The Recycled Citizen (11 page)

“Or spent a good deal more time hanging around on street corners than one might expect from a young woman of her background,” Theonia suggested. “Though in fact I have no right to make such a remark, since I have no idea what her background actually is.”

“Does anybody?” said Max. “Sarah doesn’t even know her proper name.”

“Well, don’t ask me to enlighten you,” said Brooks. “I’ve made it a lifelong policy to steer clear of Appie and her good works. She’s the one to ask, if you really want to know.”

“Appie wouldn’t be available at the moment,” Theonia informed him. “She’s taking her transcendental meditation class.”

“What for, I wonder? Appie has both feet planted firmly in the clouds already.”

Brooks straightened the creases in his somewhat threadbare evening trousers. He could have afforded to buy new ones, of course, but why should he? At his time of life, he could look forward to no more than another twenty or thirty years of formal dining. That would hardly give him time to get a new suit properly broken in.

“I’ll make it my business to call Aunt Appie first thing tomorrow morning and get Tigger’s name and address,” Sarah promised. “I should have done it today, only I was so wrapped up in the auction. Theonia, do you realize we may have unleashed a monster?”

The older woman laughed. “Better a monster than a midget, my dear. Let’s not worry about drawing too big a crowd. There’s plenty of room for an army in that great ark of a house, and they do have an astonishing amount of stuff to get rid of. I think Mary would be happy to see every room stripped to the boards and the house itself auctioned off to wind up the sale, if it weren’t for putting the servants out of work.”

“All right, if you say so,” Sarah replied. “We’ll simply make sure Dolph has enough champagne on hand to float a battleship and alert Genevieve to prepare for anywhere from a hundred to a thousand.”

“Surely not a thousand,” Theonia protested. “Three to four hundred would be the most we could expect on such short notice, but even half that number would be a respectable crowd.”

“Whatever happens, Genevieve and Henrietta will know what to do,” Brooks reassured them. “Uncle Fred was always sticking the staff with last-minute receptions for visiting dignitaries and whatnot. If there’s too much food, Dolph and Mary can serve it next week at the center. If we run short, we can remind the guests that this is a charity auction and we didn’t want to spend so much on the entertainment that we had no money left to donate to the charity, as has been known to happen. Let’s get on to more important matters. Max, do we interest ourselves seriously in this fellow Ted Ashe?”

“Why not?” said Max. “I’d interest myself in everybody who’s in any way connected to the SCRC, if I could think of a way to manage it.”

“I know how,” said Cousin Theonia.

A
NYBODY CURIOUS ENOUGH TO
observe it could have noticed a small and rather strangely assorted procession strolling across Boston Common the next morning.

First came a stately, handsome matron wearing a plain but good black coat and a plum-colored turban. In her plum-gloved left hand she carried not only a large black handbag but also a small white paper bag. She sat down on a park bench not far from the convenience station, took peanuts from the little white bag and began to shell them in an efficient but unhurried manner. Her object was clearly to provide more wholesome nutriment for a ratty-looking gray squirrel than the plastic potato chip bag it was chewing on nearby.

The lady had succeeded in luring the squirrel away from its unrewarding researches when a much younger woman, noticeably pregnant and carrying a cloth tote bag with an appliqué of a barn owl on its side, strolled up the path and entered the ladies’ side of the convenience station. Shortly thereafter the large woman appeared to weary of playing Lady Bountiful to so rudely clamorous a group of petitioners, for the squirrel had by now been joined by several loudly cooing pigeons and a rackety mallard duck.

She scattered the rest of her peanuts, which they all began fighting over, for Boston Common fauna are not genteel in their habits, and also went into the rest room. The pregnant woman came out, still carrying her tote bag, and hurried away without paying any attention to the squirrel, the pigeons or even the ill-tempered duck. She also ignored two well-dressed men who came strolling toward her engaged in earnest philosophical discourse, albeit the taller of them was good-looking enough to attract other women’s glances and the smaller bore an interesting resemblance to the squirrel.

