Leota's Garden (16 page)

There had once been pictures of relatives, but they were all gone now. The few pictures left were of the children during their school years. All the remaining pictures Leota had of her family were sitting on the mantel. She only had three pictures of Bernard. The one taken on their wedding day hung in her bedroom. The second was of her and Bernard with George as a toddler and Eleanor as a baby. The third was of Bernard in his uniform. It had been taken and sent home to her when he graduated from boot camp. She had given it to his parents, and they had displayed it proudly on the mantel until he came home and told them he wanted no reminders of the war. Mama had put it away after that. She didn’t even hang it on the wall in the little apartment behind the
carport. When Bernard died, Mama had placed the picture on top of her television set where she could see it every morning, noon, and night of her last ten years of life.

Tucked in the box among the collection of mementos was an old shoe box. Leota untied the pink ribbons and lifted the lid. Inside were letters from the old country that Mama Reinhardt had saved. They were written in German and beyond Leota’s comprehension. Yet, when Mama Reinhardt had died, Leota couldn’t bear to burn them or throw them away. If Mama Reinhardt had cherished them enough to save them all those years, who was she to discard them? They were neatly organized in small bundles and tied with slender pink silk ribbons. One bundle for each year, starting in 1924—the year after Mama and Papa Reinhardt had immigrated to the United States. There were no letters after 1940.

Leota wondered what the letters said. Perhaps she should destroy them, yet the thought bothered her. The shoe box of letters only took up a little space. Maybe someday a relative would learn to read German and decipher them. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea.

She knew what Bernard would have wanted.

She weighed the box in her hands.
Lord, what should I do? Our family history may not be pristine, but it’s ours nonetheless. What risks are involved in saving them? Who might be hurt by what they contain? And if I did burn them, how much of who we are would go up in smoke?

Sighing, Leota set the box aside. She didn’t know what to do about the letters. She would think about it for a few days and then make up her mind; if she couldn’t decide, it would be left to someone else to figure out. Let Eleanor or George burn the past if they so chose.

Before she put the lid back, she noticed one long, brown envelope tucked lengthwise in the box. She took it out and turned it over in her hands. It had no markings on it and was unsealed. Opening it, Leota took out some official-looking documents. Spreading them out, she read them. Mama and Papa Reinhardt’s naturalization papers! Both had passed their test before a judge and become American citizens in May of 1934.

It was no accident that these papers were in with the letters from Germany. “Oh, Mama, you were pulled between two worlds, weren’t you?” Yet, it was a message, too.

Leota folded the papers carefully and tucked them back into the
envelope. She wrote on top, “Naturalization Papers for Gottlieb and Helene Reinhardt.” She placed the envelope on top of the letters, so anyone opening the box would see it first. Then she replaced the lid, retied the ribbons, and set the box aside. She didn’t need a few days to decide after all. She would keep the letters.

The last box was filled with her own keepsakes. She had weeded them out the last time she went through this box. It had been the month after Mama Reinhardt had died and she had tucked some of her things away in the attic. She held a bundle of letters from Bernard while he was away at war, and took out another of cards he had bought for her over the years for her birthday and Mother’s Day.

For the rest of the day, she read them. Some made her weep, especially the ones from the war. Bernard had been so full of life and fun when she met him, but the youthful optimism and enthusiasm had quickly given way to the realities of war. She read until midnight, when she became too tired to continue, and left the remaining letters and cards on the dining room table to finish the next day.

There were fifty-three letters in all. She could hear Bernard speaking to her as she read them, the young Bernard, so full of passion and hope for the future. She read every single one of the eighty-nine greeting cards. Each had a note written at the bottom.
All my love, always, Your Bernard . . . I couldn’t have made it a day without you. . . . You are the light of my life. . . . Ever yours by the mercy of God . . . All my love . . . All my love . . . All my love . . .

Someday perhaps her children would read them. Perhaps then they would understand. These were her proof that Bernard Reinhardt had always loved her, even through the years of heavy drinking and the bouts of deep depression and silence.

Oh, Lord, in that day, let the accusations against me be put to rest. Let my children’s eyes be opened so they will see and finally understand some small part of why things were the way they were. They don’t have to know everything, Lord. Not so much that their lives will be shattered. Just let them know enough to put their sour feelings about me aside and count their blessings. I did the best I could with what I had.

Carefully stacking the letters in order, she bundled them again.

For now, she supposed Eleanor would continue to cling to her own view of the past. She would hold on to the tattered crazy quilt of experiences stitched together by her own fertile imagination. Bits and pieces of conversations, things she had been told or overheard—fragments of truth, but never the whole of it.

Stand back, Eleanor. Stand back and take a good look.

Leota stacked the letters, retied the ribbons, and went through the rest of the things in the last box. What other treasures might she find? She took out a beaded evening bag, a lace collar with pearl buttons, a prayer book with a worn, leather cover, and the portfolio of Great-Aunt Joyce’s drawings. She would go through them later with Annie.

