Chapter 5

Annie took the Fruitvale exit off MacArthur Freeway. She turned right at the bottom of the hill, drove another block, and turned left. An old brick church stood majestically on the corner at the base of a hilly, tree-lined avenue. The street was narrow and lined with charming little wood-and-stucco cottages. Each one had a front porch, and though some of the homes looked run down, with yard work and a fresh coat of paint they would be enchanting. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa Reinhardt had probably lived here during a time when people sat outside in the fading evening light, visiting with their neighbors and watching their children play together.

Annie made a U-turn at the end of the block, in front of an old brick elementary school. She drove back slowly and pulled up in front of the house that bore the numbers of her grandmother’s address. Two little black girls were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk next door. They were dressed alike in blue jeans and bright-pink sweaters, their hair in beaded cornrows. As Annie got out of her car, the girls paused in their game to watch her warily.

She smiled. “Hello!”

They smiled back, though they didn’t say anything. Their parents had probably told them never to talk to strangers.

Leaning back inside her car, Annie reached for her purse and the present she had brought for her grandmother. She looped her purse strap onto her shoulder and pushed the door shut. Studying the small house before her, she thought it must at one time have been one of the prettiest on the street. Rhododendrons and azaleas grew along the front of the house. There were no blooms now, but in a few months, the bushes would be covered. The lawn was in poor shape, but proper mowing, a weed treatment, and some fertilizing would bring it back in no time. The barren tree in front looked like it could be a winter-dormant flowering plum, beautiful in blossom. There were several such trees in her mother and stepfather’s backyard, all carefully tended by Marvin Tikado’s gardening service.

The border alongside her grandmother’s house was entangled with climbing rosebushes. Pink roses, Annie remembered. The white picket fence would be glorious when the vines leafed up and covered it with blossoms. She saw the wisteria overhanging the carport at the end of the drive. Soon, its lavender blooms would hang like overripe bunches of grapes, mingling with the scent of roses.

This home must be simply glorious in spring.

Brightly painted front steps greeted her, and there was an old rocking chair pushed back in the corner of the front porch, its seat so worn, Annie thought, her grandmother must have spent countless hours sitting outside. It was dusty and cobwebbed now, but perhaps when the colder weather passed, Grandma Leota would sit outside again. The rhododendrons were too high in front to see over them to the street, but that could quickly be remedied. Annie also noticed the hanging pots and thought how pretty they would be filled with fuchsias dripping hot-pink and purple comet-shaped blossoms.

Her heart thumping, Annie rang the bell. She thought she could hear the television playing inside. Grandma Leota must be home. The question was, would she open the door to someone she hadn’t seen in years . . . someone she probably wouldn’t even recognize?

Lord, please let my grandmother invite me in. Help me not to say anything that will upset her and close any lines of communication between us. Help me see things clearly from all sides. Lord, help.

She waited, hoping, excited, her stomach trembling with niggling fears and uncertainties. Why should she expect any kind of welcome? Had she even bothered to write? She thought of a dozen ways she had slighted her grandmother without even thinking about it. She didn’t even know when Leota’s birthday was.

The door opened a crack. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.”

“Grandma Leota? I’m Annie. Annie Gardner.”

The old woman looked at her oddly. “Annie?”

She must not remember. Why should she? “Annie Gardner,” she said again, hoping to jog her grandmother’s memory. It had been such a long time. Her mother and father had divorced when Anne was five, and she could count on one hand the number of times she had been brought over here. “Nora’s daughter.”

She looked into her grandmother’s brown eyes but couldn’t read her expression. Did her grandmother remember anything? Maybe she had even forgotten she had grandchildren.

Annie’s heart sank.

Leota remembered. Oh, indeed, she remembered. She just couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat as she looked at the beautiful young girl standing on her porch. How many years had it been since she last saw her granddaughter? Anne-Lynn Gardner wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was tall and slender, with that lovely fall of strawberry-blonde hair. She was holding an African violet with lovely purple blooms. How did Annie know violets were her favorite flowers? The plant was in a little pink ceramic pot.

“Nora’s daughter, Grandma Leota,” the girl said again, clearly distressed.

“I know who you are.” Leota was dismayed that she sounded so gruff and impatient. She opened the door a little wider to show the girl she was welcome. After all these years, little Annie was a young woman. Oh, God, all those lost years. Leota’s throat closed tight.

Annie stepped inside and glanced to where the television was still on. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Leota stepped over and punched the Power button. “Geraldo can live without me.”

