The Book of Eleanor (5 page)

Upon seeing me, Sally and Tommy came loping over, and as usual, I squeezed them in a huge hug until they laughed and pushed away.

“Angie, is it Monday?” Tommy asked, his round face screwing up in a thoughtful moue.

“Nope, just passing through. It’s almost time for you guys to go home anyway,” I replied, taking Tommy’s hand and pulling him along. I reached for Sally’s, but she was experiencing a fit of jealousy and pulled away. I lurched to one side and grabbed the eight-year-old around her chubby waist, lifting her easily. That caused a harsh bark of laughter and diminishing giggles from her. I pulled Tommy along and carried Sally like a sack of potatoes as I approached Melissa who stood with her arms folded across her chest, watching my antics with a stern frown.

“Hey, ’Lissa,” I said, amused by her obvious disapproval.

“Now, Angie,” she began, freeing Sally and placing her feet back on the floor. “You know we do not manhandle the children.”

Melissa Godwin, as her name subtly implied, was God’s messenger to the world. Speaking in a soft but firm southern drawl, her word was law. I often brazenly flew in the face of that godliness. We had a good working relationship, nevertheless, not that it mattered so much. She taught and handled everything at the center on the days I helped Mama at the restaurant, and I worked here on her church volunteer days.

Sally sidled next to me and insinuated her little hand into mine, as if signifying her approval of our play. I squeezed her hand gently, eliciting a new giggle. Tommy wandered back to the activities table.

Melissa pursed her lips. “Why are you here today?” she asked.

“Just checking in. I was in the neighborhood.”

“Well, that woman from the courthouse called again this morning. I don’t know
what
to tell her,” she added emphatically.

I groaned inwardly. I should have known. Just because it wasn’t written in a phone memo didn’t mean there was no bad news.

Two weeks ago, snooty Frankee Howell had come by with her camera and her following of good old boy lackeys. Seems the Port Isabel Town Council had decided that SPICEY, a mere medical open enrollment charter, wasn’t nearly as important as the proposed Port Isabel Marina that would span all three undeveloped fingers of land where they stretched into the bay. Unfortunately, as owners of the property, the town council had every right to raze the old, creaky building and replace it with the slick, ultra-modern clubhouse they’d shown me in their artist renderings. They wanted us out as quickly as possible.

“There is nothing to tell her, ’Lissa. We’re not closing until we find a better location.”

Melissa eyed me worriedly, so I apologetically released Sally’s hand and scooted her toward the clay piled next to her abandoned chair. Nervously, I moved to the table and began neatening the craft items, eventually lining up crayons by color.

“Angie, honey, they are bound and determined to make this part of the new marina. This old building is going away. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

I tried soothing my emotions by placing crayons in perfect rows, by size now as well as by color. I did not look at her. “And where are the kids supposed to go?” I countered angrily. “We can’t afford anywhere else.”

Melissa didn’t answer right away. A strained silence fell between us. Emma Rachel, Melissa’s thirty-something daughter, approached.

“Mother, it’s time for Frederick’s therapy so he can go home,” she said softly.

I looked at her and saw the concern shining in her dark blue eyes. A gentle soul, Emma hated any kind of confrontation. I smiled widely to put her mind at ease and strode toward Frederick’s bed.

Gabby, his private nurse, struggled to force the moveable hospital bed back to its original flat position. I helped her with the lever and soon Fred lay supine. Gabby checked his maze of tubing to make sure no tubes had kinked. I propped a hip up on the bed next to the little guy.

“Hey, handsome, what’s up with you today? You doing all right?” I leaned close so his eyes could focus. He had nystagmus, so his eyes fluttered constantly. It was a little disconcerting, but I was used to it. I chucked him under the chin. His loopy grin made me laugh. “Good. Glad to hear that. Therapy time. You ready?”

I adjusted his bib and helped Gabby straighten his legs. I moved back to the head of the bed and spoke to him. “I gotta run back to help Mama now, but you just holler out if any of these women give you a hard time, you hear? I got Maria watching your back and she’ll tell me if they don’t treat you right.”

