George never called back. He wasn’t one to talk on the telephone unless it had to do with making money.
Leota didn’t want to call Eleanor. She didn’t want to hear her daughter’s excuses for not calling or coming by only once in a blue moon or inviting her mother to her own house just over the hill. Leota didn’t want to pretend she believed the lies Eleanor spoke—lies that were never quite veiled enough to keep from stabbing at her heart.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mother. I should’ve called before this, I know. Time just gets away from me. You know how it is. We have so many things going on. I just returned from taking Anne-Lynn down to see Fred’s family in Newport Beach. We stayed for ten days. It was wonderful. We had such a good time together. They always stop everything when Anne-Lynn and I come to visit. I thought Anne-Lynn might enjoy the beaches, but all she wanted to do was see the museums. She fancies herself an artist, you know. Oh, you didn’t. Well, I suppose she has some talent, but it’s just a passing phase. She’s going to Wellesley in the fall. On scholarship. . . . Oh, yes, Michael is doing very well at Columbia. He’s on the dean’s list. We just sent him a check for the new semester.”
Eleanor and her subtle reminders of her own mother’s failures. Eleanor and her grudges. Eleanor and her wounds and endless whining.
I’m sick of it, Lord. You know I don’t want to become a burden to my children. Sometimes I just wish You’d take me home.
The silence closed in around her. She waited, motionless in her chair, for the still, small voice . . . for some sign . . .
For a stroke.
Nothing happened. No voice from the heavens. No flash of light in her dim living room. And she was still breathing. She could still feel her heart beating. She had a strong heart. She would probably live to be a hundred. What joy. Thanks a bunch. Tears pricked and anger bloomed.
Everything I’ve done is meaningless. What did I get for all my hard work? The sun rises and sets and rises again, the same as it’s always done, the same as it always will. Not that I thought the world would stop, mind You, Lord. Just a little thank-you would have been nice. But no. The seasons come and go. The days pass. And what difference will any of what I did make to anyone when I’m gone? Did they even know? Did they understand?
All I have will fall to my two children, Lord, and what will they do? Sell the house to strangers. Have a garage sale and collect a few coins for things I’ve held precious over the years. My clothing will end up in a ragbag, my garden will get torn out, the letters from loving friends will go in a trash can.
It would have been better had I died long ago than live to see how pointless it all is.
Was it ever thus?
Oh, God, what is the point of life?
Leota leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Waiting. Thinking.
It might be better if I got Alzheimer’s, Lord. I had a happy childhood. It’d be nice to go back and live in it and forget what came later. What if I did forget everything? And everyone? Haven’t they forgotten me? But what if . . . ?
Her thoughts galloped, leaping over hedges, tearing down hillsides, splashing through streams of water without even getting wet, and brought her back to her chair again, heart pounding as panic stirred. What would the future hold?
Leota pressed her lips together. You know what else, Lord? I’m tired of one-sided conversations with You!
She got up and turned on the television. Canned noise was better than none at all.
It was early afternoon and the soap operas were on in full force. Oh, joy. Bold, restless youths, lecherous doctors chasing nurses (and patients) through hospital corridors, ladies moonlighting as prostitutes, psychotic neighbors visiting with toxic cookies. She kept turning the knob, clicking through channels. Her options were less than stellar: news bulletins on the latest wacko wanting to start a war, infomercials hawking the latest and greatest to improve your life or make you a millionaire, talk shows spotlighting pain and degradation while audiences hooted and brawled. . . . She couldn’t click through the channels fast enough. There had to be something, anything that might be enlightening as well as entertaining. Reruns of old ladies enjoying the golden years in the Florida sunshine . . .
My mind is turning to tapioca pudding, Lord. I am going to end up just like poor Mrs. Abernathy. Remember her, Jesus? The little old lady who lived on the corner back in ’45. I’d see her when I was coming home from work. I’d ask her how she was doing, and she would give me the gory details of her bodily functions. Am I coming to that? First visitor through the door will know what happened on my last trip to the bathroom.
I’ll swallow that whole bottle of aspirin before I let that happen. So far, I haven’t told anyone whether my plumbing is working all right. Not that they’ve asked me. But I promise You, Lord, if it comes to that, I’ll go down and buy myself a couple of packs of sleeping pills and chase them with a bottle of gin!
“Service organizations for the elderly . . . ,” she heard in passing and clicked back to hear more. “We have Nancy Decker here with us today to tell us what her volunteers are doing and how the program is going.”
Companions. On call. No cost. Volunteers delighted to accompany the elderly to stores and on errands. Just call . . .
Just call, eh? Well, why not? What choice had she? On her own, she might get hurt and become a burden to her children. She could avoid going out of her house, but the idea of death by slow starvation was less than appealing.
She looked at the number on the television screen. So it comes to this, does it, Lord? She waited another long moment, hoping for a better answer. When none came, she lifted her telephone receiver.
“I wonder what kind of do-gooder they’ll send me,” she muttered to herself in disgust as she dialed.