Near the bottom of the box, she found three white hankies wrapped in tissue paper. One was edged with lace, another with tatting, and the third was beautifully embroidered with forget-me-nots. Her mother’s work. So fine. She had never been able to bring herself to blow her nose in one of them, the mere thought seeming almost sacrilegious. Leota thought about Annie as she took each hankie out and admired it. As an artist, her granddaughter would appreciate the time and effort that had gone into making these lovely things. It was right that she have them.

On the bottom of the box were two sets of clothing. One set had belonged to George when he was a toddler: a pair of worn jeans with holes in the knees; a blue-, red-, and green-striped shirt; a cowboy hat; and a pair of boots. The other set belonged to Eleanor: a blue dress with tucks and gathers, pink ribbons stitched around the bodice, and white embroidered flowers on the collar and hem. Mama Reinhardt had made it.

Along with the dress was a pair of scuffed white Mary Jane shoes for a baby.

Leota held the items of clothing in her lap and wept.

Chapter 6

Leota peered through the window in the front door and saw Corban Solsek standing on her front porch. Why was he back? Was it Wednesday already? Couldn’t be. Annie said she was coming for another visit on Monday. Her classes were on Tuesdays and Thursday and Friday evenings.

She opened the door and noticed the spiral notebook he was holding. “You’re a few days early, aren’t you?”

“I wanted to talk with you, Mrs. Reinhardt. If you have a few minutes.”

“I think I have a few to spare.” She opened the door for him. “Well, come on in,” she said when he hesitated. She could tell how much he was looking forward to this visit. His mouth was a hard, flat line. He didn’t look nervous; he looked annoyed. “Get it off your chest, whatever it is.” He was probably going to tell her she was an old coot and he didn’t have time for her folderol. A pity. He might have learned something from her if he’d been willing. Then again, she had to admit she might have learned something from him as well if he didn’t irritate her so much with his know-it-all attitude. Every time she looked at his sanctimonious face, she wanted to box his ears.

“Can we sit down?” he said when he was standing in the living room.

Apparently whatever was on his mind wasn’t going to take just a minute or two to sort out. She looked at the notebook again. “Are you planning to take notes?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“What if I said I did?”

His jaw clenched and unclenched. “I wouldn’t do it.”

“No. I imagine you’d wait until you got back to wherever it is you live and then write it all down the way you want it to be.”

His eyes darkened. “Look, you’ve made it more than clear you don’t like me. I’ve never been able to figure out what’s the problem.”

“Haven’t you? I’ll give you a hint. You have the manners of a goat in a produce market.”

He stared at her, mouth agape. “I wouldn’t call
you
Miss Manners.”

Leota laughed. She closed the front door and looked at him. She laughed some more.

“What’s so funny?”

The poor boy was practically snarling. She continued to chortle as she walked past him to her chair and sat down. Pulling a Kleenex from its box, she wiped her eyes. “Well, now, I’d say that’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me since you darkened my doorstep.”

Corban stared at the woman, not knowing what to say.

“At least you have the good graces to blush,” she said, merciless.

He shook his head and sat on the edge of the sofa. “Maybe it would help if I told you a little about myself.”

“It’d be better if you told me what you wanted in the first place.”

He felt oddly ashamed, but what for? He was trying to help the elderly, wasn’t he? He frowned slightly, unable to hold her gaze. Her calm troubled him. She was looking at him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing deeper into him than anyone ever had, seeing things even he wasn’t aware of.

“Get to the point, Mr. Solsek.”

“I’m a student at UC Berkeley. I’m working on a term paper for a sociology class. I need a case study.”

“Just one?”

He nodded. “My professor’s made it a requirement.”

“What’s the subject of your paper?”

“It’s on some ideas I have about caring for the increased number of elderly in our nation.”

“Extermination, perhaps?”

He tried not to be insulted. She sure knew how to push his buttons.

“All right.” She smiled wryly. “So, what is this idea of yours?”

“An expansion of residential-care facilities in high-density population areas. The idea is twofold: care for the elderly and renewed life to the inner cores of our cities. The government could subsidize the takeover of some of the old office buildings and hotels in the inner cities, refurbish them and convert them into residential-care facilities. Occupants would pay a lump sum in order to live at the care facility for the rest of their lives. One floor could be a medical facility. Another could be for recreational activity. Of course, this is just a quick summary. There would be all kinds of services offered under this kind of system.”

He looked at her again, watching, hoping for some sign of affirmation. What he got was a deadpan stare.

Leota leaned back, all humor gone. How could someone bright enough to get into Berkeley be so naive? “Would occupants have visitation rights?”

His mouth flattened. “I’m not designing a prison system, Mrs. Reinhardt. Of course, visitors would be welcome. There’d be guest accommodations available for a limited time and for a small fee.”

“What if someone wanted to move out of the facility?”

“It’d be unlikely anyone would want to leave.”

“Especially if the initial investment was nonrefundable. Or used up.” Or if the attendants put sedatives in the food!

He frowned. “The point is all occupants would be given the highest level of care during the latter part of their lives. They would have a safe environment, the security of good care, comfortable surroundings, communal interaction. Many don’t have that now.”