Leota's Garden (11 page)

“I’d like to buy another vowel,” the contestant said and named an
O
.

Disgusted, Leota got up and went to the television. Bending down, she turned the knob, clicking through the channels, desperate for something interesting or challenging—anything that might while away the hours without making her want to put her foot through the square of glass.

Dallas
reruns.
Click.
News.
Click.
A television talk show on mothers who had stolen their daughters’ boyfriends.

Grand.

Click.
A movie about a mother who had plotted the murder of a high school cheerleading contestant so that her daughter could win. The advertisement assured her it was a docudrama!

Trash is trash, no matter what fancy name you call it.

Click.
Music straight from hades, complete with the demons dancing around.
Click.
An old movie. Leota had seen it before, back in 1947 or thereabouts. It hadn’t been much good then. She doubted if the years had improved it.
Click.
Boxing. Fit her mood, but not her sensibilities.
Click.
Real-life cops in action. Oh, that ought to be about as fun as reruns of the Clinton hearings.

Why would anyone want to watch these shows?
People were depressed enough. Did the networks want people to become suicidal? Maybe that was it. It was a government conspiracy. Oliver Stone was probably working on a movie about it.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be dead before it’s on television.

Click.
Home Shopping Network. What on earth were they selling this evening? Jade jewelry from the Orient. China. Japan.
Our new best friends.
Amazing how quickly people forgot history when cheap commodities were made available.

“Oh, to blazes with it!” Leota punched the Power button. She
straightened in the silence and looked out her murky front window. It was dark outside, except for the faltering streetlight. Her mantel clock chimed eleven. She wasn’t the least bit tired. Why should she be after dozing in her chair throughout the afternoon? She knew she had slept because her neck was stiff. She could look forward to a long, sleepless night.

She looked at the pictures on the mantel. The most recent one she had of Eleanor was five years old. It was a Christmas portrait of the family. Very professional. Very polished. Eleanor was wearing a red satin blouse with a string of pearls. Real ones, of course. Her husband, Fred, looked attractive with his thick, white hair and expensive dark suit jacket. Michael stared at the camera with those dark, arrogant eyes, and little Annie looked so pretty with her long strawberry-blonde hair. Naturally curly, just like her father’s.

What a handsome man Dean Gardner had been. And what a pity that marriage had broken up. She’d liked him. Dean hadn’t been wild like Eleanor’s first husband, Bryan Taggart, nor as focused and successful as Fred Gaines. It just seemed a crying shame the problems hadn’t been ironed out in the beginning. Problems not dealt with had a way of growing like weeds in a garden. If given full freedom, problems became a lifestyle that choked out all the good memories, lessons learned, goals, and clear insights. Eventually they killed love itself.

God, how can a child I loved so dearly hold me in such contempt? Answer me that, Lord. Where did I go wrong?

It grieved Leota just thinking about Eleanor. What was the matter with her girl? Three marriages, two children who excelled at everything they did, a house behind an iron gate, fancy cars, vacations to Europe, and still Eleanor wasn’t happy.

I’ve been praying for her for years, and what good’s it done? I give up, Lord. You deal with her.

She closed her eyes, her heart aching.
Just once, I’d like to hear one of my own flesh and blood say they love me just as I am. Just once, I’d like my daughter to come visit me and say thank you for all the sacrifices instead of cataloging all my failures. Just once, I’d like to hear Eleanor or George say, “Thank you, Mama. I appreciate all you did.”

Fat chance.

Oh, God, why can’t I come home to You now? What are You waiting for anyway? I’ve done all I can do on this earth. I’m old. I’m useless. I ache all over, inside and out. I stand here in my living room looking at pictures of my family. They make me want to weep. Each one has his or her own life now, and there’s no room in those lives for an old woman. I’m tired of listening to Eleanor tell me what a lousy mother I was. I’m tired of turning the other cheek. I’m tired of turning on the television set just so I can hear another human voice. I’m tired of sitting in the nook gazing out at my dying garden. I’m tired of living! Oh, God, I want to come home!

“I set you free so that you might live and have life abundant.”

Leota’s heart pounded; anger poured through her. Life
abundant
? In the next world maybe, but not here. Not now.
Why are You doing this to me? What did I ever do to deserve this kind of treatment? I’d like to know.

“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Have you ever commanded the morning to appear? Can you hold back the movements of the stars? Are you able to restrain the Pleiades or Orion?”

Weeping, Leota sat in her worn chair.
I know who You are. I know You can do all things. Haven’t I worshiped You alone for as long as I can remember? Didn’t I meet with You daily in my garden and lean on You through all those years of . . . Oh, God, don’t You understand? I’m tired of being misunderstood. I’m tired of the pain of living. I’m tired of being alone.

“I want to come home. Please let me come home.” She leaned her head back against the rest and let the tears flow unchecked down her cheeks. Why was He waiting?

Quit whining.

An image drifted into her mind . . . a cauldron filled with gold. The gold was boiling, and black impurities rose, wraithlike, to the surface of the golden liquid.

Is it I, Lord?

“Wait upon the Lord and see what I will do.”

As if she had a choice . . .

