Heaven Preserve Us (30 page)

"They'll be here soon enough. We're probably a little early." He
went up the front steps and let himself inside with a key. "Coming?"

We weren't early. But maybe they were late. If I refused to go
inside with Jude, I'd look foolish and paranoid and probably insult him. Now, I've seen Oprah, and I've read the books, and I
know I should follow my instincts, and my instincts told me not
to go into a house, alone, with someone I thought might be dan gerous. Besides, I'd sworn-to Tootie, to Barr, but mostly to myself-to be careful. I scrambled for a rational reason, or even a fair
excuse, not to go inside.

A large form filled the doorway. "Jude! There you are. I was
hoping we could talk about-Oh, you have a friend with you. Welcome, my dear."

With a whoosh of relief, I recognized the deep baritone of
Jude's landlord. He'd answered the phone when I'd been trying to
find the errant beet canner for Ruth. He was tall, with a face that
looked like slabs of granite overlaid with well weathered skin. He
wore brown slacks, a yellow-on-beige checked shirt, and a light tan
polyester jacket that zipped up the front.

I held out my hand. "You must be Mr. Oxford. I'm Sophie Mae
Reynolds. It's very nice to meet you."

He gracefully took my hand and, instead of shaking it, turned
it over and raised it to his lips. His palms were warm, the skin like
a dry leaf, and his fingers were long and tapered, giving him a sensitive air despite the rest of his chiseled appearance.

"Likewise, making your acquaintance. Please call me George.
What a charming young lady, Jude"

And what a charmer this lovely old man was, I thought as I murmured, "Thank you" He'd be snapped up by some age-appropriate
widow as soon as he was ready. Maybe even before. And maybe
not even age-appropriate, now that I thought about it.

Jude reddened at the implication that he might have had anything to do with my being charming. But I was so happy to see
George Oxford. Knowing I wouldn't be alone in the house with
Jude until Bette and Kelly showed up made me feel way better.

"There should be two more people coming to help Jude move,"
I said.

George looked at Jude with surprise. "You're moving today?"

Jude looked more uncomfortable than I'd ever seen him before, which was saying something. "I was going to tell you this
morning, but we missed each other."

"I see. Well, you did say you expected to be taking over your
cousin's apartment a few days ago, so I guess I should have been
expecting it. Sure will miss you, son-you've been a real life-saver,
being here. And with Hannah gone..." George swallowed loudly
and cleared his throat. "Sure will miss you." He turned and went
inside, I suspected to pull himself together.

The house interior was dark and smelled like dust and burned
tomato soup and that curious effluvium of old man. Deep green
carpet, worn threadbare in spots from decades of traffic, stretched
into a living room on the left and a dining room on the right. Beyond, yellow light spilled from the kitchen doorway, and I saw the
dull gleam of real Linoleum and the chrome edging of old, yellow
Formica counters. The edge of the refrigerator visible from the
front door was round, a shape I hadn't seen for years.

Jude glanced at me as if to see what I thought, but I didn't know
whether to feel nostalgic or creeped out by these surroundings.

"I live downstairs, in the basement," he said.

Oh, good. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The sound of rattling dishes came from the kitchen. Beside
me, Jude sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his
fingers. Ruth had said he helped George Oxford out around the
house, and that she thought the older man appreciated Jude's company as well, but I hadn't realized how important Jude's role
had apparently become.

"Do you want to go talk to him?" I asked.

He shook his head. "He's proud. I'll check in with him later, assure him that I'm not abandoning him." He beckoned me to a
doorway on the left, and I followed him down a set of old wooden
stairs very similar to the ones that led from our kitchen down to
my workroom.

Jude continued. "It's hard for him to take care of this place all
by himself, and he gets lonely. I'll still visit."

We stepped into a large room paneled in dark wood. "That's
awful nice of you," I said.

He whirled and put his hand on my shoulder, not seeming to
notice how violently I flinched.

"No, it's just human," he said. "I mean, everyone ought to be
nice to each other, don't you think? I believe if we were just kind to
one another we wouldn't have so much crime and hate and violence. In fact, that's one of the new tenets of Heaven House, to
promote kindness everywhere. I don't think it would hurt to have
a few core values to structure the thinking behind the programs
and the way the volunteers interact with the HH clients, do you?
More like a mission statement than the Ten Commandments. Of
course, some of the directives will overlap. I mean, they would,
wouldn't they?"

I nodded, silent.

He continued. "Now, don't think I have any problem with religion-based community organizations, because I don't. Heaven House
just doesn't happen to be one. But a lot of them work miracles,
especially with the homeless and the addicted. I don't know if we're ready to take on some of the big problems like that yet, but
someday I want the chance. It has to build, one program upon the
next, contacts and networking, like a web of support within the
community, putting the energy out there and then letting it come
back, synergistically, holistically." His eyes widened. "Heaven
House is going to be a perfect example of what a community center is supposed to be. You'll see, Sophie Mae, you'll see."

Wow.

And ... wow. I'd never heard him put that many words together
at one time before. In fact, I was pretty sure I hadn't heard him
utter that many words, total, since I'd met him. I'd certainly had
no idea he was so passionate about Heaven House. It was beyond
passionate; it was almost obsessive.

Attempting nonchalance, I carefully backed away from his
touch. "You're so right. Look at how much you've already done
with the place since you've been in charge."

How it must have rankled him to see Philip screwing it up. Did
Jude know his cousin had stolen money meant for Heaven House
programs? If he did, it would have added insult to injury, and for
all he knew the foundation's board hadn't done a darn thing about
his cousin's transgressions. Maybe Jude had decided to do something about it himself.

