I announced, in beginning this blog, that it would be about not only politics in Bethlehem and its surroundings, but also about life. And, in this case, about death.
This is about Alfreda--not her real name. I hesitated whether I should use her real name or not. Certainly many people will remember it--at least the first name, which was all I ever knew. At least, if they jog their memories. Maybe. I don't expect I'll be sued, one way or another; it's a question of paying her the honor of remembrance, but adding to that a slight veil of posthumous privacy, if possible.
Alfreda was a street person in Southside Bethlehem. By the time I knew her she must have been on the street a long time, and was obviously being eaten by the effects of her alcohol addiction. Yet she still gave the impression of being destined for better things. This was far more than can be said for her companion, who I'll call Jack.
My acquaintance with them must have occurred in the early '90s, a long time ago now. I know this because at the time I myself was a tobacco addict, to the extent even of smoking on the streets. Alfreda and Jack were bold enough to cadge cigarettes from me all the time. It must have been a big disappointment to them when I almost miraculously managed to quit.
After that I did not see them very often, although I cannot remember why--certainly I still lived in the neighborhood.
Then, one January morning--just about this time of year-- I decided to take a walk around the block. Along the way I stopped to glance at the paper in an "Express-Times" vending machine.
At first I was puzzled by the bizarre headline. "Burning Woman Runs To River," it said.
What could this mean? I began reading the story's lead, and was sent reeling. Then, soberly, I bought a paper and retraced my steps. Along the way, I stopped at the house of a friend.
"Alfreda is dead," I said, shoving the newspaper at her.
What had happened to Alfreda was this. She and Jack had bedded down under the Hill To Hill Bridge, as they often did. It had been a freezing night; but they had alcohol in some form, they had cigarettes, and it seemed they had some rough bedding.
At some point the bedding and Alfreda's clothing caught fire. She raced to jump into the river, where the additional shock of the cold water must have killed her instantly. That--if it happened that way--was the only merciful part.
For a long time police helicopters patrolled the Lehigh River between Bethlehem and Easton; but it was many days before her body was found, washed up against the New Jersey bank of the Delaware.
There was a memorial service at St. Peter's Lutheran Church. And there was something of an outpouring of feeling for this woman nobody had been able to help, for whom the stars remained forever crossed.
Not her fault, either. We know enough about addictions today to know that a strong will is often not enough to break the bonds they forge.
The moral, I suppose, is: Always be ready to extend compassion. You may need it next.
Rest in peace, Alfreda.