There. That should bring a smile to the old crone’s face.
Leota pursed her lips. He was looking at her, waiting. For what? A pat on the head? A big kiss? She didn’t want to go anywhere with this arrogant young whelp. She’d seen him glance around her house with a look of distaste. No doubt he came from grander environs. Bully for him. She didn’t move and she didn’t say anything. She looked him over in his faded blue Levi’s. Whoever heard of wearing a tan suede coat over a white T-shirt. His hair was cut short, cropped like a Roman Caesar’s. And oh, did he have the airs. King of the world, was he?
“I’ve got arthritis. I’m not much good at kneeling.”
“Ma’am?” He tilted his head slightly.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
He looked perplexed, then faintly irritated. Like he had places to go and people to see. And she was wasting his precious time.
“Would you like me to get your shoes for you?”
Oh, so polite.
Just because she was old didn’t mean she was senile. She knew she was wearing her slippers. Why shouldn’t she be wearing them? It was her house. People didn’t sit around all day in their walking shoes, did they? If she wasn’t in such dire need of groceries, she’d tell him to go back to wherever he came from. However, she had enough sense left to know she didn’t have much choice. The idea of pandering to this twerp went against her grain. But so did going hungry. She was down to living on canned vegetables. She couldn’t wait another three days for that Decker woman to find and send another volunteer. Volunteer? He looked as though he’d been drafted!
“I know where my shoes are, young man. You can sit right there and wait while I get them.” She pointed at the couch. When he didn’t move, she shrugged and headed for the bedroom. Fine. Let him stand there. Not only did she not care whether he was comfortable or not; she just might take an extra-long time with her shoes, just to spite this Prince Charming!
Corban glanced at the couch again. It looked about as comfortable as a bed of nails. He’d made the right decision to stand. He sighed as the woman shuffled away. As slowly as she was moving, he might as well take the opportunity to look around.
The living room and dining area were all one room with thick wood molding up one wall and over the ceiling as the dividing line. The dining room table was old-fashioned, made of solid, dark wood with claw feet. On top was a crocheted doily and a vase containing dusty plastic flowers. There was a china hutch against the back wall that was overcrowded with dishes and glassware. No Wedgwood. No Royal Doulton.
The rug was faded. Whatever color it had been, it was gray and worn now. A path to the kitchen. A path to the hall where she’d disappeared. The brightest spot of color in the two rooms was the knit afghan thrown over the back of the ugly sofa. A big overstuffed chair sat squat and lumpy beside a step-style end table that was overloaded with books and magazines. Another equally burdened and dusty end table was at the other end of the couch. The matching lamps were imitation Greek urns with yellowing shades. Over the mantel hung a landscape print—one of those reprints like a hundred thousand others anyone can buy, complete with its tacky, ornate, gold-painted frame. A half-dozen pictures and a few figurines stood on the mantel. One was of a little girl with three geese. Another was of a boy sitting on a fence. Here and there on the walls around the room were framed pictures, mostly handmade. The biggest was an embroidered sampler of blooming morning glories and bold, black, ornate lettering proclaiming, “As for me and my family, we will serve the Lord. Joshua 24:15.”
A braided, half-circle rug lay in front of a fireplace that probably hadn’t been lit in a decade. On the small, brick hearth were a big, dust-covered seashell, a tarnished brass cricket, and a pair of big old black boots.
Everything she had was old, faded, broken-down junk. The most expensive pieces the old woman owned appeared to be the big Naugahyde recliner and the large, box-style television set in the front corner of her living room. There’d be no estate sale here. A rummage sale, more likely.
Corban could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps coming closer. He glanced toward the doorway and noticed the iron-grate floor heater smack-dab in front of the open doorway to her bathroom. The entire room, from the floor to the middle of the wall, was a nightmare of pink, black, and green tile.
When the old woman returned, he cringed inwardly. She was wearing a long brown coat with a collar and big, black, plastic buttons and thick-soled, brown slip-on shoes. Ignoring him, she walked over to her recliner and leaned down. When she straightened, she held an old black purse by its handle, looking for all the world as though she had a rat by the throat. She held it in front of her with both hands and looked at him dolefully. “I’ll need my grocery list. It’s on the counter to the right of the kitchen sink.”
Imperious old hag. “Yes, ma’am.”
As they went out, she locked the front door carefully. When Corban offered her his arm before they went down the front steps, she took it. Grudgingly. He could feel her trembling. A case of the nerves? Or just old age? Not that he cared. He drew the keys from his pocket and pressed the remote. “I’ll get the door for you.” He patted her hand and stepped away.
She stared, jaw set. “I am not getting into that sports car!”
She sounded as though he meant to enter her in the Indianapolis 500. “It’s not a sports car, ma’am. It’s just a—”
“I don’t care what it is—I’m not getting into it. It’s only five blocks to the market. We’ll walk.”
“Walk?” Five blocks through one of the worst neighborhoods he’d ever seen? Would his car even be here when they got back?
“Of course. I’ve been walking to the market for more than sixty years.”
