The Man on the Washing Machine (15 page)

The professor looked irritated and fell into step beside me. “The earring one,” he said testily. “He no suppose to fool around in garden. I tell him. To hell with him. Earring or no earring.”

“He said it wasn't him, professor. I asked him.” Damn. Why can't I stay out of these things?

“Ah? The liar. I saw.” The old man shook an admonishing finger at me.

“The garden looks great,” I said hastily.

He expelled a breath and closed his mouth tight like a goldfish then inhaled deeply and looked around his domain. “Not bad. I gotta go,” he said. “You tell that earring one—” He didn't finish whatever it was he intended to say. He growled and flapped a hand at me instead. I was dismissed.

A cluster of visitors milled around at the entrance to the garden, chatting and looking around brightly. I could tell the women were first-timers; they were wearing heels and hats, prepared for something like the Pacific Heights Decorator Showcase. Next year, they'd show up in sweats and sneakers, like everyone else. I was wearing my usual—jeans and a cotton T-shirt with a wool jacket I could discard if the day warmed up. The jacket was new. And then, because he was next in line, I watched with a sigh as my grandfather paid his entrance fee. He was wearing a fine tweed suit, Harrow School Old Boys tie, and highly polished brown lace-up oxfords. I gave him a cheerful wave and headed in his direction. He nodded at me and strode over to meet me halfway.

“Theophania,” he said briskly, and bent slightly to allow me to kiss his cheek.

“Hello, Grandfather,” I replied dutifully, schoolgirl manners coming to my rescue as usual. “You know you don't have to pay. You can be my guest.”

“It's chilly today,” he observed, following a pause in which my opening gambit was ignored. He looked around the garden like a grandee on vacation.

“Yes sir, it is,” I agreed. We were in danger of sinking into complete silence after that sparkling exchange. “It's supposed to warm up later,” I added.

“Ah-hum.” He cleared his throat and gave me a pitying look.

“Would you like some hot cocoa?” I said a little desperately.

“Thank you. I don't care for chocolate drinks.” The rebuke was mild, but unmistakable.
Were
there any other chocolate drinks? He probably knew about some obscure concoction enjoyed by the Aztecs.

“I see you've brought your shooting stick,” I said, as if I'd just noticed it. The old-fashioned perch-seat disguised as a walking cane had made its appearance at every open-air event for as long as I could remember. I gave myself a mental shake.

“No point in standing, when I can sit,” he said austerely.

“No. I can see that,” I said, and felt helpless. I'm not sure why he wanted to come. There must have been some attraction besides my unworthy self. I tried to imagine him having a guilty passion for one of my elderly neighbors and failed. As I struggled to think of something else to say, Mrs. Jupp over at the sale table caught my eye and waved me over.

I went over to find out what she wanted.

“The old gentleman”—she nodded at the table where the bonsai demonstration would take place—“says someone stole his favorite machete this week. He wanted us all to keep an eye out for it.”

Since I couldn't imagine anyone waving a stolen machete around in broad daylight, I thought our chances of catching the culprit were probably slim. But I nodded anyway and stopped to say hi to Helga, who was putting out mugs for the hot chocolate. She was wearing her white jeans with a white sweater and a green camisole, which were both stretched to the limit. As she dipped to pick up a couple of mugs she provided an eye-popping display of what Nat would call boobage.

I hastily bent to help her empty the cardboard carton and arranged some of the mugs on the table. “Someone else would have done this for us today; you don't need to be out here with everything you've had on your mind,” I said.

She bit her lip. “It helps to keep busy,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them with her sleeve, half crying and half laughing. “I guess I was still Daddy's little girl. I always felt he stood between me and the world, you know?”

She looked lost, and she obviously wasn't sleeping if the dark shadows under her eyes were any clue. “I lost my dad, too,” I said abruptly. “I know it's hard. But you're doing great.”

“I don't know why people share things like that,” she said, straightening the rows of mugs, not looking at me. “It doesn't help. You have friends; you have your grandfather; maybe other family, too. And that Ben guy is all over you. I don't have any of that. My father was all I had.”

