“Oh.” He still looked confused. His smile was polite, but his expression said it all. He thought she was losing her marbles. “Did your husband come home?”
“Yes, he came home.” Corban looked at her, waiting for more. She looked back and smiled. He could wait awhile longer. He wouldn’t appreciate what she had to tell him. Not yet, at least.
“What was Grandpa like?” Annie said, still perched on the ladder. She snipped another branch, lowering it carefully through the others before dropping it.
“What has your mother told you?”
Annie went still on the ladder. “Nothing much,” she said after a moment and started working again.
Poor Eleanor. So much anger, so much shame. All because she was too blind and too stubborn to want to see the truth. Lord, sometimes I wish I could shake that girl until the walls around her heart crumble. I imagine You know exactly how I feel.
“He was a good man, Annie,” Leota said firmly. “He had a good heart. He cared deeply about many things. He was just . . . quiet.”
Bernard hadn’t always had the drawbridges up. There had been a time when he was like a knight mounted on a great steed ready to go into any battle. Hadn’t he stormed her citadel and claimed her heart? She had agreed to marry him after four dates, the announcement coming as such a shock to his parents that they never quite got over it. Papa almost had, perhaps, but Mama hadn’t fully accepted her until the end, and by then, it was too late to undo the years of damage.
For three years she and Bernard had been blessed with happiness. Then the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and turned their world upside down. Bernard had joined the army rather than wait to be drafted. She had understood his reasons, but that didn’t stop the fear from almost eating her alive all the time he was gone. She had loved him so much she thought she would die without him. It wasn’t until later that she came to understand that there were things worse than death.
Bernard Gottlieb Reinhardt had gone off to war young and proud of who he was: a loyal American willing to put his life on the line to bring Hitler down. His parents were as eager for Hitler’s regime to be destroyed as he, for they followed the news of what the ego-mad dictator was doing in Europe. They prayed for their relatives living in Germany, agonizing over what might be happening to them. What they did hear was soul wrenching. Why couldn’t others see what was really happening and get out of Germany before it was too late? They could come to America, the land of freedom and opportunity.
Freedom and opportunity . . .
Opportunities dwindled quickly for those who still retained thick German accents. Distrust abounded.
Poor Bernard had carried so much responsibility on his shoulders. He had gone off, not just to fight a war but to seek out two uncles and their families and find out what happened to them. If he could find them.
And, as God would have it, he did.
The Bernard Gottlieb Reinhardt who came home was not the same man who had marched proudly off to war. The veteran was a stranger, broken and filled with an anguish so deep that nothing had ever lifted him fully from the depths of his depression. Not even alcohol could deaden the pain he lived with until the day he died.
Corban said something to her, and shaken from her thoughts, she looked at him, confused, still lost in the mire of memories.
“Your husband, Mrs. Reinhardt. What did he do for a living?”
“Oh, he did lots of things. He painted houses for a while. Then he did drywall work. He was employed by a roofer. I guess you could say Bernard had so many different jobs that he became a jack-of-all-trades. You’ll have to take a look inside the apartment behind the carport. Bernard built that for his parents. He did everything, even the plumbing.”
She didn’t see any reason to tell them that after the war Bernard couldn’t seem to hold a job longer than a year. Something always happened: hurt feelings, a fight, poor pay, layoffs, firing.
“He became a handyman after a while. People would call him to do odd jobs. A little of this, a little of that. Whatever he did, he did well.”
Annie was looking at her from her perch. When Annie smiled, Leota saw something in her expression that made her want to weep. Perhaps Eleanor had said more than Annie was willing to share.
“With that kind of occupation, it’d be impossible to save enough for retirement years,” Corban said.
Leota’s mouth tightened. She supposed he meant Bernard had left her without resources. That was true, but not something she liked to dwell upon. “There are more things to life than money, young man.” She had no intention of going over Bernard’s shortcomings as a husband or father. He had done the best he could.
“I didn’t mean any slight against your husband, Mrs. Reinhardt.”