The room fell into silence. She turned and looked at her granddaughter again, studying her. She could see Eleanor in the girl. She had her mouth and nose, with some of her father in her as well. Those beautiful blue eyes. Leota drank in the sight of her, wondering what to say, wondering why she had come. She must have some reason. She looked nervous and embarrassed. “Are those violets for me?” Leota smiled at her, hoping to put her at ease.

“Oh! Yes. Of course.” She held them out in both hands, as though they were an offering.

“My favorite flowers,” Leota said as she took them and admired the soft, velvety, purple petals. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Annie said softly. “I thought they were pretty and that you might like them.”

“I do. Very much. Thank you.” She thought of the violets she had planted in her yard and how lovely they had looked peeping up from the feather moss. She looked at Annie, wondering again why she had come, yet too afraid to ask. Why spoil the moment? “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Anything would be fine.”

“Come into the kitchen then. I’ll fix us some tea.”

Tea. With her granddaughter.

I wonder when I’ll wake up from this lovely, lovely dream?

Annie followed her grandmother. She hadn’t expected Leota to be so small. She was only about five feet tall and thin. Her hair was white and pinned up in a French roll with wisps here and there. She was wearing an old-fashioned, white cardigan, a blue flower-print dress, and pink slippers. Annie thought she looked adorable. Her grandmother held the pot of violets as though it were her most cherished possession. She looked at it for a long moment and then set it carefully on a small table by the windows. A newspaper was spread out, and Annie noticed the half-worked crossword puzzle. Then she noticed the backyard. Oh, how sad . . .

“I remember your garden. I thought it was Wonderland.”

Leota glanced up. “Wonderland?” That description seemed to please her; then a sadness filled her expression as she followed her granddaughter’s gaze. “Well, it’s not a wonderland anymore. It’s a jungle. I haven’t done any gardening in a long time.”

“Are the elves still there?”

“Elves?” Leota thought for a moment, but she couldn’t remember.

“In the rose lattice back by the vegetable garden. There were green, porcelain elves sitting on the slats. Three of them, I think. Just big enough to fit in the palm of your hand.”

“Oh, my, I’d forgotten all about them.” She had put those little figurines out years ago when Michael was just a child, hoping he would take delight in them and they might spark some sense of surprise in him. When he never mentioned them, she forgot all about them.

“There was a big green frog, too,” Annie said, smiling as she looked out the window. “Over there in the far corner where those calla lilies are growing.”

Leota warmed at the way Annie remembered details about the garden. “I imagine he’s still there. I haven’t moved him.” She had put those silly things in the garden to bring joy to her grandchildren, but they had never been around long enough for her to know if they’d even noticed them. She’d dreamed once, long ago, of having Easter egg hunts and . . .

She turned her thoughts from going down that rocky path again. What good was it, going over past hurts and disappointments? Thinking about what might have been never made things better.

Annie looked around the kitchen, and Leota wondered what her granddaughter thought about it. It was small and cozy. At one time, it had been very cheerful, with its canary-yellow walls and white cabinets. The window over the kitchen sink looked straight across into the neighbor’s kitchen. Annie wouldn’t know it could be pushed up so ladies could talk back and forth while they did their dishes and their children played in the backyard.

“What would you like?” Leota watched Annie’s face as she looked around the room. She had such a sweet expression. What a contrast to that young man who had come to “volunteer.”

“Whatever you’re having, Grandma Leota. Could we sit in here?”

“You sit anywhere you want, dear,” Leota said and watched her granddaughter sit in the chair opposite her own. Annie gazed again out the window at the backyard, and she didn’t look the least bit put off by the lack of care. Might the girl be seeing what had been, not what was? Leota wished she hadn’t let things go, but her arthritis made it difficult to get around. Of course, that wasn’t the full reason. She might as well admit it. She had let things go because she had given up. Why spend all those hours in the garden when there was no one but her to enjoy it? She was sorry now. She shouldn’t have done that. She should’ve kept it up. Now it was too late. She couldn’t undo the destruction of the last few years. She was too old.

This was no time to count her regrets. Her granddaughter had come to visit. Praise God.

Leota felt like having something special, something to celebrate this occasion. Opening a drawer, she poked around and found a few packets of Constant Comment tea she had tucked away after Mama Reinhardt had died. Mama had loved Constant Comment tea, and the two of them would sit together in the afternoons and sip it together. Did she have any cookies stashed away? If so, they would be as old as the tea and stale and hard enough to set with mortar. Crackers? None. Oh, how she wished she had known Annie was coming. She could have bought the fixings and made some Toll House or peanut butter cookies. Maybe next time.

