Looking Out for Miss Esther

Esther Deaver looked to be in a hurry. She fussed with her bags, rearranging and repacking them just so. She fidgeted with her hair, and wondered aloud if the baggy sweatshirt she was wearing might be too much for a muggy spring day.

She muttered that she needed to swing by Whole Foods and then head over to Parkway Plaza. Her to-do list was long. She had noticed that one of her tires was wearing thin and wanted to get a mechanic to look at it.

She could have been anybody, anywhere, running behind schedule on a nondescript morning in May.

Except that her troublesome tire was attached to a little girl's bicycle laden with black plastic garbage bags.

Deaver -- aka Miss Esther, Whoopi or the Bicycle Lady -- had places to go.

Making her daily rounds

Anybody who's spent any time in Winston-Salem has seen her making her daily rounds with her little pink bike.

Though not of her own doing, Esther has become an institution as familiar as the Wachovia building; she covers as much as 50 miles a day with her little pink bike. Many stories, most of them untrue, have circulated about her over the years.

She was once a school teacher. A tragic accident that took the life of a beloved child caused a downward spiral that resulted with her living on the street.

She came from privilege, the daughter of a wealthy family down east.

"I grew up in Winston and I've seen her around for as long as I can remember," said Yvonne Rorrer, a married mother in her early 30s who has befriended Esther recently. "So many people think they know her story or where she came from or who she is.

"I just wanted to find out from her. Very few people have stopped to ask her or actually try to befriend her and that's what I wanted."

Rorrer set out to find Esther and spent hours with her in one of their first meetings. Since then, she set up a Facebook page called "Where's Whoopi?" -- a nickname because Esther has resembled the actress Whoopi Goldberg -- and used it to organize an online campaign, with the goal of having people look after Esther by posting updates about where they see her. The page now has an eye-popping membership of more than 6,200.

Rorrer has done things large and small for her new friend. She's given her rides, treated her to ice cream at McDonald's and bought her some of the chewing tobacco that Esther says dulls the constant pain in her teeth.

She also drove Esther to a free clinic held by a big-hearted local dentist, Dr. Keith Phillips, and arranged for a motel room for Esther to rest in after her treatment. That one didn't quite work out.

"Bless her heart, she's so sweet but she didn't want to come inside with all the people around," Phillips said. "I looked at her in the car and chatted some. She knows where my office is, so if we can get her to come in and let me treat her, I will."

The biggest goal is to raise enough money to buy an RV or camper for Esther in time for her 71st birthday early next month. Rorrer is planning fundraisers in the next few weeks.

"As soon as I realized that she was going to be 71, I knew we had to do something," Rorrer said. "If she died, who'd know? If she got sick and wound up propped up next to a building somewhere, nobody would know for a while."

That's what motivated Rorrer to start the Facebook page. She figured the more people keeping an eye on Esther, the better.

"It just broke my heart thinking about her out there all alone," Rorrer said. "You know, a person's body and mind can only take so much."

With help, come questions

To some, Rorrer's efforts and ambitious goals are cause for suspicion. Charitable foundations and organizations are subject to regulation. In some cases, they must be registered with the secretary of state's office. Records have to be meticulously maintained and tax returns available for public inspection.

RVs and campers must be registered and insured. Property taxes have to get paid. They can only stay in one spot for so long.

Then there are larger, more philosophical questions about privacy and a person's right to self-determination. Who wants their movements subjected to constant Internet updates?

"I am seriously concerned about the number of individuals who are reporting Whoopi's every literal move and location," wrote Phyllis Salmons, a former Winston-Salem resident who keeps tabs on her hometown by way of the Internet, in an e-mail. "I don't know of anyone except celebrities (or those aspiring to be celebrities) who desire such constant attention. I cannot imagine any private citizen, much less one who is in her 70s, who appreciates such scrutiny, despite the purported good intentions of the group."

