Chapter 17

The last person Leota expected to call her was her son. But call her he did. She was pleasantly surprised by George’s voice on the telephone . . . until she understood the point of his call.

“Mother, Nora mentioned she met a young man at your house the other day.”

“Corban,” Leota said after a brief hesitation. Disappointment filled her, making her heart ache. “Corban Solsek. He’s a volunteer for an elder-care agency I called. I suppose Nora also told you I got the number from a television ad.”

“What do you know about this young man, Mother?”

“He came with a reference and he’s willing to help. What more should I know?”

“He could be anything, Mother. I don’t think it’s wise to allow a stranger access to your house.”

To the house. Not his mother. “A better question might be why it’s necessary for an old woman to call and ask for help from strangers.” She regretted the words as soon as they passed her lips. She was pouring on the mother guilt and building the walls higher. She could feel them going up, brick by brick. The mortar dried in the silence.

“If I had more time, I’d be over there helping you out,” George said tautly. “But I’ve got a business to run, and it’s all I can do to keep my head above water with the competition the way it is. You know that.”

“Of course, I know.” He had told her that every time they talked. Usually when she called and interrupted him. “Just don’t begrudge me getting help where and when I can. Annie visits several times a month. She’s met Corban. She likes him. If you and Nora have questions about his character, maybe you should talk with her. Or the agency.” She gave him the name and telephone number. She hoped he wasn’t talking to her with his cell phone while driving on a freeway. “He’s a university student, George. Dean’s list, I’m sure. Sociology, I think. Does that set your mind at ease, dear?”

“I didn’t call to get a lecture.”

She sighed. No matter what she said to make peace, it always backfired. Better if she said nothing and just went on with her life the way it was. “I know why you called, George.” Lord, I wish I didn’t. “Did you have anything else you wanted to say to me?”

“No, nothing else.”

“We can talk more about it when you come for Thanksgiving.”

“Nora said she’s having Thanksgiving at her house.”

So that was how Eleanor intended to get her way. “Then I suppose you’ll have to make a choice where you’re going to be. Annie and I are still planning on having Thanksgiving dinner here.”

“It’d be less work for you if Nora did it.”

Poor Annie. She’d be in the middle of the mess. Pressured on all sides. “Go where you want, George. I’ll be here.” He said nothing to that, but at least he didn’t hang up on her the way Eleanor did whenever she was thwarted. Leota let her breath out, hoping it would ease the ache in her chest. It didn’t. “I have something to ask you, George.”

“Go ahead.” Clearly, he was not enthusiastic about it.

“Is there anything in this house that you want? Anything at all? You’ve only to tell me.”

“I can’t think of anything offhand.”

“Well, think about it and let me know.”

“Why are you asking me a question like that? Are you planning on giving things away?”

She could tell he was still thinking about Corban, the interloper. “I’m asking because I won’t be here forever. I need to know so I can give you what you want.”

“I suppose I’d like half of what the house and property are worth.”

She swallowed hard. So there it was. Cut and dried. Money. That’s all he wanted.

“Mother?”

Leota supposed Eleanor felt exactly the same way. She could imagine her children sticking a For Sale sign in her front lawn and holding a garage sale within a few days of her death. They’d put all of her possessions out on the sidewalk with little price tags attached. Everything marked down for quick sale. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

She glanced around the living room, trying to see things through their eyes. She supposed most of what she possessed was junk by their standards. They didn’t know that every knickknack, stitchery picture, and stick of furniture meant something to her. Everything in her house held special meaning and sparked a memory. These were not just things to gather dust. Her house held a library of stories, most of them private, some heartbreaking, some lovely, some tender. She would have been more than willing to share those memories had her children been interested in listening.

“Mother?”

Lord, I could become bitter. It would be so easy to give in to anger right now and curse George and Eleanor for the pain they’ve caused me over the years by their neglect and indifference. But then, they don’t see it that way at all, do they? They’ve abandoned me because they felt abandoned by me.

She knew it was true. They’d been hurt and now they wanted to hurt her back. They’d wanted their mother at home, waiting, at their beck and call—fixing every situation, soothing every fear, and fulfilling every dream. And when she couldn’t be, they’d set their hearts against her. They had chosen to cling to the lies they were taught by others rather than listen to the voice of their mother. Not once had they sought the truth.