Whereas the mother-to-be had been in a rush, the two men were not. One might almost say they dawdled. If perchance they were hoping to encounter the gracious lady in the plum-colored turban, however, they were doomed to disappointment. She must have slipped away by a different route, for during the whole time they lingered, deep in some Socratic nicety, the only person who emerged from the haven was a much older woman.

She, too, wore a black coat, but hers was shabby and unkempt, with traces of peanut shells clinging to it as though she might even have joined in the undignified goober grab with the squirrel, the pigeons and the duck. On her feet were red sneakers with holes in the bunion area through which bits of heavy brown stockings could be seen. Her head and much of her face were swathed in a once gaudy yellow and red scarf, pulled well down over her forehead. Perhaps she suffered from eyestrain even though, or possibly because, she was also wearing a pair of cheap blue-tinted sunglasses with preposterously ornate white plastic frames, in a style fashionable a quarter of a century ago. She shuffled across the asphalt path toward Tremont Street, pausing to investigate the trash receptacles along her way and occasionally to stuff something she fond there into the dilapidated paper shopping bag she carried.

The men paid no more attention to this pathetic wreck of humanity than the younger woman had shown to the squirrel but ambled on to the corner of Boylston and Tremont. There they parted, the younger going into the Little Building and the elder crossing over toward the Masonic Temple and walking back uptown at a far brisker pace. When he got as far as the subway exit, the old woman was there, adding a grubby newspaper to her collection. Again he paid her no tribute of notice but paused to buy himself a
Wall Street Journal
from the news vendor while she picked up her bag again and slouched along down Winter and up Washington.

A few other scavengers were on the streets, some as aimless as this aged female, others routing through the potential collectibles in a purposeful and efficient manner. Each carried a bag of some sort: a plastic grocery sack, an old army knapsack, anything they could get their acquisitive hands on. The more businesslike, however, had sturdy brown shopping bags with the initials SCRC stamped on them in green letters six inches high.

The small man nodded approval at one of the latter as he walked on, glancing at the front page of his
Wall Street Journal,
stopping once or twice to search the inside pages for some story that had attracted his attention. The second time, as he stood reading, the old woman shuffled past him and cast a covetous eye at his newspaper. He heeded not her longing, but folded it under his arm, glanced at his watch and picked up his pace. No doubt he was on his way to an appointment with his broker.

To maintain a, step-by-step account of such meanderings would be tedious. Suffice it to say that, by what the Scottish poet Burns once referred to as “some devilish cantrip slight,” the misfortunate denizen of the pavements was at no time without the company, though hardly the companionship, of some one of the three who had erst encountered her so chancily on the Common.

When she wandered through Quincy Market, the young matron with the owlish tote bag happened to be browsing at a stall of stuffed animals. She gave serious thought to a scarlet plush moose with beige velveteen antlers but decided against it at almost the same moment as the old woman with the by now badly disintegrating shopping bag ambled around to the opposite side of the leaded-glass flower shop.

When the ill-shod peregrinator wended her way at last up Cross street and back to Washington, in the direction of the North Station, the good-looking younger man was behind her. The casual observer, again assuming there was one, might not have recognized him as he had beguiled the interval growing a luxuriant mustache. He had also swapped his hand-tailored gray worsted suit for a pair of hairy green tweed slacks and an even hairier jacket in a strange mustardy shade overlaid with large green tattersall checks. His wavy dark hair was mostly hidden by one of those floppy Irish tweed hats in yet a different tweed with a relatively glabrous texture.

This man had further equipped himself with an impressive collection of photographic gear, hung about his person on leather straps of varying widths and lengths. This time he did acknowledge the presence of the bag lady. In fact, from the shelter of a convenient doorway, he took surreptitious photos of her reaching for a discarded grape drink can. Even as he clicked his shutter, an unmannerly lout in a purple sweat suit and purple running shoes kicked the can away from her outstretched hand, leaving her crouching, bewildered and deprived, in the gutter. The photographer tipped her a quarter before he took himself off in search of more picturesque vistas.

Even more pathetic than this poignant little episode was the metamorphosis of the elderly gentleman. His visit to his broker must have brought heavy tidings. Perhaps he had been speculating in commodities. In any event, he was now woefully reduced in circumstances.