Ben wasn't all over me. And she didn't know about my family. And if she thought she didn't have friends, she wasn't looking closely enough. But it seemed kinder not to argue.

“I'll guarantee you, no one thought the compost turnings would be our most popular event,” Haruto said with a grin as I passed him on his way to the compost pile.

“What's the temperature up to?” I asked, because he was hoping I would and I didn't have the heart to disappoint him. The heat generated by the compost pile was a source of wonder during his demonstrations. Haruto was its custodian, but we all contributed our vegetable scraps and the gardeners added their weeds and trimmings, so it was a communal effort and an impressive size.

He flushed with pleasure. “One hundred forty-two degrees. It's cooking.” He hesitated, then added: “Those women from the shelter who came by this morning to help me have been great.”

“What women?”

“Bella and AnaZee came out here at eight. Said they saw me working from the window and did I need any help. I put them to work finishing up dead-heading roses and raking the paths.”

He nodded in the direction of two young women near the toolshed. One of them had a rake in her hand, and the other was returning a pair of garden shears to the toolshed. The taller woman had aged bronze skin and hair like a wedge of chocolate cake; her companion's skin was like uncooked pastry, with lank brown hair tied back in thin ribbon like a piece of string. I remembered Ben Turlough's brief histories of his residents and wondered, inevitably, which story went with which woman. Ben appeared beside them with two mugs of hot chocolate, which they took with shy smiles.

“Nice work, Haruto,” I said. He threw me a wink and strode off in the direction of the compost pile, looking even more eager than usual to show off his pride and joy. I saw Davie over there, his black eye blooming. He gave me a big grin, which made me smile back. I turned as I heard a faint musical chime behind me.

“Cold?” Nat said. One of his pale blue cashmere-clad arms came gently up around my shoulders.

“Not now,” I said cheerfully. “This reminds me of the fairy tale about belling the cat,” I said, picking up the pendant and letting the tiny chimes run through my fingers.

“A fairy tale, huh?” He smiled down at me, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Where's Derek?” I said.

“Waitin' for me in the car. I only came by to say a quick hi. He wants to get over to the workshop and I get to watch adorin'ly.”

“You love being needed,” I said.

“True. I'd be pissed if he hadn't asked.”

“You guys made up?”

He waggled his head from side to side. “I'd say we're mostly good. He's worried about gettin' this job finished for Professor D'Allessio.”

“Oh?”

“It's a surprise,” he whispered. “For Mrs. D for their fiftieth anniversary.”

“It may be more of a surprise than he thinks; I think Ruth is hoping for an anniversary cruise.”

He grinned and looked around brightly. “So what's the latest with Sabina and Kurt? I couldn't overhear a damn thing last night.”

“Sabina seems to be having a hard time dealing with his exes.” He gave me big eyes. “Not me, you idiot, mostly Nicole, who he's apparently cozy with, and Helga, who isn't an ex—is she?” He shook his head. “—but who has that thing for him. Look, have you seen Nicole? I haven't seen her for a couple of days and I think she's avoiding me.”

His grip loosened as he looked in the direction of her apartment. “Not since I basically threw her out of the apartment the other night.” He looked a little ashamed of himself, then he leaned down and sniffed ostentatiously. “Pretty perfume,” he said after a few seconds.

“Thank you,” I said, mistrusting his innocent tone.

“Makeup too?”

“A little blush.”

“And mascara. And a teeny touch of eye shadow. Very tasteful.”

I heard the women from the shelter laughing and then Ben left them and came in our direction across the garden. Added to the scar over his eyebrow, his earring made him look like an Elizabethan rogue.

“Everything looks beautiful out here,” Ben said with that smile as he reached us. It made him look years younger. He wasn't coiled tight today; he seemed relaxed for the first time since we'd met.

“You're probably seeing it in daylight for the first time,” I said, and blushed. Damn!

“Advance plannin',” Nat said solemnly. “The gardeners give a little tweak here, a tweak there. Like makeup on a pretty woman. Gotta run.” He blew me a kiss and darted off. Jackass.