Would there be a next time?

Oh, God . . . please.

Her hand trembled as she filled the teakettle. She carried it to the stove and turned on the gas burner. “It won’t take long.”

Would Annie get tired of waiting and leave? Young people these days seemed to be in such a rush about everything. Places to go. Things to do. She had heard about all that from Cosma. “Maybe it’s those video games they play all the time. Everything moves so fast. Like gnats on a screen door, battering away and driving you crazy.”

“I’m not in any hurry,” Annie said, returning her attention to her grandmother.

“Are you hungry? I don’t have any cookies, but I could fix you a . . .” A what? She didn’t have any lunch meat. She hadn’t fixed any tuna. She didn’t even have peanut butter on hand. “. . . an egg sandwich? Would you like that?”

“I’m not hungry. I just wanted to see you and talk with you.”

Leota came and eased herself into the chair opposite Annie. “How’s your mother?” The girl’s eyes flickered slightly, and she lowered her head. The tension was back. Leota watched as Annie clasped her hands on the table. Something was wrong. “Is Eleanor ill?”

“No, Grandma Leota. Mother’s fine. It’s just that . . .” She looked out at the yard again, and Leota saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. Oh, dear. Something’s wrong again. Isn’t that always the way of it? Leota waited, wondering why Annie had come to her. She had never been included in the family circle before. Why now?

“We’re not on the best of terms right now,” Annie said after a long pause.

Leota felt the girl’s pain. Did she dare pry? What if she asked the wrong question and her granddaughter left? She wanted to offer some comfort, but what could she say that wouldn’t be misconstrued? “Things will blow over in time?” That wasn’t necessarily true. Things had never blown over between Leota and Eleanor. “Would you like to talk about it?” she said cautiously.

Annie looked at her again, her blue eyes so troubled and filled with pain that Leota’s heart squeezed tight. Oh, Eleanor, what have you done to our little Annie?

“Mother says I’m like you.”

“Oh, dear,” Leota said ruefully, and Annie’s face turned pink. The poor girl looked so embarrassed and distressed, Leota was sorry she had said anything. She knew where she stood with Eleanor. The why was not as easily understood. “Why would she say a thing like that?”

Annie looked down at her clasped hands. “I decided to study art in San Francisco instead of going east to Wellesley.”

“Are you good at art?”

She raised her head and looked at Leota, letting out her breath softly. “Mother said if I had any real talent, she would’ve sent me to Paris to study.”

Leota heard no bitterness, nor did she see any resentment as Annie repeated her mother’s assessment. Oh, Eleanor. Ever the judge and jury. A spark of anger lit inside Leota. “What do you think, Annie?”

She smiled bleakly. “I may not be as good as I think, but I love it.”

“What sort of art do you do?”

“I’ve tried all kinds. I’m not sure where my strengths are yet, if I have any. I did a lot of pencil sketching through high school. The budgets were cut so much, though, that our school could offer only two courses. Art wasn’t a high priority.”

“What are you going to study?”

“I’ve registered for a course in art appreciation and another in form. I’d like to try watercolors and acrylics. Maybe in time I’ll know what I’m supposed to do.”

“It’s not out of the blue. You have a relative who was a commercial artist.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Did Eleanor even know? She couldn’t remember if they’d ever talked about relatives long past. “She would’ve been your great-great-aunt Joyce. She was from my side of the family. She died before your mother was born. A few of Aunt Joyce’s things were passed on to me when my mother died. I might have a few of her pictures tucked away somewhere. She made a good living drawing ladies’ fashions and stoves and farm machinery. Things like that. Nothing very exciting. She did a few greeting cards, too, if I remember correctly.”

“I’d love to see them.”

“I’ll see if I can find them.” She hadn’t thought about them in years. Where might they be? In her hope chest, perhaps? Or in a box in the attic? How could she get up there to look for them?

The teakettle whistled. Leota rose and turned the gas off. She poured hot water over the tea bags and set the kettle back on the stove. “Do you like your tea strong?”

“Any way you’re having yours will be fine,” Annie said.

Leota dipped the tea bags up and down until the tea was a rich amber. “Sugar?”

“Plain is fine.”