As these thoughts crystallized, I'd been looking around the room
to see how much work faced us. Now I focused on the contents: a sofa and chair, a coffee table and an end table, one ancient bookshelf packed with books, leaning dangerously away from the wall.

I turned to find Jude staring at me. "Is all this going to HH?"

"What? Oh. No. The books, yes. But that's all. This stuff all belongs to George. I rented it furnished."

That seemed odd, considering he'd been so insistent about
needing my truck in order to move. My discomfort, temporarily
banished by George's presence upstairs, came slinking back.

"Will you keep the furnishings Philip put in his apartment?"

He looked disgusted. "That stuff is overpriced, pretentious
garbage. I'll sell it all, buy something more practical, and donate
the difference to a good cause. Maybe fold it back into Heaven
House."

Wow again. It seemed the foundation was willing to support
Heaven House programs, and I couldn't see it needed money from
selling Philip's fancy fixtures. Then it dawned on me: maybe Jude
was trying to pay the foundation back for some of the money
Philip had taken.

"What about in the bedroom?" I asked, growing increasingly
uneasy at the absence of Bette and Kelly, especially since he didn't
seem to have enough to warrant their help, anyway.

"Some clothes."

"Is anything boxed up yet?"

He shook his head, but didn't look at all sheepish, like I would
have. Great. This wasn't so much about moving him as it was
about packing up his books and undies.

I straightened my shoulders. "When are Bette and Kelly going
to be here?"

Now he looked sheepish. An awkward pause, and he said, "Well,
they might not come."

I took a deep breath. "Really. Why not?"

"I, uh, didn't exactly get a hold of them."

My heart did a little skippity-thump, and a spasm of anxiety
made my hand fly up to my mouth. I coughed into it to hide my
fear, then crossed my arms and tried to look stern.

"You lied to me. That's not very nice."

He looked at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Why did you tell me they were coming?" And why had I believed him? I wanted to smack my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His shoulders lifted once and then fell back into their familiar
slump. "I was afraid you wouldn't help me."

"But you don't really need my help, do you?"

"Of course I do." He looked around. "Well, maybe not. But I
want your help."

He sounded a little like Allen when he said that, and my ears
strained to make a connection between their voices.

The flimsy arm of the sofa wobbled as I gingerly perched on it.
"I still don't understand why you lied."
"

I thought you might not want to be here with me all by yourself."

Carefully, I said, "Is there a reason I wouldn't want to be alone
with you?"

An embarrassed smile flickered on his face and then was gone.
"Well..." The smile again, just a flash. "I know I've been kind of
flirty."

I stared at him. Flirty? Jude?

"But I'm not going to make a pass at you, I promise. I wouldn't
want you to be uncomfortable."

Launching to my feet, I briskly walked to the bookcase. Good
Lord. This guy had so many problems they overlapped each other.
I didn't have time to spend all day futzing with his various obsessions and anxieties. If I had a chance, I'd sneak upstairs and ask
George about Hannah's beets. Otherwise, I just wanted to get this
over with. Peeve had replaced my apprehension.

"Since it's just the two of us, we'd better get this show on the
road, or we'll never get done," I said. "Do you at least have boxes?"

I knew I sounded impatient and rude, but I felt impatient and
rude. Who did he think he was? Nice, having all those great plans
to help people he didn't even know, but it was downright obnoxious to fool me into helping him move without even bothering to
pack first. If I hurt his feelings, too bad.

Wide-eyed, he pointed toward the bedroom. "In there."

No, there wasn't anything frightening in the bedroom. No, he
didn't attack me or lock me in. And no, I didn't pack his underwear for him. I set him to work filling boxes with the contents of
George Oxford's hand-me-down dresser and went out to the living room to pack books. They were mostly novels, mostly science
fiction, and mostly authors I'd never heard of. Jude hauled each
box to my truck as I finished filling it.

He grabbed the last box of books and tromped up the stairs.
The sink, filthy and rust-stained, in Jude's little bathroom downstairs was too gross to use, plus there weren't any glasses. Dusty
and sweaty and thirsty, I figured I had a good excuse to take a
break and seek out George to beg a glass of water.

And while George played host, I could find out more about
what preserves Hannah had left behind when she died.

George wasn't in the living room or the kitchen.

"Mr. Oxford? George?" I called. Through the front window I
could see Jude rearranging the boxes under the topper that covered the back of my pickup. We'd be on our way soon.

"George?"

The house was silence except for the loud tick tock of the huge
grandfather clock. I went in the kitchen and opened cupboard
doors until I found a glass and then let the tap water run for a few
seconds to chill. No ice needed.

It tasted like ambrosia.

As I drank a second glass, I spied a closed door that looked like it
might belong to a pantry. I padded quietly over to it and opened it.
Shelves marched down the walls of the small space, full of cans and
cans of red-and-white labeled soup and boxes of breakfast cereal.

Bachelor food.

No preserves.

I wandered out to the living room, ignoring the pull to go back
downstairs and get the last box packed so we could leave. I trailed
my fingers along the surfaces of side tables, picking up less dust
than I would expect. George was a better than average housekeeper
for a widower.

The upright piano held several pictures. George and his wife,
mostly. No children. Sad, I thought.

A crewel embroidery sampler hung over the piano. The stitches
were exquisitely executed: French knots and lazy daisies and some
lovely couching. The Home Sweet Home design named the inhabitants of the home: George and Hannah.