Oh, God, why will they not turn to me and ask why things had to be the way they were? How much of the way they are is my fault because I wasn’t willing to tell Bernard’s secrets or crush Papa Reinhardt’s pride? Or Mama Reinhardt’s, for that matter. How many years did it take before Mama realized the truth and then had to grieve over poisoning the children against me? Better had she confessed to them than left me with uncovering her shame. Would they even believe me now if I told them the truth? Oh, Jesus, blessed Savior, Lord God, still my beating heart and bring me home! I’m sick of this life! I’m sick of waiting and hoping and grieving! I’m sick of the disappointment. When will this life end?

“Mother!”

“I’m here, dear.” But not for much longer, I hope.

“What did you want me to say?” His voice was quiet, defensive.

What did she want him to say? “I love you. . . .” “I’d like to come for Thanksgiving. Thank you for the invitation. . . .” “I’ve missed you, too. I look forward to sitting down and hearing about your life. . . .” “Show me the past through your eyes, Mother.”

They’re so sanctimonious, so self-righteous, so independent. They’ve lived their whole lives in denial. They’ve never been willing to look at or hear the truth. Eleanor casts blame; George hides. Every time I’ve tried to tell them what really went on during those early years, I’ve failed. They’ve concertina wire around them, and every time I try to get through to them I end up lacerated.

Leota couldn’t speak a word past the lump in her throat. Take me home, Lord. Take me right now while he’s on the telephone. Maybe then . . . oh, blast, what good is this stinking self-pity!

“Mother?” Impatience this time. “Look, I’m sorry, but I haven’t got the time for this right now. I’ll call back later.” He hung up.

She supposed he would have the time to call Annie and the elder-care agency and check up on Corban. She supposed he would have time to call Nora and report. She put the telephone back in its cradle and sat thinking for a long time. She thought about George and Nora and Annie. Michael Taggart, her grandson, didn’t even come into the equation. He had deserted the sinking ship long ago. She wished him well. A pity she couldn’t even remember what the boy looked like. The picture on her mantel was five years old.

Opening a drawer in her side table, she found her personal address book and the number she needed. She pressed in the numbers carefully and listened to the telephone ring.

“Dryer, Shaffer, Pulaski, and Rooks,” came the greeting. “How may I direct your call, please?”

“I’d like to speak with my attorney, Dexter Lane Rooks, please.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Dexter Rooks died several years ago.”

“Well, what do I do now? He was my lawyer,” she said, annoyed. “I need him to change my will.”

“His son took over most of his father’s clients, Mrs. . . .”

“Reinhardt. Leota Reinhardt. Well, then, let me talk to his son. I hope my file is still there.”

“I’m sure it is, ma’am. I’ll connect you with Charles Rooks’s office. I’m sure they can help you. One moment, please.”

Leota tried to calm her frayed nerves and explain everything to Charles Rooks’s secretary. Then she was placed on hold for so long she was certain she had been forgotten. Maybe they were hoping she’d die in the meantime and save them trouble. Just when she was about to hang up and try again, the secretary came back on the line. “Mr. Rooks will speak with you, Mrs. Reinhardt.”

Sure enough, a cultured male voice came on the line. “Mrs. Reinhardt, how may I help you?”

Oh, Lord, do I have to go through it all over again? “I’ve decided to change my will, and I need it done as soon as possible. I have some papers here I’d like you to look over. I don’t know whether to transfer ownership now or have that done after I’m gone.”

“When can you bring these documents to the office?”

“I can’t bring them to the office, young man. I’m eighty-four. I don’t drive, I haven’t the money for a taxi, and I’m too old to ride a bus. I need you to come here. If you need witnesses to the transaction, come on Wednesday. I can ask a friend to come in the afternoon instead of in the morning. Or there’s my neighbor, Arba Wilson.”

“Well, ma’am, I’m very busy, and leaving the office is—”

“Something your father would’ve done.”

He hesitated. “Yes, he would’ve. Wednesday afternoon, you say? Would it be possible for me to come after five? I’ll be in court all morning, and I have appointments in the afternoon.”

“You can come for dinner if you like.”

He chuckled. “Thank you, ma’am, but that won’t be necessary. Give your address and telephone number to my secretary. Between now and Wednesday, write down the changes you want to make in your will and have the documents ready for me to look over. That’ll expedite matters.”

