Leota's Garden (8 page)

Suddenly, looking at the windows, all she wanted to do was climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head.

Corban had done his best to control his anger as he went outside and scrubbed the glass. Now he came back in and looked at the window from the inside. “How’s that?”

The old woman didn’t say anything. She just stood looking from one window to the other. Before she could enlist him to clean the rest of her dirty windows, he held out the filthy cloth. “Where do you want me to put this?”

“In the laundry basket on the back porch. The paper towels go in the trash under the sink.” She held out the wad she had taken from him.

Corban took them and headed for the kitchen, thankful that the old bat hadn’t ordered him to get a bucket and do the whole house. Not that it couldn’t use it. The whole place, from the greasy ceiling to the old yellow-and-gray linoleum on the kitchen floor, could stand a cleaning. At least the metal and yellow- and brown-flecked Formica dinette table
was clean, though the ancient gas range and rounded-front refrigerator could use a scouring.

“And be sure you put the Windex back where you got it!”

Did she think he meant to steal it? He tucked it under the counter, deposited the sodden paper towels in the paper trash bag diapered with a plastic grocery sack, and slammed the cabinet. He found the washer and dryer tucked in the tiny back porch; both machines looked older than he was! He spotted the laundry basket containing one faded pink towel, a washcloth, and a pastel, flowered polyester dress similar to the one the woman was wearing. He tossed the dirty washcloth on top.

The house depressed Corban. It was dusty, dimly lit, and grim. And there was a smell. He couldn’t define it . . . it wasn’t just the house but the peculiar, indescribable scent of the old woman herself. Corban was faintly repulsed by it. He was equally repulsed by his surroundings. Worse, he was repulsed by the frizzy, white-haired old woman in her cheap dress, bubbly crocheted cardigan, and old pink, fuzzy, matted slippers. She stood there in her seedy living room looking like an old banty hen ready to peck at him. She stared at him with those rheumy blue eyes, and from the look in them, he could see she didn’t much care for him, either.

That annoyed him. He was volunteering his time to help, wasn’t he? She should show a little gratitude.

We’re off to a bad start.
He shouldn’t have looked through her window, but how was he supposed to know it would take her five minutes to get to the front door? Regardless, he had to do something to salvage the situation. How was he going to get the information he needed if he wasn’t in her good graces? He forced a smile. “Nancy said you needed to go to the grocery store. I’ll take you.”

There. That should bring a smile to the old crone’s face.

Leota pursed her lips. He was looking at her, waiting. For what? A pat on the head? A big kiss? She didn’t want to go anywhere with this arrogant young whelp. She’d seen him glance around her house with a look of distaste. No doubt he came from grander environs. Bully for him. She didn’t move and she didn’t say anything. She looked him over in his faded blue Levi’s. Whoever heard of wearing a tan suede coat over a white
T-shirt
. His hair was cut short, cropped like a Roman Caesar’s. And oh, did he have the airs. King of the world, was he?

“I’ve got arthritis. I’m not much good at kneeling.”

“Ma’am?” He tilted his head slightly.

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

He looked perplexed, then faintly irritated. Like he had places to go and people to see. And she was wasting his precious time.

“Would you like me to get your shoes for you?”

Oh, so polite.

Just because she was old didn’t mean she was senile. She knew she was wearing her slippers. Why
shouldn’t
she be wearing them? It was her house. People didn’t sit around all day in their walking shoes, did they? If she wasn’t in such dire need of groceries, she’d tell him to go back to wherever he came from. However, she had enough sense left to know she didn’t have much choice. The idea of pandering to this twerp went against her grain. But so did going hungry. She was down to living on canned vegetables. She couldn’t wait another three days for that Decker woman to find and send another volunteer. Volunteer? He looked as though he’d been drafted!

“I know where my shoes are, young man. You can sit right there and wait while I get them.” She pointed at the couch. When he didn’t move, she shrugged and headed for the bedroom. Fine. Let him stand there. Not only did she not care whether he was comfortable or not; she just might take an extra-long time with her shoes, just to spite this Prince Charming!

Corban glanced at the couch again. It looked about as comfortable as a bed of nails. He’d made the right decision to stand. He sighed as the woman shuffled away. As slowly as she was moving, he might as well take the opportunity to look around.

The living room and dining area were all one room with thick wood molding up one wall and over the ceiling as the dividing line. The dining room table was old-fashioned, made of solid, dark wood with claw feet. On top was a crocheted doily and a vase containing dusty plastic flowers. There was a china hutch against the back wall that was overcrowded with dishes and glassware. No Wedgwood. No Royal Doulton.

The rug was faded. Whatever color it had been, it was gray and worn now. A path to the kitchen. A path to the hall where she’d disappeared. The brightest spot of color in the two rooms was the knit afghan thrown over the back of the ugly sofa. A big overstuffed chair sat squat and lumpy beside a step-style end table that was overloaded with books and
magazines. Another equally burdened and dusty end table was at the other end of the couch. The matching lamps were imitation Greek urns with yellowing shades. Over the mantel hung a landscape print—one of those reprints like a hundred thousand others anyone can buy, complete with its tacky, ornate, gold-painted frame. A half-dozen pictures and a few figurines stood on the mantel. One was of a little girl with three geese. Another was of a boy sitting on a fence. Here and there on the walls around the room were framed pictures, mostly handmade. The biggest was an embroidered sampler of blooming morning glories and bold, black, ornate lettering proclaiming, “As for me and my family, we will serve the Lord. Joshua 24:15.”

