The Sunday when I met Billie

The car — a tired old Buick, long past its heyday — sat unmoving halfway into the intersection. I looked behind me and, seeing no traffic, rode past it to make the left turn onto the wide boulevard with the fast, downhill bike lane. As I passed the faded cream sedan, a gaunt and wrinkled hand waved me past. I stopped a few yards ahead and looked back. An older lady, terrified and alone, stared at me. I turned around and rolled to a stop next to her in the still morning air.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

“My car won’t start,” the woman barely held back tears of confusion and shame. “I don’t know what happened.”

I clipped out of my pedals, leaned my bike against the LEFT TURN ONLY sign, and aimed the eye-piercing red flasher against oncoming cars. Neither of us needed to be in a traffic accident a lazy and humid Sunday morning.

“Let’s get you out of the car and onto the sidewalk, ma’am. We need to get you out of the street and under some shade.”

“Thank you so much.” She sounded southern and apologetic. “I don’t know what happened.” She fumbled keys and a wallet into her purse and asked if she could hold my arm as she stepped onto the street.

“I’m shaking so much I couldn’t dial AAA,” she whispered. She wore a baby blue short coat over her Sunday best, with cream-colored low pumps which seemed too big for her thin frame. Two sets of glasses perched on her thin nose. She needed readers and prescription lenses to read her carefully-laminated insurance card. A disposable facemask hung limp under her gaunt chin. She was so frail I feared the bow wave of a passing truck would send her flying to the ground.

She was ninety-two, she said, widowed twelve years. The car was old but reliable, and had never before given her any trouble. I asked for her keys — if she felt comfortable doing so — and ran a quick check. Starter is good, air conditioner and lights off, battery seemed fine, fuel gauge says —

“Ma’am, it seems you ran out of gas.”

“That can’t be.” She sounded alarmed and apologetic. “I filled up last week,” she said, then brought up a wrinkled hand to her mouth in alarm. “Oh, no. Do you think someone might have emptied my tank?” She lived in a nice trailer park north of here, she confided, and most of her neighbors were nice. Most of them.

“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s get you out of the street first, ma’am. We’ll fix this.”

A woman in tights and headphones stopped in the sidewalk as her panting husky flopped under a massive oak. “Are you both okay?” she yelled.

“We are,” I answered. The old lady held my arm as I clacked across the street in my cleated cycling shoes. She weighed almost nothing. “Looks like she ran out of gas.”

We reached the curb, a haven from traffic distracted with the Buick stuck in the intersection. The woman by the oak tree — Debbie — smiled and asked questions, and told the older lady she loved the color of her coat. “You look so pretty and colorful!” she beamed, and the old lady blushed. We had yet to call AAA, but the old lady now seemed calm, thankful and relieved.

A few seconds later, a bald man in a loud white truck stopped behind the Buick. “You guys okay?”

Yes, we answered. Car died. Battery’s good, but it looks like she ran out of gas. We’re trying to call AAA.

“Don’t worry about that. I live around here. I’ll get you some gas. Gimme 10 minutes. ” The man squealed a tight U-turn and sped off.

Her name was Billie. She was headed to church when her car died at the intersection. She lived alone, despite her daughters’ protests, and planned to finally move up with them in North Carolina in the spring. She’d enjoyed watching both the Rays and Bucs games last night, even though she’d watched them alone. She felt fortunate to take no prescription medication at her age: someone in her family had died of COVID two months ago. She missed seasons and her granddaughters. Her daughters wanted her to find help for her chores, but she said housework kept her busy and sane. We talked about Tom Brady and New England, home prices in Florida, her church group, and escaping the cold.

Debbie patted her dog and smiled, sympathizing with home prices, family and the Bucs. She kept Billie engaged and comfortable and happy. Billie forgot all about her dead car, calling AAA, and missing church.

A few minutes later, the man in the truck rolled back. I helped him pour two gallons of gas into the Buick. Black mold enveloped the gas cap, evidence of lengthy intervals between fill-ups. We spilled only a little bit.

I stepped on the gas pedal a few times to prime the fuel pump before cranking the engine. I’d last run out of gas in high school, now close to thirty five years in the past. Billie had never been though this. She’d never dealt with any car emergency before today. Until twelve years ago, she’d never needed to.

After a few sputters the car started. Two gallons. Probably thirty miles range for the Buick. Enough to get her to a gas station. She could make the end of church service after that.

“My goodness, thank you all so much. . .” she beamed in disbelief, and rifled through her wallet. I saw a folded fifty in mad money next to a dog-eared five dollar bill. The wallet was very thin, not-too-old. No pictures. Billie’s hands still shook, but not because of fear.

The bald man — Rory — shook his head.

“You don’t owe us anything ma’am. We gotta take care of each other.”

I smiled at Billie. “You probably need to fill up before you go to church.”

She thanked us profusely, the desperate gratitude of someone struggling to convey how much meaning a kind act can hold. The three of us waved goodbye after making sure she was buckled in, the hazard lights were off, and she had her belongings with her. She smiled sweetly and drove away, out of our lives forever. I clipped in, thanked Debbie and Rory, and raced the wind south. I felt strong and fast, thankful and alive.

In my haste to ensure her safety, I forgot to ask Billie for one favor.

“When you get to church, please pray for us. We all need more opportunities to show grace.”