“Five blocks down and five blocks back makes ten blocks, ma’am,” he said, trying to make a point of the distance.
“Congratulations. You can add. It’s gratifying to know, since I’ve read that most students who graduate from high school these days can’t even read.”
He steamed. Hadn’t she called for help because she couldn’t make it on her own? He tried to think of something, anything, to talk her out of it.
She fixed him with a glare. “You look like a strapping young man, Mr. Solsek. I think you can make it ten blocks.”
Corban muttered an expletive under his breath as she started off without him. He looked at his car, looked around the neighborhood, and felt a bubble of panic. “Would you give me a minute so I can park my car in your driveway?” He tried to soften his tone. “I wouldn’t want it in anyone’s way.”
Leota stopped. She turned and looked at him. What a crock of horse manure! She knew exactly what was worrying him—and she acknowledged it was a reasonable concern. He would just have to learn the hard way there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe next time he’d have sense enough to borrow someone’s beat-up VW or come by bus.
“Go right ahead. Be my guest.”
She watched him practically leap over the back of his car, slip into the driver’s seat, remove whatever that red gadget was from the steering wheel, and start the engine. A nice, purring roar sounded. That car must have cost his folks a pretty penny. He backed it expertly into the middle of the street, swung around, and roared up her narrow driveway.
Smiling slightly, Leota waited.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
She knew what was happening without even looking, though it was a great temptation to walk over and stand at the end of her driveway where she could watch the show. Instead, she stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, content to imagine.
She heard his voice once. Rather loud, replete with frustration. One word only, but it certainly clarified his feelings. The shiny bumper appeared as he inched his car backward. He parked it on the driveway just above the sidewalk so that his front door opened toward her front steps. She watched his power window go up. She pursed her lips. It wouldn’t do to laugh at someone so proud. He reinstalled
that red thingamajiggy and got out. She heard the click as he locked the doors with his little magic twanger. Pocketing his keys, he walked across her poor, miserable, weed-infested lawn. By the time he reached her, he appeared to have regained his composure. “I couldn’t open either door,” he said with a bleak smile. “Your driveway’s too narrow.”
“Your car is too wide.” She smiled up at him innocently. “If it was six inches smaller, you could’ve made it out your window.”
Corban felt the heat climb up his neck and fill his face to his hairline. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I’ve learned experience is a far better teacher.” She lifted one hand. “Your arm, if you please. I’m old, as you’ve noticed. I need support in my dotage.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he’d buy her a cane. Any kind she wanted. One with a dragon head! However, the lure of acing Professor Webster’s class gripped him, nailing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He had to keep on track. He breathed in slowly and managed a stiff “My pleasure, ma’am.”
“Oh, drivel,” he thought he heard her say.
Neither spoke another word for five blocks, and when they got to the store, Leota Reinhardt did all the talking.
“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!” Corban heaved his sports coat into a chair. “I wanted to buy duct tape and use it on that old hag by the time we were halfway through the grocery store!”
“You’re in a fine state.” Ruth laughed. “What happened?”
“What didn’t happen! First off, she made me wash her front window. You should have seen this dump, Ruth. Then she insisted on walking five blocks down to the market. When we got there, she took an hour poking through the vegetables and fruit, complaining to the produce manager how nothing tastes real anymore. ‘You might as well eat plastic!’ she said, and you should’ve seen the guy’s face. And then she pushes the cart over to the meat section and points out how everything is packaged for families. ‘You have to buy ten pork chops to get a decent price. Do you know how long it would take me to eat ten pork chops?’ she says. And all that was nothing compared to what she had to say to the poor checker. That old woman was telling the girl how she used to buy pork chops for five cents apiece and the price of a single tomato is worse than highway robbery.”
“Calm down, Cory. It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Three bags of groceries, Ruth. Heaping bags! I had to carry two of them five blocks uphill. She stopped a couple of times, but just when I thought I’d have the chance to put them down and rest a minute, she’d start off again. She put her bag on the porch rail and dug around in her purse for five minutes trying to find her key. My arms were aching. I was just about ready to dump her stuff and go when she opens the door and tells me to take the sacks into her kitchen. I came back and carried in the other one, too, because I knew if I didn’t, I’d have to wait another half an hour for her to walk from the front door to the kitchen with it. I offered to put her things away, and she said she could do it herself. And then, to top it all off, she hands me a quarter!”
Ruth laughed. “Well, I suppose in her day, that would be considered a good tip.”
Corban knew better. “She did it to be nasty.”
“Oh, come on! Why would she do that?”
“You’d have to meet her to understand.” He yanked open the refrigerator and looked around. With a mumbled curse, he pulled out a bottle of red wine. Setting it on the counter, he opened the cabinet, looking for a clean glass. Finding none, he glanced at the sink. “Did you have friends over or what?”
“The women’s advocacy meeting was here this afternoon,” she said, distracted by her studies. “Sorry. I haven’t gotten around to doing the dishes.”
Stifling his irritation, he slammed the cabinet and opened another. He took out a mug. “This isn’t going to be as easy and quick as I thought.”