“I’ll do that.” She’d start this afternoon—if she could find her will. Hadn’t she put it in the top drawer of her sideboard? Or was it in the safety-deposit box? Had she paid the rent on that box? Maybe her will was in the bottom drawer of her dresser with the few special pieces of jewelry Bernard had given her before he went away to war.

The secretary came back on the line and verified her address and telephone number. As soon as Leota ended that call, she dialed Annie’s number. The answering machine was on. “It’s Grandma Leota, Annie. Call me when you have time, dear. I’d like to discuss Thanksgiving with you. And a few other things.” Next, she dialed Corban. A young woman answered. “Ruth?”

“Yes, this is Ruth. Who is this?”

What a curt, cold voice. “Leota Reinhardt. Corban has—”

“Cory’s not here. I’ll leave him a message that you called.”

The telephone clicked in Leota’s ear before she could utter another word. Frowning, Leota put the telephone back in its cradle.

“What’s all this?” Corban said, entering his apartment and finding several boxes piled near the front door. He could see two more open on the table in the kitchen and Ruth rummaging through cabinets.

“I’m leaving you,” Ruth said, her back to him.

He shrugged off his book-laden backpack and heaved it onto the sofa beside two more boxes. “I thought we were going to try to work things out between us.”

“What’s to work out, Cory? You’ve already made up your mind how you feel.”

“I’d say you were the one who’d already made up her mind.”

She turned sharply. “What did you expect me to do? Stay and put up with your condemning, judgmental attitude?”

“I haven’t said one word—”

“You don’t have to say anything. I can see it in your eyes every time you look at me!” She turned her back again.

Corban’s anger rose. “Those dishes were in the apartment before you moved in.”

“Fine!” Opening her hands, she let two dinner plates crash to the floor. “You can have them. And the glasses, too.” She swept six out of the cabinet onto the Formica counter.

Corban called her a foul name. “Go ahead and break everything if you think it’ll make you feel better!”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “Do you think I care what you think?”

He wanted to throw her out of his apartment and toss her boxes after her. “I’m the one who’s always compromised.” He wished she’d died in that clinic.

“Give me a break, Cory. When did you ever compromise about anything?”

“What else are you trying to steal from me?” He flipped open one of the boxes by the front door.

“Go ahead. Go through them. Take whatever you want! You know what? I finally see you for what you are.” She stood in the kitchen doorway, flushed with rage. “You’re a hypocrite! It shouldn’t have taken me six months to realize.”

“What opened your eyes, Ruth? Killing our baby?”

She flinched, her face going pale. She called him a name fouler than the one he had called her. “It wasn’t your life at stake, Cory. Or your education. I was always the one who had to take responsibility. Right from the beginning!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m the one who had to take precautions. Never, not once did you bother with birth control. Let the woman do it. Isn’t that it? Let the woman take responsibility for the man’s fun and games. Let the woman give up everything! She’s just a vessel anyway, isn’t she? You jerk! You were relieved when I took care of the problem. You just didn’t want to know about it. That was my mistake. Better had I lied and said I miscarried. Everything would’ve been hunky-dory then. Isn’t that right? You wouldn’t have to share the guilt!” Tears poured down her white cheeks, hate poured from her eyes. “I deserved compassion after going through what I did, but that’s too much to expect from you, isn’t it?”

“Compassion? You knew how I felt!”

“Did I? Words are cheap, Cory. Actions speak louder than words! Haven’t you ever heard that? You helped me paint the placards! You let me hold the meetings! You were pro-choice all the way. Or so you said until I got pregnant. Then there was a major paradigm shift. All of a sudden all the rules changed.” Her lip curled in a feral smile. “You know what? You’re a small-minded, male chauvinist pig. For all your intellectual posturing, you’re just a right-wing fundamentalist in disguise.”

“And what are you, Ruth? Trading sex for a place to live. Trading sex so I’ll pay your way. All that high talk about liberation! All that talk about equal rights! You’re nothing but a prostitute living off a man.”

“I hate you.”

“You hate the truth!”

It got worse after that.

Sticks and stones break bones, but words destroy the heart and spirit. Both of them were annihilated by the time Ruth’s two girlfriends came to pick her up and take her and her things to her new home.