The foolish boy was still fixed on his project, gathering facts, making suppositions. All wrong. “The fact is, we never talked about retirement,” she said. “There wasn’t time. In our generation, most people worked until they were sixty-five or seventy or were wheeled out the door feetfirst. Some got tossed out a month before retirement benefits were scheduled to start. Bernard died in 1970. And don’t ask me how he died. I didn’t request an autopsy.”
When Corban winced, she closed her eyes, sorry she had been so abrupt. She sighed and opened her eyes to look into his. “There are things you can never understand, Corban, and I haven’t the heart left to explain.”
He frowned, searching her face. For the first time, she saw compassion. She smiled slightly. “It’s not going to be as easy as you thought, is it? This project of yours.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“What happened to you?” Ruth said when Corban entered the apartment.
“I’ve been doing manual labor,” he said dryly, collapsing onto the battered sofa. He was exhausted, dirty, and annoyed. Glancing around the apartment, he felt slightly better. He had expected to come home to a mess, but Ruth had been busy. The rug was vacuumed, the pillows on the sofa plumped, the coffee table clear of its usual debris after one of her gatherings. “What happened? Was the meeting canceled?”
“No,” she said in annoyance. “I just finished cleaning up. Everyone left hours ago. Where have you been, Cory?”
“At Mrs. Reinhardt’s, helping her granddaughter prune fruit trees.”
“Granddaughter?”
Corban heard the edge in her voice. Jealousy? Nice to know he was appreciated. “Her name’s Anne. Eighteen or so. She’s going to some art school in San Francisco.”
Ruth leaned her shoulder against the kitchen door frame and crossed her ankles. She smiled, her expression enigmatic. “Pretty?”
“Very. Petite. Hair to her waist. Blonde.”
“Natural blonde?”
“Nasty question.”
She laughed. “Oh, forget it. People who live in the city and fancy themselves artists are a dime a dozen. Sounds like a ditz to me.”
“You’re being pretty cavalier, considering you just had a meeting with your women’s activists.”
Eyes flashing, she pushed away from the door frame and went back into the kitchen. “Do you want some dinner? I made a tuna casserole.”
“I already ate at Mrs. Reinhardt’s. Pork chops at $3.59 a pound.” He laughed. Mrs. Reinhardt had made sure he knew how much his meal had cost her.
“Why are you laughing?” Ruth came back and stood in the doorway, a kitchen towel over her shoulder. “She sounds like a rude old biddy.”
“Yeah, she is,” he said, head back against the sofa. “Disagreeable. Snarls every other word at me. Orders me around like a personal servant. She hasn’t an ounce of respect for my person.”
“Does she know you’re studying at the university?”
“She knows. That’s just another strike against me.”
“Why?”
He leaned forward, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Why do you think? She knows she’s part of my project.”
“You told her?”
“She didn’t give me much choi
ce. She nailed my ears to the wall the last time I was over there. It was either be up-front with her or get tossed out the front door. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“So are you getting what you need from her?”
“I’m getting bits and pieces. She feeds facts to me like dog treats. ‘Sit up, Corban. Fetch, Corban.’” He thought of the dozen bundles of cut branches stacked neatly on her back porch. How many morsels of information had he eked out of her today? Every time he learned something about that old woman, more questions loomed.
Leota Reinhardt wasn’t as simple as she seemed.
“Kiss her off, then, Cory. Just go to one of the senior centers and interview some people. Or go to one of those residential-care facilities. For heaven’s sake, don’t make such a big deal out of one old lady.”
Easy for her to say. “I’ve gone this far with Mrs. Reinhardt; I’m not throwing in the towel now.” Things she had said today had stirred a deeper interest. Talking to her, though, was like pulling up strings from a tapestry when what he was after was the whole picture. “She was different today. I saw sides to her I hadn’t seen before.”
“For example.”
“She has a sense of humor. She can take a hunk out of you and then stitch you up in the same sentence.”