Chapter 3
Great neighborhood. Corban looked around warily as he parked his jet-black car in front of the small, graying, stucco house. Irritated and tense, he looked around at the run-down houses and unkempt yards. An old, blue Chevy was parked across the street from him, one side dented, black spray paint decorating the driver’s door with N14. The house where the car was parked looked as bad as all the others, except for a decorative touch of fancy black iron bars over all the windows.
What am I doing here?
He thought of a few choice names for Professor Webster and his ideas about the necessity of adding the “human element.”
Mouth tight, Corban checked the interior of his car to make sure nothing of value was in sight. Nancy Decker had warned him what to expect in this part of Oakland. “Your best protection is to be completely aware of your surroundings. The people who get mugged are generally the ones who aren’t paying any attention to what’s going on around them. Oh, and don’t leave anything valuable visible in your car.”
Too bad he hadn’t invested in a car stereo system that could be unhooked and carried. Gritting his teeth, Corban installed The Club on his steering wheel before getting out and locking the door with his keyless remote. He’d feel less vulnerable if he were driving an old, beat-up Chevy. One with dents in it. The kind no one would bother stealing.
Tucking his keys into his front Levi’s pocket, Corban came around his car and stood on the sidewalk looking at the house where his assignment lived. The lawn was overgrown, except for the brown spots where it was diseased or dying. Bushes crowded the front steps. Water stains ran down the front corner, where a roof gutter had broken loose—probably overweighted by leaves from the winter-barren tree that was pulling up part of the concrete curb. The place looked dirty, as though the pollution of decades lay over it like a coat of dust, washed down periodically by winter rains.
Clearing his throat, he set his mind on getting this interview over and done with and started up the walkway. She lives in a dump. Weeds sprouted from the concrete stress lines on the sidewalk. From appearances, the old lady had little or no money. She was probably living on Social Security and whatever meager savings she had. Obviously it wasn’t enough to hire help to keep he
r garden neat or do anything about her grimy house and hanging gutters. Not enough to sell out and move into a residential-care facility.
She met his criteria for the report: poor but not destitute.
A low white fence that acted as a property line leaned beneath the weight of a tangle of bloomless rose vines. He could see down the driveway to a carport. Just beyond it was a garage barely large enough to park anything bigger than a Model T. The windows along the side boasted ugly, faded, green-and-white metal awnings.
The front steps had been painted at one time. Green and red, no less! The outside of the front windows was thick with grit. The old lady probably couldn’t even see through to the outside world. An old rocker on the small porch was occupied by a large garden spider. The hanging pots contained the brown, scraggly remains of whatever greenery had once grown there. The front door looked solid enough to hold back a battering ram, not that any would be needed. A would-be robber would have easy access through the two side windows. Break one pane, reach inside and unlock the door, and voilà, a criminal would have access to anything he wanted. Assuming, of course, the old woman had anything worth stealing, which Corban highly doubted.
The only things to impede entry were the thin curtains that maintained some privacy. Rather than a peephole, which wouldn’t be necessary with the two side windows anyway, a small leaded-glass window was strategically built into the center of the heavy door. For dignity, he supposed, if that was possible in such impoverished surroundings.
Corban rang the doorbell. He stood in front of the little security window so the old lady inside could get a good look at him. Raking his fingers through his hair, he put a smile on his face.
No answer.
Faintly annoyed, he wondered if she was deaf. He put his thumb to it and pressed harder this time, paying closer attention. He heard the bell ring inside. It wasn’t a hard buzz, but a melodious ding-dong. He waited another minute. When there was still no response, he debated pounding on the door. Dismissing that idea, he glanced at the narrow, side window. The curtain covering it was sheer enough that he might be able to see into the living room. He tried but could see nothing through the layer of dirt. Grimacing, he dug in his pocket and found his laundered and ironed monogrammed handkerchief.
Leota heard the bell from her kitchen, dried her hands on a dish towel, and headed for the front door. It rang again before she passed by her dining room table. She was in the middle of her living room when she saw a stranger rubbing the window beside her front door. What in the world did he think he was doing? She stopped and watched, growing angrier by the second. It was bad enough she hadn’t the strength or energy to wash her windows without some stranger coming and rubbing a spot right smack-dab in the middle of one. She’d have to look at that clean spot now and be reminded of her failings as a housekeeper.
The man peered in, trying to see past the sheer curtains. Heat came up inside Leota like lava out of a volcano. Anger galvanized her past the arthritic pain in her hips, knees, and ankles. She marched the last few steps, threw the bolt, and opened the door. “What do you think you’re doing peeping into my house?”
The young man drew back sharply, his face going dark red. “I-I’m sorry. I’m Corban Solsek, ma’am. Nancy Decker sent me from—”
“I don’t care who you are!” So what if he was sent. That didn’t excuse him! “Fine thing! Did she send you over here to peep through my windows?”
“No, ma’am! I rang the bell twice. I didn’t know if . . .” He stopped, his color deepening to purple.
“I was dead?”
He looked aghast. “That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
“Wasn’t it?” She could almost see the wheels in his brain working and spinning, trying to find some reasonable answer.
