Potholders For Sale

"General Manager, needed in the showroom," blared over the intercom. Expecting a customer service complaint, I folded the financial spreadsheets to brace myself mentally to be blindsided by a dissatisfied customer or a roving peddler selling their wares. Rare was the occasion in business that brought a positive moment. Such was the life of managing an automotive dealership.

A pair of timid women waited for me by the receptionist desk. They looked down at the floor and stepped back as I approached. Fear, then I decided terror, radiated from them. Conscious and aware, I stopped ten feet short to allow them space. Irate customers would launch into you immediately. These guests seemed a heartbeat away from fleeing the showroom like scared rabbits scurrying away to hide in their warren.

"How can I help you?" I said.

One woman cut her eyes at the other, then returned to studying the marble floor tiles. Her partner, with the mustered courage of Joan of Arc, looked up enough to explore my shoes.

"We… um… are selling potholders if you'd like to buy some," she said, "We made them. They are five dollars each."

"Is this for a fundraiser?"

The first woman took a half step back with her head bowed lower. A knitted, colorful potholder quivered in her hand.

"We are residents of the Cumbee Center, and the operating budget has been cut by the state. They say it may have to close. We knitted these potholders to help raise money."

Their anxiety seemed to spread across the floor like the breaking water of a cracked dam. Inherently sensing the courage these two women exhibited, I was moved. My heart broke for their plight. They fear men for brutal causes. They were petrified of me. What has the world come to? Spun through my mind. I handed my receptionist twenty dollars with my business card to broker the transaction without invading the women's space. The contribution felt inadequate.

"Please have the Director of the center contact me. God bless you both," I said and returned to complete the next month's forecast. Little did I know their bravery would alter my life in ways I could never imagine.

***

The next day my receptionist called my desk phone.

"You have two guests to see you," she said.

"Who are they with? Selling something?"

Most days, a dozen vendors would make cold calls to present almost anything you could imagine, from lighting, paper products, advertising, or seeking sponsors for charity events. I even had a self-declared priest offer to bless the lot with holy water for a five-hundred-dollar contribution. My gatekeeper did a great job of shielding my time with a standing bribe of a free lunch for each day of success. She would be on her own for her midday meal today.

"It's the Director and an assistant of the Cumbee Center for Abused Women and Children. I think you will want to see them and yeah I know, I'm on my own for lunch today," she said. "It's worth it."

Dr. James stepped into my office when I greeted her and an assistant. She explained the mission of the Cumbee Center was to assist women and children to escape their abusers to start new lives. Many completed the program, while others returned to the abuse. The facility was at a secret and highly secure location.

I learned that the state had cut the center's budget by almost fifty percent due to fiscal shortfalls. The woman and children secured at the cloaked site were at risk of losing their security from their abusers and would soon have to be released. She shared some of the horror stories of the women's inhumane experiences but also of their victories. A week later, our company pledged five thousand dollars a year to their cause from each of the ten dealerships.

"You do know that you will receive nothing in return via advertising beyond a thank you. You will never be invited to our facility because your presence would be like setting a dog loose in a rabbit house. You still want to do this?" Dr. James said.

I felt proud of my company and had a concrete moral obligation to support the community. I said, "Yes."

***

One month passed, and Dr. James returned to visit to share how the money was being utilized. She then asked a question that changed my world.

"What about you? Are you interested in doing more?" she said.

I thought she wanted a private contribution, but she continued before I could answer.

"Would you be interested in joining a pick-up team? It involves being called at all hours of the night for dangerous situations that you will have to be certified for by the Sheriff's office.

"Pick up team? What is that?" I said.

"We receive calls daily and do our best to aid victims and their children in escaping abusive environments. It is extremely difficult for them mentally, emotionally, and physically to do so. Most extractions occur in the middle of the night. The perpetrators will resist if they discover the escape, some violently. But once the victims are secure, they will not know how or where to find them.

If willing, you would serve on a recovery team of three. A driver, an armed security guard riding shotgun, and a female counselor from the center. The security on the team cannot approach or speak to the victims. All communication will be with the counselor only. There will be no recognition or awards but the knowledge that you did something good. Interested?"

I knew nothing of the abuse women and children suffer every day before the two heroic women who came to peddle potholders. Yes, there was an occasional news article. Still, it seemed a silent killer that no one wanted to acknowledge.

***

A month later, I was assigned to a team after I passed the rigorous Sheriff's certification program. I had to understand the law, demonstrate firearms proficiency, and learn defensive driving and perimeter tactics. Pam was the Cumbee field counselor, and George was my security sidekick. We made four uneventful pick-ups the first week, all between midnight and three a.m.

Early one Tuesday morning at two a.m., my pager beeped and rousted me from my slumber. I dressed, secured my .45 caliber sidearm and drove to the team's meeting location. Pam had brought coffee for us, as usual, and briefed us on the location and descriptions of the incoming victims. We would help extract a twenty-nine-year-old woman with twin seven-year-old girls who had decided to get out. Two warrants had previously been issued on the man but dropped when the mother wouldn't testify. The courage required to escape the cycle of abuse was beyond my comprehension. It could be compared to escaping from a P.O.W. camp where torture was served cold every day. The first and most dangerous step had to be theirs.

I drove the Tahoe into a cul-de-sac and stopped. George jumped from the vehicle and took his station twenty feet off the front left side of the car. He gave me an "all clear" thumbs up, and I slid from the seat, pulled my weapon, and stood off the left back quarter panel. With the perimeter secure, Pam exited the car as a young woman and two precious children ambled down the dark driveway carrying a few belongings in plastic bags. Pam greeted the woman and children, secured the bags in the hold, and helped them enter the Tahoe. The S.U.V.'s engine purred at idle while cicadas tymbaled and a hoot owl cried in the night. I thought this would be another uneventful pick-up until an angry man's voice broke through the symphony and brought me to reality.

"What the hell? You think you can escape me, you bitch," a barefoot man in pajama bottoms screamed from the top of the driveway. Toting a baseball bat, he sprinted down the driveway toward us.

"Stop," George and I both yelled and raised our weapons. The man kept charging and rapidly closed the distance. I raised my .45 to the sky, and the night exploded with the violence of its discharge. The abuser dropped to the concrete as his bat rattled down the driveway.

"Don't shoot, man." He pleaded. "You want the whore? You can have her."

***

As we sped away, I glanced in the rearview mirror as the shock and palpable fear radiated from our passengers. We returned to the meeting place, and Pam transferred them to her car. With a tear in my eye, I watched a young mother and her two seven-year-old girls disappear into the night to begin their freedom journey at the Cumbee Center.

I served on this team for three years until I moved from the area. My world has never been the same again, knowing the amount of suffering occurring across the street, around the block, or just across town. The abuse is epidemic.

Whenever I see a knitted potholder in a kitchen, I think of the two stoically brave women, like passing ships in my busy world, who rose above their individual traumas to help others. With their hands, courage, and fortitude enshrined in trauma, they overcame their fears and aided others with what they had. How can I do anything less? What about you?

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