A braided, half-circle rug lay in front of a fireplace that probably hadn’t been lit in a decade. On the small, brick hearth were a big, dust-covered seashell, a tarnished brass cricket, and a pair of big old black boots.

Everything she had was old, faded, broken-down junk. The most expensive pieces the old woman owned appeared to be the big Naugahyde recliner and the large, box-style television set in the front corner of her living room. There’d be no estate sale here. A rummage sale, more likely.

Corban could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps coming closer. He glanced toward the doorway and noticed the iron-grate floor heater smack-dab in front of the open doorway to her bathroom. The entire room, from the floor to the middle of the wall, was a nightmare of pink, black, and green tile.

When the old woman returned, he cringed inwardly. She was wearing a long brown coat with a collar and big, black, plastic buttons and thick-soled, brown slip-on shoes. Ignoring him, she walked over to her recliner and leaned down. When she straightened, she held an old black purse by its handle, looking for all the world as though she had a rat by the throat. She held it in front of her with both hands and looked at him dolefully. “I’ll need my grocery list. It’s on the counter to the right of the kitchen sink.”

Imperious old hag. “Yes, ma’am.”

As they went out, she locked the front door carefully. When Corban offered her his arm before they went down the front steps, she took it. Grudgingly. He could feel her trembling. A case of the nerves? Or just old age? Not that he cared. He drew the keys from his pocket and pressed the remote. “I’ll get the door for you.” He patted her hand and stepped away.

She stared, jaw set. “I am not getting into that sports car!”

She sounded as though he meant to enter her in the Indianapolis 500. “It’s not a sports car, ma’am. It’s just a—”

“I don’t care
what
it is—I’m not getting into it. It’s only five blocks to the market. We’ll walk.”

“Walk?”
Five blocks through one of the worst neighborhoods he’d ever seen? Would his car even be here when they got back?

“Of course. I’ve been walking to the market for more than sixty years.”

“Five blocks down and five blocks back makes
ten
blocks, ma’am,” he said, trying to make a point of the distance.

“Congratulations. You can add. It’s gratifying to know, since I’ve read that most students who graduate from high school these days can’t even read.”

He steamed. Hadn’t she called for help because she couldn’t make it on her own? He tried to think of something,
anything
, to talk her out of it.

She fixed him with a glare. “You look like a strapping young man, Mr. Solsek. I think you can make it ten blocks.”

Corban muttered an expletive under his breath as she started off without him. He looked at his car, looked around the neighborhood, and felt a bubble of panic. “Would you give me a minute so I can park my car in your driveway?” He tried to soften his tone. “I wouldn’t want it in anyone’s way.”

Leota stopped. She turned and looked at him. What a crock of horse manure! She knew exactly what was worrying him—and she acknowledged it was a reasonable concern. He would just have to learn the hard way there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe next time he’d have sense enough to borrow someone’s beat-up VW or come by bus.

“Go right ahead. Be my guest.”

She watched him practically leap over the back of his car, slip into the driver’s seat, remove whatever that red gadget was from the steering wheel, and start the engine. A nice, purring roar sounded. That car must have cost his folks a pretty penny. He backed it expertly into the middle of the street, swung around, and roared up her narrow driveway.

Smiling slightly, Leota waited.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

She knew what was happening without even looking, though it was a great temptation to walk over and stand at the end of her driveway where she could watch the show. Instead, she stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, content to imagine.

She heard his voice once. Rather loud, replete with frustration. One word only, but it certainly clarified his feelings. The shiny bumper appeared as he inched his car backward. He parked it on the driveway just above the sidewalk so that his front door opened toward her front steps. She watched his power window go up. She pursed her lips. It wouldn’t do to laugh at someone so proud. He reinstalled that red thingamajiggy and got out. She heard the click as he locked the doors with his little magic twanger. Pocketing his keys, he walked across her poor, miserable, weed-infested lawn. By the time he reached her, he appeared to have regained his composure. “I couldn’t open either door,” he said with a bleak smile. “Your driveway’s too narrow.”

“Your car is too wide.” She smiled up at him innocently. “If it was six inches smaller, you could’ve made it out your window.”

Corban felt the heat climb up his neck and fill his face to his hairline. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I’ve learned experience is a far better teacher.” She lifted one hand. “Your arm, if you please. I’m old, as you’ve noticed. I need support in my dotage.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he’d buy her a cane. Any kind she wanted. One with a dragon head! However, the lure of acing Professor Webster’s class gripped him, nailing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He had to keep on track. He breathed in slowly and managed a stiff “My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Oh, drivel,” he thought he heard her say.

Neither spoke another word for five blocks, and when they got to the store, Leota Reinhardt did all the talking.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!” Corban heaved his sports coat into a chair. “I wanted to buy duct tape and use it on that old hag by the time we were halfway through the grocery store!”

“You’re in a fine state.” Ruth laughed. “What happened?”

“What
didn’t
happen! First off, she made me wash her front window. You should have seen this dump, Ruth. Then she insisted on walking five blocks down to the market. When we got there, she took an hour poking through the vegetables and fruit, complaining to the produce manager how nothing tastes real anymore. ‘You might as well eat plastic!’ she said, and you should’ve seen the guy’s face. And then she pushes the cart over to the meat section and points out how everything is packaged for families. ‘You have to buy ten pork chops to get a decent price. Do you know how long it would take me to eat ten pork chops?’ she says. And all that was
nothing
compared to what she had to say to the poor checker. That old woman was telling the girl how she used to buy pork chops for five cents apiece and the price of a single tomato is worse than highway robbery.”