Frederick squirmed with pleasure and emitted chuckling sounds. Maria was one of his favorite friends at SPICEY. I gently pulled his gnarled hands apart and pressed his stiff arms toward the bed, patting his hands to reassure him.

Gabby worked on his legs. I watched her as I placed Fred’s wheelchair close to the bed and locked the wheels, noting anew how capable and powerful her movements were. She was amazing. Frederick’s cerebral palsy had pulled his limbs and torso into tight bows, and he needed therapy twice daily to prevent the contractures from becoming worse.

It wasn’t an easy job. Gabby might have weighed a hundred pounds sopping wet so it was hard going. Thankfully, though Freddy was fifteen, he was small for his age. I admired her determined Latin features and glossy black hair as she used her slight body weight to lengthen, and then flex Fred’s limbs. Little beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. I mentally chided myself for my unseemly interest. Gabby had a handsome husband and two young boys at home.

I turned away and waved farewell to the group. At the door, I paused and looked back.

Almost the entire group was in attendance today. I noted that twelve-year-old Delicia Gonzales seemed down, and I regretted I couldn’t take the time to go talk to her. Someone, probably Emma Rachel, had situated her pillows properly so she sat upright in her wheelchair, but she didn’t seem interested in the school project or the cleanup. Her small hands rested in her lap and her gaze was vacant.

Tommy and Sally, both Down Syndrome children, more than made up for Delicia’s disinterest by chasing one another around the table. Tommy threatened Sally with a wet lump of clay. I sighed, knowing the situation would end badly.

I glanced at my watch. Father Sephria would arrive within the hour to help Melissa and Emma Rachel load the children into the van. I was glad to see that Connie and Emilio, my more mobile teenagers, were behaving themselves now and helping with cleanup. Sadness filled me when I turned to leave. Where would they all go when the town council evicted us?

I loved my new home and had enjoyed a peaceful, restful night lulled by the sound of the waves slapping the shore, since the sole window in the bedroom overlooked the bay.

My small, cozy room with its newly carpeted floor and fresh paint on the walls was down a short hall from the living room.The apartment bathroom with a huge walk-in shower—no doubt configured for Mr. Torres’ special needs—was just off the bedroom. Space was tight. My queen-sized bed barely fit, but overall the room was womblike and comforting.

I wasn’t quite sure where my clothing would go as there was no closet and certainly no room for a bureau. I studied the room, seeking inspiration, but finally shrugged and carried my empty coffee cup back to the kitchen. I would deal with that issue later.

I took my coffee with me out onto my private boardwalk after I made a second cup. I hadn’t bothered to dress because my pajama shorts and T-shirt were more than adequate to brave the heated breezes from the west.

The Laguna Madre, that peaceful expanse of sequestered ocean, stretched as far as the eye could see. Waves waltzed for me, sparkling in the bright morning sunlight. I felt a sense of peace steal over me and suddenly realized that muscles that had been clenched since Mary’s death had began to loosen at last.

I dropped my gaze to a young pelican below me. He was hunched on a low piling, seemingly reluctant to greet the new day. As if cheering him on, the growing sunlight forced warmth into his mass of tan feathers.

As I watched him, I took a long mental health inventory and realized that I would always miss Mary. Her loss was a grief that would stay with me forever. My task now was to learn to deal with the pain and find a way to bury it deeply so it wouldn’t tug at me day after day as it had since I learned of the explosion. I could do this. I had to. It was my only salvation.

The pelican peered up at me with one eye, his ungainly features manifesting curiosity. I smiled at him, wishing I had bread to share. He stirred and looked away, his feathers rippling. Realizing that I might be intruding on his morning routine, I turned and headed back to the building.

Approaching my new home from the bay side, I noted again how powerful the structure seemed. The long, low building was made of concrete and rebar to withstand the storms sprouting seaward. The huge white cylinder and black lamp platform of the Port Isabel Lighthouse towered behind it like an art deco church steeple. A short chain of other cinderblock businesses stretched to the left, but I was surprised to note that mine was the only one with a usable dock. The other businesses backed onto scrub grass that sloped down into the rocky tidal basin.