“Nice,” Ruth said dryly. “Are these new sides going to get your paper written?”
That wasn’t what was bothering her, and they both knew it. Corban stood up and went to his computer. Pushing the Power button, he sat down. “I’ve got to write some notes while the information is fresh in my head.” He clicked the word processing icon. He knew Ruth was still standing in the doorway; he could feel her looking at him. The air crackled with tension.
“Why don’t we do something tomorrow, Cory? Go to a movie or take the ferry to Angel Island. Something. I’ve been worrying lately. Don’t you think we’re getting in a rut?”
They were in a rut, all right. One she had dug. Funny she should notice that now. Maybe she was feeling a little less secure about him and her situation. Well, let her. “We’ll see.” Pulling up the file, he started typing.
R’s granddaughter was visiting today. Noticed a difference in R’s attitude. Cheerful. Focused. Sharp sense of humor. Made numerous jokes at my expense. She talked more than usual. Talked some about her husband.
**Look for information on Bernard Reinhardt.
Anne said she didn’t know much about her grandmother. Family didn’t visit often.
“Maybe I’ll go without you,” Ruth said.
He heard the faint threat behind her declaration of independence: Absent yourself and I might find someone more attractive out there, buddy boy. Angry, he looked at her. “Do what you want, Ruth. Only be careful.” He hoped she saw the rest. Don’t think you can make me dance to any tune you play. The spell you cast is weakening.
Her eyes flickered, then quickly steeled over. “It’s nice to know you’ll worry about my well-being.” Turning her back on him, she went into the kitchen.
Corban turned his thoughts back to Leota Reinhardt.
A cabinet door banged in the kitchen.
What caused family estrangement?
**Get to know Anne-Lynn Gardner.
Hadn’t Anne said she was staying over tonight with her grandmother? Maybe he would go by again tomorrow and get her telephone number.
Chapter 10
Leota sat in the middle of the church, in the middle of the pew, with Annie. Hands folded in her lap, Leota gazed at the stained-glass windows along the east side. Early morning sunlight came through, making the rainbow hues glow with color bolder than life. At the front was an old, rugged cross mounted on the wall. Banners hung to the left and right proclaiming, King of kings and Lord of lords in exquisite, silken designs of gold and purple.
Men and women of various ages and skin colors all garbed in maroon, white-collared robes sat in the choir just below the cross. The pastor, not the one she remembered, sat off by himself to the left of the pulpit in a throne-like chair. He looked solemn, dressed as he was in a long, black robe and embroidered stole.
How many years had it been since she had stepped foot in this old church with its grand edifice and beautiful windows? How long had it been since she was surrounded by fellow parishioners? Six years? Ten? It wasn’t even the same denomination—not that she was bothered much by that. There was a good feeling in this place, a warmth that permeated the people. In addition to the two greeters at the door, a dozen or more people had smiled or said hello to Leota and Annie.
The last time Leota had come here, she’d been so tired and depressed, she’d known it was her last time attending church. Old age—and its limitations—had caught up with her. The walk to the bus stop had been fatiguing. The wait had been stressful, especially when several young hoodlums eyed her purse, seemingly waiting for possible witnesses to walk away and leave her vulnerable. Luckily, the bus had arrived before she was mugged.
The ride had gone smoothly, but by the time she reached the church, she had been in dire need of using the restroom, which was downstairs. Two or three steps were easy enough to manage, but a flight of stairs in a narrow, curving passageway was risky. She had been bumped several times by children racing down to Sunday school. Holding tightly to the railing, she had moved slowly, afraid of falling and breaking bones. The younger, more able-bodied folks had to squeeze around her.
By the time she went down the stairs, into the restroom, and back up those stairs to the sanctuary, she was exhausted. She’d sat in the back of the church, distressed and unnoticed, barely able to hear the sermon. In her sad state, the service had passed in a blur. All she could think about was the long journey home. How long would she have to wait for a bus? Who might be waiting at the bus stop to threaten her? She’d been so tired at that point, she sat fearful of how she would make the four-block walk on the flat section before coming to the hill on which her little house was built.