A people pleaser. Leota had a feeling Annie liked sugar in her tea, but didn’t want to be a bother. The teacups rattled slightly as she put them on the table, one before Annie and the other on her crossword puzzle. She opened a cabinet and took out a cobalt-blue sugar bowl. Removing the lid, she loosened the sugar inside and set the bowl on the table close to Annie. Opening a drawer, she took out a spoon and set it on the table as well. She couldn’t offer cream—she didn’t have any. Nor did she have any milk. She needed to make another trip to the grocery store.

When was that young college student coming back? What was his name? Corban. That was it. Corban Solsek. He was supposed to come on Wednesday. Would he? She hadn’t been very nice to him. Stuck-up little twerp. What day was this? Maybe she’d call that nice Decker woman and ask her if she could send someone else.

“It smells good, Grandma,” Annie said. “Thank you.”

Leota sat at the table with her granddaughter. She smiled to herself as she watched Annie sprinkle two teaspoons of sugar into her tea. Either she had a sweet tooth or she didn’t like tea. Leota decided the next time she went to the store she would buy a can of that fancy instant coffee, the kind they advertised on television. Whatever the cost. French vanilla. Cappuccino. Double-Dutch chocolate. Something special. And she’d buy the fixings for cookies, too. She wanted to have something nice to offer the next time her granddaughter came to visit.

Assuming there would be a next visit.

Leota began to worry. This visit hadn’t even gotten under way and all she could think about was how little time she might have to get to know this girl before she left. She had the feeling that when Annie walked out the front door, that would be the end of everything important. Oh, Lord. Help me! Is she as sensitive as Eleanor? One wrong word and off she’ll go and I’ll never get to see her again?

God . . . help!

Annie sat in silence, fighting the fears that were suddenly plaguing her. Had she been right to come? What did her grandmother think of her? Of what she’d said about her mother?

It was Grandmother who finally broke the silence. “So you’re old enough to be on your own.”

“Yes. I moved in with a friend from high school. Susan Carter. She graduated a year ahead of me. She’s a lot of fun.”

“Fun.”

“Not in a bad way,” Annie said quickly, thinking about the way her mother viewed Susan. Annie didn’t want to give her grandmother the wrong impression. “Susan’s very responsible. She’s taking classes at San Francisco State, and she’s paying all of her own expenses.”

“What’s she studying?”

“Right now, she’s classified as ‘undecided,’ but she’ll probably major in nursing. Her mother’s a nurse.” Annie told her about the apartment and the advantages of its location. “I like to run.”

So that’s why she looks so thin, Leota thought.

“It’s not that far to the zoo and only a mile or so to the beach,” Annie said. “There’s a jogging path there.”

Leota seemed to remember something about Annie being involved in sports. Eleanor must have said so, but Leota was embarrassed she didn’t know more. “Were you on the track team?”

“No. Mother didn’t think it was a good idea for a girl to be a runner, so I was in gymnastics until I was fifteen.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I broke my arm in a fall. The injury prevented me from continuing with it.”

“Ladies didn’t jog in my day,” Leota said, “but I used to walk around Lake Merritt on my lunch hour. I could keep up quite a clip in those days. And I loved being out in the open for a while. I kept my walking shoes in the bottom drawer of my desk at work. It raised a few eyebrows, I can tell you. Not that it stopped me. Things have changed since then. I’ve heard it’s not unusual these days for women to wear tennis shoes to work. Is that so?”

Annie smiled. “I see ladies in business suits and tennis shoes downtown all the time. Lots of women change into heels when they get to their offices.”

“Putting all those poor podiatrists out of work,” Leota said with a chuckle.

Annie relaxed. Something about her grandmother made Annie feel quite at home with her in this small house. The soft gleam of humor in her grandmother’s eyes gave Annie courage . . . made her decide to risk asking personal questions.

“What did you do for a living, Grandma?” What was the career that had been more interesting than her family?

“I was a secretary. Just an ordinary secretary.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I was good at it.”

“How long did you work?”

“Thirty years.”

That would have been long after her mother left home. Perhaps there was something to her mother’s supposition. “Did you work for the same company all that time?”

“Oh, no. I worked for four different companies altogether. They were all in the same office building, just two blocks away from the lake. One went out of business, but I was hired right away by one of their competitors. When that boss retired, I worked for the gentleman who bought his company. Then that company merged with another. I stayed on and worked for them as well.”

“Why did you finally leave?”

Leota smiled slightly. “I turned sixty-five.”

“Oh. Did they let you go because of your age?”

“No. I gave them notice two weeks before my birthday.”

