Leota's Garden (27 page)

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 choice. 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 . . .

There were times, though she hated to admit it, when she wondered if it wouldn’t have been better had Annie never come.
It’s just like when the feeling comes back into your foot after it’s been numb. Hurts so much. Oh, God, life hurts. I forgot how much.

She and Annie sat again. The pastor began his sermon. “‘There is a time . . .’” As he read from the Bible, Leota’s mind raced ahead of him, remembering the Scriptures:
“There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven.”
Ecclesiastes. Written by an old king who had squandered his years in vain pursuits. The pastor read only a portion of the passage before starting to build his point about Christians becoming involved in the community, making their voices heard about the way the government was run, being active rather than passive.

Leota tried to concentrate, but her mind wandered. She would hear a few words and off her mind would go again, into the past, wandering down tunnels like a rabbit racing through its warren. She was familiar with the book of Ecclesiastes. She knew the passage very well. Yet none of what the pastor said seemed to apply to her. She wished he had stuck to the Scriptures instead of going off on what everyone ought to be doing to change the world. If she had learned one thing in her long life
it was to put less stock in what the world was doing and more in getting right with the Lord. It took God to change a heart. A changed heart meant a changed life. Enough of them and then, maybe, God willing, the world would change.