Rorrer is aware of the criticism and the challenges that come with her undertaking. She understands the skepticism about her motives. She remembers the scams that followed Hurricane Katrina, and knows full well that there's a fine line between helping someone and smothering them.

"Nobody wants to intrude or chase her or stalk her," she said. "We just want to know that she's OK and have her know that there's a lot of people out there who love her."

Concerned sister

Contrary to popular belief, Esther is not alone. She is part of a large family born to Augusta C. and Ora Lee "Johnnie" Williams Deaver in Jacksonville, N.C. She graduated from Georgetown High School in the 1950s and left home soon afterward.

She has sisters in Ohio, Jacksonville and Spring Lake. Relatives have attended Winston-Salem State University. Several times throughout the years, Esther's family has made unsuccessful attempts to reach out to her.

"My mom asked me to try to take care of the others as best I could," said Juanita Peterson, an older sister who lives in Spring Lake in the home she made with her husband, a career soldier who died a few years ago. "We've tried to get her to come back here, but she didn't want to. She could come down here and stay with me, but she wouldn't."

Peterson said that Esther left home to come to Winston-Salem with a church group. She was going to learn to be a nurse's aide, and sold "encyclopedias or Bibles" for a time.

"She was real religious and pretty smart," Peterson said. "She'd speak in front of big groups. That church was her life. Esther, she's got a pretty good background but when people see her on the streets like that they wonder if she's just crazy. Something happened with that church or a man in it that messed her mind up."

What that might have been only Esther knows for sure. She doesn't volunteer the information, and it's not the kind of thing you just come right out and ask.

Whatever the reason, something caused her to turn from the church. Her sister said that Esther received some form of government assistance, and had different places to stay in Winston-Salem. A 1992 newspaper story about her indicated that Esther had a social worker and lived in a group home for a time, but that she declined further help in 1985.

She lived in a bread truck that she kept on McCreary Street for a while in the early '80s, but the city had it removed for good after neighbors complained. She got her pink bike about that same time.

Peterson said she's glad that "guardian angels" are trying to look out for Esther, and hopes somebody succeeds in getting her off the street.

"Esther, she needs to be in a home," Peterson said. "But I don't think she'll go. She made her choice and she can be stubborn."

Losing her bread truck is still a sore spot for Esther. She still talks about her truck, and said she'd like to go pick it up sometime.

"I'm getting old. I'd like to have my bus back where I could lay my head and keep my stuff," she said recently. "I need me somewhere where I can get away from people and they'll leave me alone."

"I believe I'll walk"

Esther -- she much prefers that to Whoopi or the Bicycle Lady -- knows that people care for her and that a large group of them are trying to help her.

She doesn't quite grasp the concept of the Internet, which isn't that unusual for many in her generation. She knows, too, that her family is worried about her and that her sister lives right down the road near Fort Bragg.

She said she's grateful for the outreach and pleased that so many have taken an interest in her welfare. Some days, she might take a ride from a familiar face or a dollar or two from some well-meaning soul.

But she vacillates on just how much help she's willing to take.

She's just as likely to slyly drop a $5 bill offered to her back in the car where it was first offered as tuck it in her pocket. She'd like to have a new van but she's not sure where she could keep it or whether people would mess with it. Her teeth hurt, but she's not sure when (or if) she's going to take Phillips up on his offer to fix them.

"I decided I'd go later on," she said last week at Thruway Center. "I appreciate it, I really do … but I just don't think I need to be around all those people."

At that point, it was apparent she was getting antsy to get on with her day. She had agreed to accept a ride to Paul's Cycling and Fitness to get her bike tire looked at. Then she changed her mind.

"It's OK. I believe I'll walk. You got to get to work, I know," Esther said.

Then without really meaning to, Esther uttered something profound -- an unintentional summary of her life as unwitting local icon.

"I walked alone all these years," she said. "I believe I'd be better off by myself. I can walk alone."

ssexton@wsjournal.com

727-7481