She made it sound as though she couldn’t wait to leave. Was that so? “Did you find the work fulfilling?”

“Fulfilling? No, I wouldn’t say secretarial work was particularly fulfilling. It paid the bills. And I liked the people.”

Annie frowned. How was it that someone who was supposed to have loved her work so much would not seem the least interested in talking about it when the opportunity arose? Perhaps it had been the people she had worked for who had been the draw. Had she been involved with someone? Was that what had caused the rift between her grandmother and her mother? It didn’t seem likely. Had Nora known of anything clandestine, she would have said something about it. There had never been any indication that her mother would care about protecting Grandma Leota’s reputation. If anything, her mother would’ve used that kind of information to nail Grandma Leota’s coffin shut.

“You look so troubled,” her grandmother said quietly. “Is it something I’ve said?”

“No. I was just thinking . . .” Annie blushed, realizing the track of her thoughts. She was condemning her mother exactly the way her mother had condemned Grandma Leota all these years. What right had she to criticize her mother, even in her own mind? Had she walked in her shoes? Had she seen through her eyes?

“Dwell on what is true and right and lovely.”

She rubbed her temple. What is true? What is right?

“Do you have a headache? I have some aspirin.”

“No. I’m fine, Grandma Leota. Really. There are just so many things . . .” She pressed her lips together, afraid she would cry. She expected her grandmother to start asking questions the way her mother always did. What could she say?

Leota sat still and quiet, as though she was waiting.

Annie felt uncomfortable. She was far more used to her mother’s verbally pounding at her for an answer.

“Tell me what’s wrong now.”

“Nothing, Mother.”

“I suppose you want to quit piano again. Well, I’m not going to let you. Do you hear me? Someday you’ll thank me for making you keep up your lessons. If I left it up to you, you’d quit everything.”

“Mother, I just need a little time—”

“You can have all the time you want, right over there on that bench. You can sulk just as well at the piano as you can sulk in your room. Now, go practice! I promised the ladies you’d play at the luncheon. . . .”

Annie closed her eyes against the voices that wouldn’t leave her alone.

Leota could see the girl’s struggle. Annie was terribly upset about something. “Why did you come, Annie?” What could she do to help her granddaughter?

Annie lowered her hands. They were trembling. She put them around her teacup. “I hardly know you, Grandma Leota.”

Leota longed to respond, to blurt out that she would have had it otherwise. Yet she didn’t dare utter such provocative words. They could be too easily misconstrued. She would not be party to casting blame on anyone, not even on Eleanor, who was at fault. Leota had been the victim of her daughter’s grievances for too many years. Instead, she said very cautiously, “We can remedy that.”

Annie raised her head and looked at her. Her blue eyes were glassy with tears and misery. She looked so vulnerable, not like a young woman at all, but rather like a little girl who had been badly hurt by someone she loved. Leota recognized that look. Hadn’t she seen it on Eleanor’s face countless times as a small child? Her heart squeezed so tight, she could hardly breathe, let alone say any words of comfort.

“I’ve missed you, Grandma.”

Leota gave the softest gasp. She couldn’t speak. It wasn’t that she didn’t have any words; it was that she had too many. Words of love collected over the lonely years. Years before Annie was even born. All the way back to the day she had placed Eleanor in the arms of Helene Reinhardt. Eleanor had cried. Oh, how she had cried.

And so had Leota as she sat on the bus, going downtown and doing what she had to do.

Oh, Lord, are You giving me a second chance?

Something of Leota’s inner struggle must have shown on her face because Annie reached across the small table and touched her hand. Once. Gently. A tentative exploration. Leota wanted to grasp that young, slender, strong hand and hold on and never let go. Instead, she sat silent, unmoving, afraid if she made one sound there would be an unleashing of the frightful grief and hope inside her. It hurt so much. Oh, what a burden hope could be, especially to one so young and obviously encumbered with her own pain.

“I guess that doesn’t make any sense, does it?” Annie said softly, her voice breaking slightly.

It made all the sense in the world to Leota. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said finally. It was a terrible understatement, but to say any more and give a hint to the depth of her true feelings might send the girl running. Oh, Lord, she has no idea who I am. She has no idea of the undercurrents and undertows of the past. Poor Eleanor had been in the vortex and never understood. I didn’t want to explain. How could I without destroying all her illusions about her family? Oh, Jesus, let these mild words be enough, but not too much.

And so they must have been, for Annie raised her head and looked into Leota’s eyes, searching. Then Annie’s eyes warmed and glowed. Closing them, the girl lowered her head, almost as though saying a silent prayer.

