Leota's Garden (9 page)

“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, Ruth, 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!”

Far from it, considering the countless times he’d picked up after her. But he saw the mood she was in now—a mood she made perfectly clear had come on because of his ill temper—and he clamped his mouth shut.

Maybe he
was
being unreasonable. Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing. There were more important things in the world than having the dishes washed and put away, and the cushions on the couch where they belonged. A little chaos never killed anyone, did it? Why did
he let it get to him? She’d warned him up front, before moving in, that she wasn’t the neatest person in the world.

Maybe it was just seeing how that old woman lived in a house coated with grime and caked with dust that had triggered him.

He watched Ruth. She was seething. She barely washed and rinsed the glasses. Another word out of him, and he was sure she’d pack and leave. He’d make peace with her later. Chinese takeout. A red rose. It’d all blow over.

Frustrated and restless, he went back into the living room and sat down at his desk and jotted down a few notes:

Leota Reinhardt. Cantankerous. Demanding. Suffers from arthritis. Needs caregiver. Senile (?) No mention of family. Lives in squalor. Only financial support Social Security (?) Education (?)

He didn’t know much considering the time he’d spent with her. Next time he’d get her talking.

Turning on his computer, Corban opened a file and typed in everything he’d observed about the old woman and her surroundings. The more he thought about her, the more she suited his case study. Maybe the day hadn’t been a complete waste after all.

When he finished, he felt a little more satisfied. He’d be better prepared next time. At least he’d know what to expect. He’d take her a little something, too. Maybe if he poured on the charm, he’d be able to wring some information out of her.

Reading over his page of notes, he smiled, then crumpled up his handwritten notes and tossed them into the trash can. He hit the Save button on the computer and exited the document, then went on to more important and pressing matters, leaving Leota Reinhardt filed and forgotten.

Chapter 4

“I’m not surprised you left, princess. I knew it would happen someday. You know you can come and live with me and Monica in San Diego anytime you want. We’d love to have you.”

Annie sighed. “I know, Daddy, but I can’t do that. You know how Mom would see it.” Her mother would cast all the blame for rebellion on her second husband, Annie’s father, Dean Gardner. He’d been a convenient scapegoat over the years for a variety of things.

“What
is
that noise in the background, Annie?” her dad said. “Are you having a party?” He sounded as though he approved.

“No, Dad. It’s a parrot. Susan’s bird-sitting. He can get a little loud at times.”

“Sounds like he carries on a conversation.”

“He spouts things from television. His owner leaves it on for him while he’s at work. So he’ll have company.”

“Back to your mom, honey. She sees things exactly the way she wants to see them.” There was a distinct and familiar edge in his voice. “You have to start living your own life and stop living it for her.”

“I understand that, Daddy, but I don’t want to burn bridges. I love her. I want to be able to see her and talk to her without—”

“Good luck.”

Annie sighed. She rubbed her forehead. She knew there were bitter feelings between her mother and father. It was exhausting sometimes, feeling like the base of a teeter-totter of resentments and grudges nurtured on vitriol. Back and forth, up and down. Would it never end? Why couldn’t they understand that she loved them both? They each had their own agenda in winning her confidence. She knew that. She understood it. And it hurt because, whether they realized it or not, her mother and father each used her as a weapon against the other.

Maybe calling him hadn’t been such a good idea. Maybe she should have waited until her own feelings were clearer.

“I’m sorry, honey. Look. Give me the address of where you’re staying and I’ll send you some money to get you started.”

“I have money, Daddy. I’m living with Susan Carter. You remember her, don’t you?” She gave him the address.

“San Francisco? Are you sure you want to live in the city?”

She could hear the apprehension in his tone. “There’s a security system where we live. We have to buzz people in. It’s a nice little apartment with a Murphy bed. I’m using a futon.”

“A Murphy bed? When was this place built?”

She laughed. “Quit worrying, Daddy. I’m a big girl, remember?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come down to San Diego? I’m sure you could get into UC without any problems, considering your grades and SAT scores. You got the okay for Berkeley, didn’t you? Even if you had to wait until next semester—”

“I’m not going to college, Daddy.”

“Not at all?”

“I’m going to school, but it’s not anything like Wellesley or Cal. I’m registered for two classes at the Institute of Fine Arts.” When he didn’t say anything, she knew she had surprised him. Did his silence denote displeasure as well? It was one thing to tell your daughter to do whatever her heart told her to do and another to hear she had tossed aside sizable scholarships to prestigious universities and colleges in favor of taking a couple of art classes. “Try not to worry, Daddy. I feel led to do this. I don’t know why yet, but I have to go where I sense God is directing me.”

“Honey . . .”

She had tried to speak openly with her father, but it was difficult.
What she said simply did not compute for him because he wasn’t a believer. Telling him God was leading her always made him nervous. Yet she couldn’t lie about it. It was hard to make him see that she needed to be where God wanted her to be. And she felt His unmistakable presence in her artwork. When she was drawing or painting, she felt a rightness about it, a closeness to the Creator who was opening her eyes and ears and heart to the world around her.