five minutes in these conditions. You'll be back frozen like an icicle in those wet clothes before you know it!"

My last words were spoken more quietly and with a less stern tone. I let them sink in before adding, "Grilled cheese and tomato soup...or tuna fish sandwich and tomato soup?"

"You swear you didn't touch me?" came another version of the same question, much more respectful this time.

"Well, I did put you into the bathtub to get your body warmed up, then I gave you a bath to ... well you needed one to get the dirt out of your clothes. But I didn't have sex with you, Rachel. Think of it this way, if you were found out in the street in this weather and nearly dead, the hospital would have warmed up your body and stripped off your clothes just like I did."

After a few somber moments and reflection on my comment, she responded, "Grilled cheese and tomato soup sounds good, mister."

"My name is Jim Rawlings, Rachel. You can just call me Jim."

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup sounds good, Jim."

Before the dryer buzzer sounded, I watched her devour the soup and sandwich at the pace of a shark mowing through a school of fish. She stood up when the buzzer sounded and looked around. Her nipples poked against my tee shirt with just a hint of the curves of her breasts discernible. With her arms down, the tee came mid-thigh. She looked less like a pole dancer now and more like the grad-level students scurrying down the hallways at the dorm attempting to get back to their own rooms after a sex romp with a 'friend.' I pointed down the hallway and said, "First door on right, just past the bathroom."

After a few minutes of silence, I heard the toilet flush and Rachel returned, dressed in her clean jeans, and carrying her freshly laundered Army field jacket. A gift, she noted, from a guy at the shelter that befriended her last year.

"My ND sweatshirt?"

"Sorry," I answered, "I had to cut it off to get you out of it."

My answer raised her ire again. "You couldn't just fucking pull it off me like my jeans?" she wailed, as though she had lost her most prized possession.

I could understand her being a little pissed. If I had a Notre Dame sweatshirt I would be pissed if someone cut that off me, too. At that point, I just held up my hands and motioned silently for her to see them. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped. It was the same stunned look I get when most people see my war-damaged hands.

Her voice cracked in response, "Sorry, too, Jimmy. I...just sorry, okay?"

She choked on the words as they tumbled from her 'O' shaped lips. She was at a loss for words. I had none to offer her in response, as I watched her staring, wide-eyed, at my hands. I moved them to my lap under the table. Out of view, out of mind, I figured.

At that point, sitting across from her at the table, I filled Rachel in on some of my Vietnam past. The psych eval stuff, I left out; but I did inform her of my newly acquired job with Mr. Worthington. From her, I learned that she had run away from home at sixteen and had been on the streets for four years. She spent most of her time in the back alleys of the local fast-food places, or living under bridges in the summers. She bounced between the shelters in the winter. Rachel allowed that one day she would return home and make amends with her parents. My reply was that it was never too late and sooner is always better than later. I know those are just platitudes, but they are ones that are true for almost all situations, except mine.

I could see her eyes beginning to close, then blink open, as she started nodding off in the chair. So, I said, "You need to get some sleep. Go, turn in. That bang on the head is going to hurt worse tomorrow, so try not to roll over on it tonight. If you can, sleep on your back."

"Where is your other bedroom?" she asked, looking around the office space.

"Only one bedroom," I answered with a smile, "but I can sleep standing up when I have to."

Rachel didn't reply right away. I could see the wheels turning behind those bright Irish eyes before she responded.

"Jimmy, I've slept with two in a bed before, even three. Just as long as we don't ... you know, get too stuck together." She quietly let me know, in her own way, that she appreciated being rescued.

My rescued snow angel was asleep before I put away the dishes. I dressed and pulled in some boxes from my truck and read a few more chapters of Roots, then made a guard-duty check of the perimeter at midnight. I found no more bodies, thank goodness. Once I had warmed up again, I did another mental check exercise. 'Sleep in the uncomfortable lounge chair or slip into bed with 'a damsel in distress' was the counterpoint. I chose the latter. Rachel did, after all, acknowledge that she was okay with two to a bed — as long as we didn't get stuck together. And she smelled and looked a whole lot better than when we first met. Cleaned up and with a freshly dried head of auburn hair, my snow angel was actually what most all-American, hazel-eyed girls might aspire to look like, except for the malnourished body.