To my immediate right was an access road that led to a tall network of condominiums that had been built on a perilous looking outcropping of land. Beyond that, on the other side of the road, was a cemetery with an ornate wrought-iron fence surrounding it. I made a mental note to check that out as soon as possible.

I could just see the northern end of the line of restaurants and gift shops that also faced the lighthouse, but at a ninety degree angle from my place. The one on the far end, The Fat Mother, had been quite an adventure my first afternoon in Port Isabel. I thought of the family who owned the place and had to smile. I made a mental note to find a good dry cleaner so I could salvage the shirt I’d worn on my first day in town.

Bringing my attention back to my building, I found myself squinting my eyes and studying it. If you looked at it just so from this angle, it looked like any small beachside home with extensive decking and large windows.

The small kitchen was situated so that it was filled with sunlight just about all day. I had already filled the windowsills and window shelves left by Ruetta with my collection of colored glass bottles in varying shapes. The bottles winked at me in a rainbow of primary colored joy as I approached. I had also hung wind chimes along the outside eaves. They now sang a cheery welcome.

I shook my head, scoffing at what now made home for me, wind chimes and bottles, while the rest of my new abode was in shambles with full packing boxes littering the floors.

The book area wasn’t much better. The large, open space was bisected by crates of Mary’s books. I suppose the intimidating task of unpacking kept me dallying out here in the wind and sun. I looked back at the water and sighed. The heat of the rising day caressed my cheeks and eyes. Maybe that wasn’t the only thing keeping me out here.

I entered the bright kitchen with new resolve. I would get the unpacking started, at least.

After a quick shower, I threw on a pair of loose cotton shorts and a T-shirt, and set about tackling the crates of books. When packing them at the house, I had divided them as Mary had, by category, and then subdivided by author. This method had manifested into more than a hundred small boxes in four dozen crates.

I stood staring at the file stretching the length of the bookstore and sighed. Where to begin? I looked around at the walls filled with empty bookshelves gleaming greedily in the early morning sunlight that snuck in through the front windows.

I popped open the first crate and crouched down. Turning the first box so I could read the label, I saw it was
Favorites
. These books had been kept closest to Mary in the overcrowded library, on a makeshift shelf above her old wooden desk.

Pain seared through me at the thought of seeing them again. I almost pushed the box aside. I reconsidered, missing her fiercely, so I jerked the box open, freeing a waft of ancient perfume. Mary used to tell me that books were real to her because they absorbed the lives of the people who had loved them. I could almost sense that now. I guess living with her so long had given me some appreciation for the bound word after all.

I lifted out an armful of books and carried them to the small shelves recessed next to the main desk and the first coffee bar. I placed them upright by size, my hand lingering on each one. I thought of Mary’s hands on these same books which, of course, led to thoughts of Mary’s hands on me. I pushed the memories away. Falling into mournful reminiscences would not help me get through the day. I had advertised a grand opening in two weeks and simply had to have everything in place by then.

Going back for a second armload, I was able to awkwardly drag the mostly empty crate over to the coffee area. I turned to place the books on the shelf and stopped in my tracks. A book which, just moments before, had been standing with the others, now lay open on the shelf in front of the vertical rank. I stared at it, wondering how I had managed to pull it into such a perfect position when I turned away. Laughing at my heretofore unknown sleight of hand, I gathered up the book and slid it into the waiting slot it had occupied earlier. I felt a weird sense of unease when I turned away.

Emptying the box, I stood back and studied the section of shelving. My first filled shelf. I wondered whether a cell phone photo was warranted. Maybe I would put it on my recently neglected Facebook page to prove to my friends that I would be okay.

I needed to share this moment with them. I fished the phone out of my pocket and captured the shelf from several angles. I uploaded the photos to my profile page, then thrust the phone back into my pocket. Sighing, I turned to the next box in the crate.

Sweat tickled my face when it escaped the protective buffer of my eyebrow and wriggled along my cheek. I ducked my head, swabbing the sweat on the shoulder of my T-shirt.