Corban sat at his desk, jotting down ideas of how to get on Leota Reinhardt’s good side and make his assignment easier.
Bring wire cart for carrying groceries. Get her a cane. Clean her windows.
He grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was wash the old woman’s windows,
but if it would get her to talk to him, he’d do it. He tapped his pencil. Something easy. Something that wouldn’t take much time or effort. Chocolates, maybe? Flowers? He dismissed both ideas. He’d only known the woman for a couple of hours, but he was sure if he brought candy and flowers, she’d nail his ears to the wall and then throw darts at his head for kissing up to her.

Glancing at his Rolex, he saw if he didn’t start for the campus now he was going to be late for Professor Webster’s class. Tossing his pencil down, he grabbed his backpack. Shouldering it, he went out the door, letting it lock behind him. As he strode toward the university, he tried to think of some way to talk the professor out of requiring him to do a case study. There had to be some way to avoid spending any more time with that old bat.

While in the library checking out books on Monet and van Gogh, Annie checked at the reference desk for an Oakland telephone directory. Leota Reinhardt was listed, along with her street. Maybe if Annie saw the house, she would remember it. On the way home, she stopped at a big chain bookstore and purchased a map of Oakland.

Susan unlocked the door and came in with a bag of groceries. “Call the cops!” squawked the rainbow lory on a stand by the window.

“I live here, Barnaby. Naughty bird. Did you make another mess?”

“I vacuumed a little while ago,” Annie said with a grin.

Susan set the bag of groceries on the counter. “Won’t do a bit of good. He just starts flinging seed again. I think he figures he has to plant a crop so he’ll have seed next year. You’re a dumb bird, Barnaby. Dumb bird!”

Barnaby opened his wings and fluffed them as though he were indignant at such an insult, then smoothed them down again, staring at her with disdain. “Whatcha gonna do?”

Susan and Annie laughed. “You have the most appalling manners, Barnaby. Why a policeman would have a pet at all is beyond me. Of course, Raoul didn’t have to take you out for a walk, did he? All he had to do to keep you happy was turn on the television and leave you plenty of food. Unfortunately, we don’t have a television.”

“Somewhere everybody knows your name,” the bird sang out.

“We won’t be stuck with you forever, you know.” Susan started putting things away.

“I think you may have him longer than you planned,” Annie said.

“Raoul said he’d be back from Los Angeles in a week or so.” Susan peered at the bird. “Hear that, Barnaby? In a week, you’re outta here, buddy.”

Annie grinned. “There’s a message for you. From Raoul.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “Oh, no. Bad news?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” Her grin widened. “He’s been hired. He’s already put a deposit on a furnished apartment. Problem is the management won’t allow pets.”

“That is
not
a pet.” Susan pointed at the bird. “What about his stuff? He has to come back. . . .”

“He boxed it up before he left.”

“He
knew
. Why didn’t he just sell the bird?”

“Here, kitty kitty!” the parrot squawked at her.

Annie grinned. “Raoul said he knows you’ll take good care of Barnaby. He couldn’t trust him to anyone but someone who was a bird person.”

“Birdbrain, you mean!” She eyed the parrot. “Great. Just great.”

“911!” Barnaby said in a perfect imitation of William Shatner, then made the sound of a siren. “911!”

“Another word out of you and you’ll be plucked, packaged, and frozen like this chicken!” She tossed the package of poultry into the small freezer.

Annie laughed. “She doesn’t mean it, Barnaby.”

“You don’t think so? The only reason I agreed to bird-sit is because I missed my canary. He was so cute.
That
is a feathered piranha!” She looked at Annie’s map spread out on the floor. “Planning a trip?”

“A short one.” Annie smoothed it a little and finished tracing the route with the yellow highlighter.

“Who’s in Oakland?”

“My grandmother.” Annie smiled self-consciously. “I’m not even sure what I’m going to say to her.”

“You’ll think of something.” Susan flopped down on the old sofa she’d purchased at a garage sale. Her father and two brothers had hauled
it over the Bay Bridge in their pickup truck and lugged it into the building. When it wouldn’t fit into the ancient Otis elevator, they muscled it up four flights of stairs to the small flat, where Susan had sandwiches, freshly baked cookies, and sodas waiting. “When do you think you’ll go?” Susan popped the top of her soda.

“Tomorrow. I’m not scheduled to work until four, and I haven’t got a class.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

Annie blushed. “Four years, I think. I can’t remember for sure.”

“Four
years
?” Susan drank some of her soda and then shook her head. “I’ve never gone longer than a couple of weeks without seeing some relative or another. We’ve got family coming out of our ears.”

Annie had met at least three of Susan’s uncles and a dozen cousins during her visits at Susan’s house. She always felt a little overwhelmed when standing in the Carters’ small house, packed from stem to stern with relatives. Everyone talked at once and they were loud. The men gathered around the television to watch whatever sport was in season, while the women gathered in the kitchen to cook and talk and laugh. “Have any of them ever gotten mad at each other?”

“Oh, sure! Someone’s always ticked off about something. Hottest fights are around the dinner table when Uncle Bob and Uncle Chet get going on politics or when Maggie starts in on equal rights. Daddy’ll jump right in on anything.”

Annie had met Susan’s older sister only a few times and found her quick-witted and very likable. “Is Maggie a women’s activist?”