The Dark Angel

These are the missed karmic events, the things that weigh on your heart. The unrecognized visitations of a spirit or an angel that you ignore until it’s too late. It is a cautionary tale whose message is simply: in the face of suffering, act, don’t wait.

I first saw the Dark Angel late one afternoon, lingering in the parking lot of the Episcopal Church on 32nd Street. It was in the fall and the weather hadn’t yet turned cold, just chilly enough for a sweater when I walked the dogs. She wore a black hoodie pulled over her head. She was slightly built, barely five feet, remote, quiet, unmoving. There was an aura of aimlessness about her—a reluctance to move from the spot where she stood, as though by staying there she might, however briefly, relieve her emptiness of heart at having no place to go.

That evening there was a wedding at the church. Brightly dressed guests hurried past her, chattering as they made their way from their cars into the church. Almost smiling, she watched their faces, perhaps for some sign of recognition. Instead, they averted their eyes as they bustled toward the festivities. Her smile faded to resignation. She shuffled her feet, turned, and walked slowly away.

I moved on with my dogs, leaving her to her ruminations. It’s not unusual to see homeless people in our neighborhood. It’s close to the beach and, once spring arrives, the weather is comfortably warm. It’s also a fifteen-minute walk to the city of Costa Mesa, where charitable organizations will provide humanitarian services to the homeless. Sadly, my hometown of Newport Beach is not known for its tolerance, much less empathy for the wandering down-and-out.

As the fall segued into the colder winter months, Dark Angel was in the neighborhood fairly often, huddled in her hoodie, walking slowly, eyes focused straight ahead. Occasionally she stationed herself on an unobtrusive street corner and watched the activity of Cannery Village. If I came near with the dogs she would smile and mumble a hello.

She must have been a lovely woman once. Her face was dominated by large brown eyes—melancholy eyes trying to comprehend the baffling circumstances in which she found herself. Her mouth was small and sad, every now and then painted with the wisp of a smile. Her hair was dark and unwashed, pulled back in a small ponytail.

When the cold weather turned rainy, she took shelter in doorways or often under the stairway of a small, two-story apartment building. At night she was a startling figure, nearly invisible in her black hoodie, emerging into the light. As the nights got colder, she couldn’t have been warm, and she certainly couldn’t have stayed dry. She disappeared periodically for days at a time, most likely taking refuge in the Costa Mesa homeless shelters.

I often saw her near the beach at sunset, a stark tableau on the windswept sand, deserted except for the slight figure in the black hoodie hugging herself against the cold, gazing into the setting sun, trying to draw warmth from the dying light. The last rays of the sun briefly tinted the pallor of her skin to a color approximating health, but it was only temporary. I would find out later that she had a serious alcohol problem. I never saw her panhandle, but whatever money she could scrape together surely went toward a bottle of cheap wine at the liquor store down the street.

The weather turned unseasonably colder after the new year. Beach temperatures dipped into the low 40s at night, inland Costa Mesa into the high 30s. Hard weather to be on the streets. When I saw her shivering on the sidewalk early one evening, I rushed back into the house and brought her a spare blanket. She gratefully wrapped herself in it, thanked me, and shuffled off into the night.

A few days later I made it a point to track her down and give her a cup of coffee. She took a sip and asked me if she could use my cell phone. It was tucked away out of sight in my pocket, so I lied and said I didn’t have it with me. “But, I’ll call anyone for you that you want,” I said, “Just give me their number and you can speak to them.”

She frowned and thought a moment. “I can’t remember the number.”

What is it about human nature that makes us hold back in the face of need? When she asked to use my telephone I should have said, “I’ve got a spare room where you can stay until the weather warms up. Have a meal and a shower.” But I didn’t say it. The Mother Teresas of this world may find it comes naturally, but those of us who are not candidates for sainthood find it to be, well, a problem. If I bring this person into my orbit by giving her food and shelter, does she become my responsibility? Do I become her keeper? And what happens to my altruism if she turns out to be something other than a grateful recipient? These are the kinds of misgivings that can grind one’s compassion to a halt.

What we call cold temperatures in Southern California would seem balmy in South Dakota where I was born. But here we’re not prepared for really cold temps and torrential rains. Still, no matter how miserable it is outside, dogs need to be walked, and homeless people need to have shelter. I was at a loss for what to do about the Dark Angel. But we had six dogs at the time: four miniature pinschers, one scruffy dachshund mix adoptee, and one adopted, retired, giant greyhound racer. It was a two person job to walk our unruly pack, so rain or shine, Thomas and I harnessed them up and braved the elements nightly to get them out.

One Sunday night we ducked out into the cold, the little ones cranky at getting their feet wet, but the big greyhound strong and fearless against the cold. We rushed them through peeing and pooping in their favorite spot down the alley. As we turned and headed for home, ice cold rain suddenly began pouring down in buckets. We set off at a run, splashing through puddles and jumping the swift torrent that roared into the storm drains.

As we dashed past the two-story apartment building on the corner, I saw the Dark Angel huddled under the stairs. She was wet and bedraggled, but waved in my direction. In my haste to get to shelter with my dogs, I turned away without acknowledging her.

Inside the house we were gasping for breath as we toweled off the soaked dogs. It suddenly registered that I saw her under the apartment building stairs. “Thomas! The Angel was under the stairs across the street. Go back and bring her in. She can stay in the spare room downstairs.” Thomas nodded and went back out into the downpour. The rain was thundering down on the skylights in our living room. I hustled the dogs in front of the fireplace where we could all dry off. Thomas came back totally drenched a few minutes later. “I couldn’t find her. She’s gone.”

I felt a cold knot in my stomach. “Oh, my God. Where could she go in all this?”

A week later, I saw the headline in the Daily Pilot, our local newspaper, “2 homeless people found dead,” I burst into tears. I had no idea what the Dark Angel’s name was, but I knew immediately it was her.

Her name was Rita Lynn Stehnach. She was a couple weeks shy of her 53rd birthday. Her body was found on Tuesday, January 15, 2013, on 17th Street in Costa Mesa, near a dumpster behind a boxing gym. She had likely died of exposure from temperatures that sank into the 30s that night. Another homeless person, Robert Collins, was found dead not quite half a mile away. He was also in his 50s, and was also presumed to have died from exposure.

Rita frequented the 17th Street area in Costa Mesa. She was known to the Churches Consortium, a charitable organization for the homeless, that said she had alcohol and health problems that could have contributed to her death. They said she had been on the street for upwards of ten years.

It was all very matter-of-fact newspaper reportage, but I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t shake the image of Rita, soaking wet, under the stairs of the apartment building, waving to me, hoping I would help. And when I turned away, more concerned about my dogs than her, she disappeared into the rainstorm before Thomas could return and find her. She made her way through the driving rain back to her Costa Mesa haunts, where she collapsed cold and shivering on the wet pavement behind a dumpster and died alone.

Was she just another piece of human detritus moving through the world, worn down to dust and scattered by the winds of life? Or was she a messenger sent to test the fortitude of my heart? These beings, spirits really, reveal themselves to plumb the depths of our humanity. Whether they live or die does not necessarily depend on us, for the lessons they have to teach may require their own sacrifice.

I failed to divine the password to unlock Rita’s message—responsibility—until it was too late to help her. My task is now shouldering her memory and learning to live with the knowledge that I could have helped. Perhaps all along her task was to show me the way into my own humanity—to remind me and you that kindness is the food for the human heart.

“It all ends with tears anyway.”

—Jack Kerouac