My cheeks still felt warm in spite of the cold morning. Ben frowned around the garden, much as the professor had done earlier. Fortunately, the old man was nowhere in sight.

“It was good of you to let Bella and AnaZee lend a hand. They said everyone's been friendly,” he said.

“That was Haruto's doing.”

He raised a surprised eyebrow. “The same Haruto who leapt down my throat the other night?”

I made a gurgle of laughter. “He's a bit whimsical,” I said.

“Bella and AnaZee are smitten. He must be schizophrenic.”

We found them near the swings and he introduced us, by first names only. The women were guarded, with watchful eyes. Bella pointed out her daughter playing on the swings. The child had long blond hair and purple shadows under her eyes. I asked the women if they'd seen a machete while they were working around the garden, but they hadn't.

“This is a nice place for kids,” AnaZee said, looking around at the enclosing buildings. “A safe place.”

I heard what she meant; I know how necessary it is for a terrified woman to feel safe.

“Come and show me around, Theo,” Ben said next to me, and we left the two women to whatever comfort the garden gave them.

“Tell me about the fuzzy, snaky-looking red plant over there,” he pointed. “Don't think I've ever seen it before.”

He was making conversation. Nice. “It's an amaranth, which sounds sort of boring, but it's got a great common name.”

He smiled at me. “What is it?”

“Love-lies-bleeding.” I walked blindly into one of the rosemary topiaries. I needed to stop looking at his face and pay attention to where I was walking.

He took cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and offered me the pack. I shook my head. He lit one for himself, inhaling the smoke as if he'd been waiting a week. “Trying to quit,” he said.

“How's that going?”

He chuckled. “Not great. I notice Californians don't smoke much.”

“It's pretty unusual. Once you've been here a while the universal condemnation will get to you.”

“I doubt it,” he said, and I thought he was probably right.

I walked him through the main areas of the garden, most of the time watching his face more than where I was going. Lesson not learned apparently. He took my arm a few minutes later to prevent me from walking through a rosebush. As we finished our circular tour I pointed out the compost pile and its custodian. Haruto was checking his thermometer again.

“That's Haruto?” Ben said. “It was dark the other night but I could have sworn the guy I saw out here was bigger. I don't remember the ponytail, either.”

“When Haruto's defending his compost pile, he's nine feet tall,” I assured him.

Ben hesitated.

“Why?” I asked. “Do you see anyone else it could be? Almost everyone is here.”

“No.” He thanked me for the tour and left me to talk to another one of his residents who had come down to join in the festivities. By now there were about forty people in the garden, several of them taking tours led by Gardens residents and others waiting expectantly near the compost pile for Haruto's demonstration. I sipped a hot chocolate, all plans to leave forgotten because Ben was still there. It had been a while since I took pleasure in simply watching a man move.

At exactly ten twenty-five, Grandfather planted his Swaine Adeney shooting stick firmly in the ground a few feet in front of the compost pile and sat on its leather seat. The rest of the audience used him as their polestar and gathered around him. Every now and again he waved an imperious hand at anyone arrogant enough to get in his line of sight and they respectfully fell back. We'd have the same performance at the bonsai demonstration if he was up to his usual form. I tried not to watch.

Ben walked over to join the audience and I hovered on the outskirts on a slight rise of ground that gave me a good view of Ben in the compost audience and of Helga serving hot chocolate and Mrs. Jupp enjoying herself at the sale table. Two young men walked away wearing sun visors; one of them was carrying a bud vase.

Haruto began the show; he was in his element, giving his little speech about aerating the compost to jog all the little microorganisms into doing their duty. He showed them the thermometer, the kind that looks like a metal lollypop, stuck into one side of the pile, neatly shaped like a square, a good five feet on each side, and over four feet tall. I heard his voice, fading in and out with each turn of his head.

“… up to … and sixty degrees … steams on a cold day.”

There were murmurs from the crowd and Haruto looked gratified. He indicated his watering can (a Haws, naturally) with which he sprinkled the compost after he lifted it, forkful by forkful, and replaced it in neat layers, like a cake. He uses a hose normally, but the watering can looks better for the demonstration.