Corban sat on the sofa after she was gone and wept bitterly. He didn’t care that Ruth had left him. In fact, he was relieved she was gone and he wouldn’t have to look at her face every day or tread carefully with every word he spoke lest he hurt her feelings.

When had she ever considered his feelings?

Grief overwhelmed him. Not an ounce of it was for Ruth. He grieved the loss of the one good thing that might have come from their sordid relationship: the child he was responsible for making. The child he should have been able to protect. The child who haunted his dreams at night.

Leota served Charles Rooks coffee while he read through her will and looked over the documents she had kept in a manila envelope for the past forty years. “Cream or sugar, Mr. Rooks?”

“Black, thank you. Please, call me Charles.”

He looked very much like his father: blue eyes, bushy gray brows, bald on top with steel-gray around the sides, dressed in an expensive dark-gray suit. This visit was going to cost her plenty.

“Arba, my neighbor, said she’d come over and sign whatever you need her to sign. I’ll call her when we’re ready.”

“We won’t be ready this evening, Mrs. Reinhardt. I’ll need to take everything back to my office and have it typed in proper form.”

“How long will that take, and how much will it cost?”

He told her the cost first, which made her heart flutter a little in shock, then said, “I’ll have everything ready by the end of the month.”

“At that price, I want it sooner. I’ll give you a check before you leave.”

He took his glasses off and laid them on the table. “This isn’t something to rush into, ma’am. Sometimes it’s better to think things over before you make major changes like this. Especially if there’s been a family argument.” He raised his brows in question.

“There’s been no argument. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I want everything fixed exactly the way I’ve said. I may be old, Mr. Rooks, but I’m not senile.”

He smiled slightly. “No, ma’am. I don’t think you are. But you do sound angry.”

“Hurt, Mr. Rooks. And fed up.”

“There’s another way to handle all this that wouldn’t cost you nearly as much money. You can have joint tenancy on your house. When you . . .”

“Pass on. Go ahead, you can say it.”

He inclined his head. “Pass on, then. Your part will fall to your joint tenant or tenants. As to the other documents, you can fill in the backs now and then sign them over when you’re ready. If you do that, the will is fine as it is. Just the names changed. One last word of advice, ma’am. You shouldn’t leave papers like these lying around your house.”

“They weren’t lying around. They were tucked away in a safe place.”

“Mrs. Reinhardt,” he said patiently, “do you have any idea what these are worth?”

“No, and I don’t care.” She sat across the table from him, weary and heartsick. “I wanted to give my children an important inheritance, Mr. Rooks, something that would carry them through life and fill them to overflowing with joy.” She put her hand on the papers. “Unfortunately, this is all they want.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

He looked sincere, and despite all the awful things said about lawyers, she believed he spoke from the heart. She smiled sadly. “So am I, Mr. Rooks. So am I. Now, let’s get down to business.”

“Mother said she and Fred will come for a little while,” Annie said that evening. “She called this afternoon. I think Uncle George talked with her.”

No doubt. Thanksgiving would give them another opportunity to corner their mother and find out where their inheritance stood. It was a good thing everything would be settled long before everyone arrived for turkey dinner. “Should be a jolly Thanksgiving.”

“Are you changing your mind, Grandma? Is this going to be too much for you?”

Yes. It would be too much for her. All the activity, all the excitement, all the tension. But she was not about to surrender to Eleanor. She’d make it through Thanksgiving if it killed her. “You’ll be the one doing the cooking, Annie. I’ll be your cheering section. Are you changing your mind?”

“No. Oh, Grandma, I’m so excited about it. We can do it. I know we can. It’ll be wonderful. I’ll come over this weekend and start on the house like you said, though it’s perfect the way it is.”

“A little painting here and there will brighten it up.”

“I already have some ideas.”

Leota chuckled. “I thought you might. You do whatever you like. I want you to consider this house as much yours as it is mine.”

“I promise not to do anything without your full approval.”

“You already have it, dear. By the way, I was thinking about inviting Corban. How would you feel about that? He’s been a little blue lately, and I think his family is on the East Coast somewhere. He won’t be able to go home.”

“That’d be great, Grandma. Invite him and his girlfriend. And Arba and the children, too, if you like. And Juanita and Lin Sansan . . .”

“The more, the merrier.” Leota intended to draft as many allies as she could for Annie.

The cold war was over. The real war was about to begin.