“Deaf, ma’am. I didn’t know if—”
“I’m neither deaf nor dead as you can well see.” She was beginning to enjoy herself.
“I’m s-sorry . . .”
Leota saw the hint of annoyance in his hazel eyes. He didn’t like being reprimanded. She supposed he would rather be rude and get away with it. She decided not to show pity. “You ought to be sorry.” She pushed the door wide open. “Well, don’t just stand there like you have rigor mortis. Come on in here!” She stepped back, allowing him plenty of room. He was big. Probably one of those athletes doing a good deed for the day to make up for raising Cain the rest of the week. “Go on into my kitchen. Under the sink you’ll find some glass cleaner.”
“I beg your pardon?” A look of utter consternation spread across his handsome young face.
Leota lifted her chin a little higher and stared him straight in the eye. He might be a foot taller and more than twice her weight, but she was not going to be intimidated. She’d seen enough television and read enough in the newspapers to know she’d better not let him get away with anything. “You messed up my window, young man. You can clean it.” He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him the chance to argue. “Either that or go back and tell Miss Decker to send someone else! Someone who isn’t rude enough to be sticking his nose against my front window.”
Pressing his lips together, he marched through her living room, past her dinner table, and into her kitchen. Didn’t take him more than six steps. “Where did you say to look?”
Leota had to restrain a smile. He sounded positively huffy. “Under the sink! Where else do you suppose people keep glass cleaner? Or do you have a hearing problem?”
“There aren’t any paper towels under here,” he grumbled loud enough for her to hear.
“Stand up! The paper towels are right there in front of your nose, hanging from the rack on the dish cabinet. If the roll were a snake, it’d bite you!” She stepped to the middle of her living room, watching him like a hawk. “Two won’t do the job.” When he gave the roll a good yank, she put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t say the whole roll! Four or five. That’s enough. Those things cost money, you know. Now roll the rest back up neatly the way they were. Neatly, Mr. Solsek.”
A muscle was twitching in his cheek when he came back. He didn’t even glance down at her as he went out the front door, sprayed window cleaner from the top of the window to the bottom, and started rubbing hard and fast. She could see his lips moving. Cursing her, no doubt.
Her own lips twitched. She could see those towels were getting soggy, and the job wasn’t half done. Turning, she went back into her kitchen and took a washcloth from a drawer. She ran warm water over it, wrung it out, and brought it back, along with four more paper towels.
“Here.” She thrust the cloth at him. “Use this first. And then the rest of these.” She took the damp, blackened paper towels from him and stepped back to watch him work. After a few minutes, the front windowpane was as clear as it could be with the film of dust on the inside. Even at that, there was a world of difference between the half-clean pane and the matching window to the right of the door.
Suddenly, looking at the windows, all she wanted to do was climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Corban had done his best to control his anger as he went outside and scrubbed the glass. Now he came back in and looked at the window from the inside. “How’s that?”
The old woman didn’t say anything. She just stood looking from one window to the other. Before she could enlist him to clean the rest of her dirty windows, he held out the filthy cloth. “Where do you want me to put this?”
“In the laundry basket on the back porch. The paper towels go in the trash under the sink.” She held out the wad she had taken from him.
Corban took them and headed for the kitchen, thankful that the old bat hadn’t ordered him to get a bucket and do the whole house. Not that it couldn’t use it. The whole place, from the greasy ceiling to the old yellow-and-gray linoleum on the kitchen floor, could stand a cleaning. At least the metal and yellow- and brown-flecked Formica dinette table was clean, though the ancient gas range and rounded-front refrigerator could use a scouring.
/> “And be sure you put the Windex back where you got it!”
Did she think he meant to steal it? He tucked it under the counter, deposited the sodden paper towels in the paper trash bag diapered with a plastic grocery sack, and slammed the cabinet. He found the washer and dryer tucked in the tiny back porch; both machines looked older than he was! He spotted the laundry basket containing one faded pink towel, a washcloth, and a pastel, flowered polyester dress similar to the one the woman was wearing. He tossed the dirty washcloth on top.
The house depressed Corban. It was dusty, dimly lit, and grim. And there was a smell. He couldn’t define it . . . it wasn’t just the house but the peculiar, indescribable scent of the old woman herself. Corban was faintly repulsed by it. He was equally repulsed by his surroundings. Worse, he was repulsed by the frizzy, white-haired old woman in her cheap dress, bubbly crocheted cardigan, and old pink, fuzzy, matted slippers. She stood there in her seedy living room looking like an old banty hen ready to peck at him. She stared at him with those rheumy blue eyes, and from the look in them, he could see she didn’t much care for him, either.
That annoyed him. He was volunteering his time to help, wasn’t he? She should show a little gratitude.
We’re off to a bad start. He shouldn’t have looked through her window, but how was he supposed to know it would take her five minutes to get to the front door? Regardless, he had to do something to salvage the situation. How was he going to get the information he needed if he wasn’t in her good graces? He forced a smile. “Nancy said you needed to go to the grocery store. I’ll take you.”