“What?”
“The old woman.”
“Well, did she answer any of your questions? Were you about to get any information?”
“Are you kidding? I didn’t get the chance to ask her a single question. I wasn’t there ten minutes before I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get anything useful out of her until I’ve established some kind of rapport with her. And God knows how long that will take.” He downed half the mug of wine. His head was pounding. Nothing like a tension headache to make one want to drink. After a few hours with Leota Reinhardt, he felt like taking the bottle by the neck and draining it.
Ruth wrote something in her notebook and glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to the text propped against two stacked books. “So why don’t you find another way to fulfill the requirements for the class? See about going to a senior gab group or something.”
“Professor Webster doesn’t want a dozen opinions. He wants one case study. I’ve already invested three hours in this old woman. I’m not throwing that time away on the off chance I might have better luck with someone else.”
Ruth’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “It’s your report.” She shrugged. “Do what you want.”
Corban was irritated by her indifference. He needed to vent, and she was making it clear she had neither the time nor inclination to listen. She was bent over her textbook again, highlighting one line with yellow before writing down the important point in her notebook. She might as well have put up a sign that said “Get lost. I’m studying.”
He finished the wine and left the mug in the sink. He didn’t have time to nurse grudges. He had to calm down and get busy on the reading assignments that piled up after every class. Ruth had the right idea. Focus.
Leaving her alone at the kitchen table, he went into the living room. His desk was next to the window that overlooked the neat apartment courtyard pool. He liked being able to look outside. Ruth had teased him about watching the girls sunbathe and swim, but that wasn’t it. He didn’t like the feeling of being closed in. Ruth didn’t care about having a window in front of her. She said she studied better with walls around her and privacy. He also noticed she liked being close to the refrigerator and the coffeepot.
Whatever their idiosyncrasies, things seemed to be working okay. He had his space, and she had hers.
So why was he still steaming?
Sitting at his desk, he stacked some papers from Ruth’s meeting and tossed them onto the floor. Someone had opened one of his notebooks and doodled all over a page. Gritting his teeth, he tore it out, wadded it up, and tossed it into the garbage can. Opening the center drawer of his desk, he found one pen left in the plastic tray. He bought them by the dozen. “Do me a favor, Ruth. Tell your friends to stay away from my desk!”
“Sorry,” she called back. “What’s missing?”
“Pens. Again.”
“I’ll get you some more when I go to the store.”
“When are you going?”
“Not right now.” There was an edge to her voice. “Why don’t you have some coffee?”
Anything to shut him up. The last thing he needed right now was a jolt of caffeine. He felt ready to explode as it was. It wasn’t just Leota Reinhardt. It was school. It was Professor Webster and his ridiculous demands. It was Ruth. It was her friends using his apartment for their meetings. It was his whole, stinking life.
He looked around the apartment, now in shambles after Ruth’s friends had come by to talk about how the world mistreated women. Since affirmative action had been cast aside, they believed women were getting a raw deal. Yeah, well, he’d like to know who was getting the raw deal here. He had straightened things up this morning. Now the cushions were tossed helter-skelter, half-empty bowls of chips left on the coffee table with a bowl of congealing ranch dip. The carpet needed another vacuuming. Newspapers were turned inside out and left on the floor. It ticked him off. These women were so fixed on equal rights they forgot all about common courtesy.
Shoving his chair back, he went back into the kitchen. “I haven’t complained about your friends coming over, Rut
h, but I’ve just about had it. They can straighten the place up before they leave or they can meet somewhere else.”
Her eyes flickered briefly as she looked about to argue; then her expression changed from faintly annoyed to heavily resigned. “All right. I’ll take care of it.” She stood and set her books aside. “I should’ve done it before you got home. Just try to chill out, will you? You get so uptight about nothing.”
She went into the living room. In the space of a few minutes, she picked up the newspapers, leaflets, and napkins and shoved them in the trash can beside his desk. Corban pitched in, carrying the chips and dip into the kitchen while she hauled the vacuum out of the closet and plugged it in. He dumped everything into the garbage bag.
“Just leave the dishes, Cory. I’ll do them!” Ruth called above the hum of the vacuum she was running back and forth. She was quick and careless, yanking the plug, looping the cord several times around the handle before shoving the machine back into the closet.
She came back into the kitchen. “I said I’d do the dishes.” She brushed him aside. “I can’t do everything at once, you know.”
He stepped back from her resentment, wanting her to understand. “I don’t like chaos.”
“Well, good luck. Chaos abounds.”
“It doesn’t have to abound in my apartment.”
She tossed the washrag down and faced him, eyes bright with temper and the hint of tears. “Look! I’m sorry you had a rotten day, but don’t take it out on me.” She turned her back on him and went back to washing the dishes. “You can be so unreasonable. I was going to clean up. I just wanted to get some work done first. You act as though I’ve never done my share.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you? What’s more important, Cory? Having a spotless apartment or graduating with honors? Sometimes I think the only reason you asked me to move in with you was so you’d have a maid!”