We're having September weather in late October right now, but all out of season, I find a February incident from years past on my mind.

It was one of those years when the snow fell late, and there were two or three inches crusted over on the ground. I find that weather always makes me feel a bit more domestic. A peaceful Friday night giving my boy his bath before carrying him to bed, then curling up with the bride, suited me as well as any day could.

It was not a phase of my life where I expected the doorbell to ring repeatedly at 4 AM.

When it did, I did remember other phases of my life well enough to deal with the situation. It took me some few moments to prepare before I'd swung my front door open, and was peering through the frosted panes of the storm door. Security lights of the neighborhood reflecting from whiteness, everything still in the way only midwinter nights can be. One spot of movement - someone on the porch of the house across the street.

In the stillness, she noticed the movement of my door, and darted toward me. If you've ever frightened a fawn on a moonlit night, you know the way that she moved. Crunch, crunch, crunch went her feet in the snow, the only sound in the world. The door across the street opened as the lady came across, and my semi-acquainted neighbor took in the scene, glared at me as if it were all my fault he was out of bed, and slammed it shut again. When she arrived on my porch, she seemed unaware that I was now carrying two households worth of antipathy towards her.

"Can I use a phone? My boyfriend's mad, and he locked me out of his house."

I noticed her shivering - t-shirt, jeans, no coat. She noticed me noticing - raised a foot. Footie socks, soaked with what had melted as she walked... no shoes.

Wait one beat, as I allow a sort of generalized fury to almost pass. I'm just out of a warm, non-empty bed and haven't found a likeable reason to be doing that yet.

"Get in here."

I immediately regretted the way I growled it, because she looked tremendously sad at her life options as she considered this offer from the end of my porch. I expanded on my thought in a kindlier tone.

"We'll talk to my wife, find you some shoes."

This coaxed her in out of the cold. By that time the bride had emerged from the warm bed as well - I did as much introduction and explanation as I could, and stepped aside. Counseling women with troubles is really her department, believe it or not, and I find she does better without me around. I hovered out of sight where I could only hear voices if raised, after carrying the portable phone to them.

The girls talked for some hours - the bride apparently countermanded any effort to call someone for a ride, on the grounds that everyone but us was still asleep. Any time it seemed like I might be hearing some part of the story being told by the lady with the half-frozen feet, I moved farther away from the room. I told myself it's not my story, it's not told for men's ears, plus I could see it turning into something where I want to go knock on a neighbor's door with a baseball bat, and that's not really my greatest strength. When the sun eventually began to rise, though, I stopped in, because there almost had to be something they need, and this really should be wrapped up before the boy awakened.

I found that it was determined, after a number of phone calls, that there was really no ride available for her. (The people she had wanted a phone to call were long distance, of course.) The bride drew me into the next room to tell me they had decided on a local women's shelter as the lady's next destination, without much real input from the lady. We rejoined her, and tried to wait respectfully while she finished the call she started while we were away.

Of course, she was talking to the boyfriend. Not someone previously known to me, living about three blocks up the road from us, in one of the houses that tends to re-sell every year or two. Not the guy who was going to fix the situation, either, as was obvious to everyone but the lady.

Left to her own devices, she decided to call to tell him she was OK, and that he was some form of doodiehead - I forget the exact words. We cut that off pretty quick, and began outfitting her with a spare coat and close-enough-fit shoes. Lovely parting gifts for her journey down to the shelter. The phone rang, my bride picked up. She listened just briefly, spat out one sentence more venomous than I'd heard from her in a decade, and hung up. Yeah, the boyfriend remembered watching Fight Club well enough to dial *69. (The lady stood quietly but confused through all this, apparently unable to understand why my sweet bride would talk to somebody on the phone like that, even after the bride mentioned who was calling.) The bride shot me that "ok, we're done with this now" look, and we hustled up the process of getting the lady in the car.

The bride explained to the lady that she would have me as a chauffeur to the shelter, and that she was to send me directly back, as our involvement with her would be done at that point. Keep the coat, keep the shoes, forget our address. Short sentences only, as she's not catching on to anything really quick. In the middle of the speech, the phone rang again - I picked up. Thirty seconds later, I had been slurringly warned against touching the lady because she belonged to the caller, who for some reason bluntly advised me regarding her sexual tastes as well. Kthxbye. At that point, the phone was hung up, the ringer turned off, and our guest and I were on the road.