A shrewd student of the human condition might have deduced that the man had impulsively and wrongheadedly decided to recoup his losses by becoming the proprietor of a secondhand furniture shop that was already losing money and could only lose more. He shambled down the broken sidewalk, preoccupied by some inner debate.

He could have been pondering whether the imitation wormholes he’d drilled in the bogus Renaissance tabletop before he attached it to the relatively undamaged base of the otherwise ruined quasi-Sheraton highboy would help him to peddle the
tout ensemble
as a genuine antique something or other, and if so, what? At any rate, he passed the presumably by now footsore waif of the sidewalks with no sign of recognition. She ignored him likewise and entered the Senior Citizens’ Recycling Center, dragging her sack, behind her.

And thus it went, until the day and the bag lady were both far spent. By now she was in possession of one of the SCRC bags but she was making little effort to fill it. Gradually she was approaching the selfsame convenience station from which she had emerged that morning. One might have thought it was the only home she knew. Then, as if to put the cap on a totally discouraging day, she was bumped into by a roughly dressed man wearing a balaclava helmet, although the weather was hardly inclement enough to warrant such all-encompassing headgear. The man, as it happened, was also carrying an SCRC bag. After a small flurry and a mumbled exchange of apologies, they each took their bags and went on their respective ways.

Sure enough, the old woman entered the convenience station and did not come out. But lo! Exit the stately dame in the plum-colored turban and the neat black pumps. From her black leather handbag she drew her plum-covered gloves and put them on.

Tagged admiringly by the man in the balaclava helmet, the lady walked to the traffic light at the corner of Beacon and Charles. As he paused to inspect a trash can she went into the grocery store, made some trifling purchase, then made her leisurely way up Beacon to Tulip Street, sought a familiar brownstone front, and rang the bell marked
BITTERSOHN
.

“Theonia!” Sarah rushed to open the door.

Max was right behind her with a towel in his hand and traces of soap behind his ears. He didn’t appear to be wearing anything but a bathrobe. “Hi, Theonia. Want a hand up the stairs?”

“No thank you. I think I can just about make it. Go put your clothes on. What I want is a drink and a footstool,” the stately dame added once she’d got inside the apartment and been properly hugged. “Do you realize how far I’ve walked today?”

“You poor thing. Here, let me take your coat. Max will be out as soon as he’s decent. He had an awful time getting that mustache off, and he’s got wool rash all over his lower half from those hairy tweed pants. He’s been soaking in a hot tub. Bourbon or sherry?”

“Lucky Max.” Theonia sat down in the armchair Sarah offered and put her feet on the hassock. “A double bourbon, please, and something to eat with it so I shan’t go staggering out of here and disgrace myself. Is Brooks coming?”

“He’ll be over in a few minutes. He had to sneak into the cellar and get rid of his balaclava helmet.”

“Did you ask him if anything’s being done about the boarders’ dinner? I’ve been so engrossed with my histrionics, I never gave it a thought till this minute.”

“And you needn’t now.” Sarah brought Theonia her drink, along with a plate of herbed cheese and water biscuits. “I went over and made a pot of tomato soup and a
boeuf bourguignon.
All Mariposa has to do is boil the noodles and fix the salad.”

“And the dessert?”

“Charles is going to do
poires flambées
at the table. You know how he loves to hurl flaming liqueur around. And there’s nothing to them, really. Don’t you want to slip your shoes off? I can phone down to Brooks and have him bring some loose ones for you to wear home.”

“What a glorious idea. My feet feel like pumpkins.” Theonia eased off the black pumps and wiggled her toes. “Please do call him. I’ll never get these back on.”

But Brooks was already letting himself in, with a pair of easy-fitting sandals in his hand.

“Here, Theonia, I thought you might be wanting these.”

“My darling, your kindness to the old bag lady is overwhelming. First my clothes and now my sandals. How can I ever reward you?”

As a rule, the Kellings were not given to dramatic public displays of connubial affection. Brooks merely performed a few preliminary steps of the woodcock’s courting dance, of course skipping the part where the bird spirals high into the air, then plummets straight to earth. Then he started rubbing Theonia’s feet.