It had all been too much for her. Life was stressful enough without adding to it. After that day, she hadn’t gone back to church. The first few Sundays she’d stayed home, she’d tried to console herself with services on television. Surely the Lord wouldn’t mind. Yet breaking the long habit of attending church every Sunday had been heart wrenching. And what a lonely proposition those television evangelists were, with their dramatic presentations, professional singers, glitzy environments, and guilt-grinding appeals for money. They’d made her feel so bad at times that she’d thought about sending a big chunk of her Social Security check.
Instead, she turned her television off.
The saddest part was that no one missed her. She’d been attending the same church for years, and when she stopped going, not one person called to find out why. She supposed if she had been more involved, perhaps her absence would have been noticed. As it was, she hadn’t been involved in anything. When she left, no one cared.
For a time, she had met God in the garden. And then that precious time was stripped away as well. She wondered if it was the same with Him as it had been with the church. God certainly didn’t need her. With all the thousands out there serving Him mightily, what did one uncommitted little old lady matter?
She stopped speaking to Him for a while. Then she started in again. Whom else could she talk with on long, lonely days?
Leota looked around surreptitiously, searching for familiar faces. None that she could see. The congregation was mixed now, more black than white, a few Asians and Hispanics scattered about. Just like her neighborhood. Some people were dressed in fine suits and dresses, while others were in jeans and T-shirts.
She felt comfortable, far more comfortable than in past times. Maybe it was having Annie sitting next to her. Yet, she felt it was something more than that . . . there was a spirit in this church that seemed to bind the people together. It didn’t matter what race or cultural background. They all seemed to know one another and greet one another with affection.
Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to be?
Where else could one go in this world to find such a sense of peace among all peoples but before Jesus Christ? This was the first time she’d been in a church that felt that way. It seemed a silent proclamation: We are one in Christ, brothers and sisters all.
Lord, I don’t know any of my neighbors anymore, but I sure feel I know everyone in this church. Not by name, but by Name. Jesus is shining right out of them. Most of them, anyway. That pastor could sure use a smile on his face, but maybe he’s talking with You before he talks to us.
Everyone stood and sang “Amazing Grace,” and the tears flowed unexpectedly down Leota’s cheeks. She hoped Annie wouldn’t notice and be embarrassed. The poor child would wonder why her foolish old granny was crying.
Oh, but, Lord, I can’t help it. It feels so good. It feels like I’ve come home. Hearing this old hymn is like a taste of heaven. And yet, it’s a mixed feeling, Jesus, because I know Annie and I will walk out of here in a little while, and it might be a long time before I stand and sit and pray and sing in a church again. Oh, Lord, maybe this will be the last time. Period. Unless Annie comes back for another weekend visit. But I can’t count on that, can I, Lord? I can’t count on anyone or anything. It’s not my right to do so. She has her own life.
Leota’s throat closed so that she couldn’t sing at all. She continued to mouth the words so no one would notice her lapse should they happen to look. She could hear Annie singing; her voice was clear and lovely. Eleanor had probably had her in voice lessons. Eleanor had desperately wanted voice lessons when she was a teenager, but there had been no money. Leota had suggested Eleanor join a church choir, but her daughter had thought that was the cruelest thing anyone had ever said to her.
Others were noticing how well Annie sang, too. A young black woman turned and looked back at Annie, smiling as she did so. Pleased, Leota looked at her granddaughter with pride. Annie wasn’t noticing a thing because she sang with her eyes closed.
Oh, Lord, she’s lovely, isn’t she? And such a blessing. I know I ought to be thankful for the little time I have with her. I shouldn’t expect more. And I am grateful, Lord; I am. But You have to know how much this hurts. She’ll go back across the bay in a few hours, and it might be a long time before I see her again. I know I should relish the moment, enjoy it for what it is. Help me not to think about tomorrow . . .