She was docile, and detached; it was somewhat creepy to ride with her. What conversation do you make, precisely, with someone you're driving to the women's shelter on the basis of a few hours' acquaintance? I quickly settled into a detached silence of my own, which deteriorated into a repeated "we're almost there" once we got into the neighborhood. When I parked in the obscure, tiny downtown lot, I was briefly horrified at the thought that she might not want to get out of the car, and then what do I do? Though she was a little slow in doing it, she hopped out cheerfully enough once I gave the example.

As we walked to the door and buzzed the buzzer for entry, I said nonsensical calming things about how my family wished her the best of luck, and that she'd be well cared for here. I wasn't sure if I expected thanks, but what I got was a maddeningly detached nod. After that, I simply stood there with her for the longest time waiting for the nearly-armored door to open, wondering whether disability or pharmacology was more responsible for her attitude. I was back to being pissed about the whole situation by the time someone finally answered the door.

The woman who opened that door asked my passenger how she was doing and what she needed. After a few moments of silence, and with some exasperation, I spoke up to explain the situation as I knew it. I tersely asked if they would take care of her, and the woman said that they would - a purely reflexive transfer of responsibility on my part, because I was determined to be done.

My passenger, without a look or a word to me, moved to walk inside, and I moved to follow her, out of some residual attachment or politeness. We'd not yet said goodbye, I suppose, was my thinking.

I stopped the foot in midair that was trying to cross the threshold. The woman that had answered the door had become the door's warden, shifting half a step to the side to make it clear that I would enter the women's shelter only over her physical objection. I don't know why, but that surprised me. Especially when I looked in her eyes and realized that I was absolutely considered the enemy for thinking of bringing my anatomy into that place, especially given the way I had talked.

I put that foot behind me instead of over the line, said a goodbye I knew would remain unanswered, and spun and walked away. I spent the drive back home pondering those last few moments, wondering why I was feeling like a heel after having done what I had done. I'd brought her in out of the cold, treated her well, taken her to the best place my family and I could find. Was I the guy shoving her out in the cold? Was I the guy treating her as an object? I thought not.

All this came back to my mind recently, when a friend mentioned she'd applied for a job at that shelter. I told her some bits of that story, and thought, perhaps out loud, that she'd be a fit for working the door. (There's attitude to spare on that girl, which may be why she's a friend of mine.) I didn't expand on that thought very much, though, as thinking of the shelter again brought another memory to mind.

It was a few weeks ago, high summer; as far from February as we get. A lady, carrying the sort of purse that would hold all she'd need for three days, had smiled at me across a gas station parking lot. I had been just standing there filling my tank, and reflexively I had smiled back. She walked over and asked me for a ride; as she was headed the way I was going, I'd agreed. Cuter and neater than you'd think - good hair, good teeth. She said along the way that she was just back in this town, and had missed a connection with a friend. She said that she was trying to look up another friend to stay with that night. Unsure of how to take this, I'd taken refuge in staying silent, as we drove the mile or so she'd asked to go. I more or less ejected her when we got to her destination, drawing a bright line edge at the limit of my generosity. Just another random favor, another chance to be a good guy, and I was there for it - but I'd learned how it made me feel to get involved. Over the years, it had become a standard reflex to hold back.

I'd told another friend of that one at the time, saying "yeah, she was named Michelle. For some reason, they're always named Michelle." Dismissive as I spoke of her, objectifying the woman I'd shoved out my door into one of the hottest evenings of the year.

For some reason, it took retelling the shelter story again for me to realize it could easily have been the same girl, just judging from height, coloration, life philosophy... and name. She could easily have been blessing her luck to find the man who had given her shoes years before, only to be snapped back into her detachment when she found I'd go just one more mile.

I wish I could remember whether she'd been wearing shoes.

I wish I thought I'd paid enough attention to the lady, or the object, in my passenger seat, enough attention to be sure one way or the other. What kind of a guy wouldn't be able to tell?

Good call, door warden, good call.