Corban couldn’t believe what the old woman was asking. He’d taken her to the grocery store, where she had purchased brown and granulated sugar, soda, eggs, chocolate chips, and a five-pound sack of flour. Five pounds he had to carry, along with the pound of sugar and other items. She had gone on a real spree this time. She bought a gallon of milk, instead of her usual quart, and a carton of flavored cream. French vanilla. She bought a small box of Constant Comment tea and another of Orange Spice. She even bought two tins of fancy instant coffee, although she almost threw a fit when she saw how much they would cost her. She didn’t let the price go unnoticed by the poor checker. “Three dollars and eighty-five cents for that little can?” she had harped. “That’s robbery! Six ounces, it says right here. What’s the stuff made of? Gold?”

Corban hadn’t said a word. In fact, he had been touched, thinking she was going to offer him some instant cappuccino after all he was doing for her. He’d even decided to forgive her for the quarter insult from the first visit. He should’ve known better. When they reached the house, she told him she had some ice water in the refrigerator—he looked like he needed some. She even told him he could dampen a paper towel and dab his face. “You’re a little red.”

Yeah, well, toting two twenty-pound sacks of groceries up the hill could do that to anyone.

She still wouldn’t ride in his car.

And then she hit him up for one more chore. “Before you leave, I’d like you to get something down from the attic for me.”

“Attic?”

“Yes. Attic. You know, the space builders leave between a ceiling and a roof. The house is small, I grant you, but it’s still big enough for an attic.”

Gritting his teeth, he suffered through her sarcastic little lecture. “Sure. Whatever.” The sooner he did as she asked, the sooner he could ask if they could sit down and talk for a while. He had some questions to ask her.

She took a flashlight out of a kitchen drawer and marched into the living room. Was it just his imagination, or did she actually have more pep in her step today? Standing in the small corridor facing the horrible pink- and green-tiled bathroom and the two small bedrooms in either direction, Leota Reinhardt pointed up imperiously. She reminded him of the Statue of Liberty with a flashlight in her hand.

“There’s the door.” She gave him a disgusted look. “Well, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you bring the chair? Did you think you could leap up there like Superman?”

He wanted to throw her up through the trapdoor to the attic. She could join the other bats that were probably hanging from the rafters. “I thought there might be a ladder,” he said, striving for reason. He knew it was a stupid thing to say even as he said it. She jumped on it like a cat on a mouse.

“Oh. You want a ladder. Well, you might find one out in the storage shed behind the garden gate. I used a ladder when I pruned the trees. If you want to use it, go get it. Might not be in the best of shape, but it’ll make the climb easier, I suppose. If you can get it into the house.”

“I’ll get a chair,” he said through gritted teeth.

Setting it carefully in the little hallway, he made sure it was on solid wood and not on the grated floor heater. It wobbled slightly when he stepped up. He opened the small trapdoor to the attic and stared into the darkness. It smelled of dust and old wood.

“There might be rats.”

His heart jumped into his throat. “Have you heard any up here?” He looked down at her.

“I’ve heard things scurrying around up there at night,” she said calmly. From where she was standing, she was safe from whatever rodent might come leaping from the dark corners. He was the one who would be toast. “But I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Solsek. They’re probably more scared of you than you are of them.”

Was that a gleam in those eyes? Was she making fun of him? His temper rose another notch. Were all old people this difficult?

“And it could be my imagination,” she said sweetly. “You know how an old lady gets when she’s lived by herself for a long time. A little soft in the head. Isn’t that right? But there are spiders. Of that, I’m sure.”

So was he, and that was exactly why he wasn’t eager to go climbing into that infernal space. What else inhabited the darkness up here?

She rapped him on the thigh with the flashlight. “You’ll need this if you plan on seeing anything.”

“Thanks.” Stewing, he snapped the light on and moved the beam around the small space. He would hardly call this an attic. He saw a stack of boxes, an old wooden cradle, a wooden apple crate with some empty mason jars inside, and an old birdcage big enough for something the size of a parakeet or a canary.

“I’d like the boxes brought down.”

“All of them?”

“How many are there?”

“Three.”

“Only three? I thought there were more. Turn around and look behind you.”

Corban turned and felt a web across his face. He uttered a single, foul word and made a quick swipe across his face, hoping the eight-legged occupant hadn’t gotten into his hair or fallen into his shirt. No, there it was, racing toward the boxes he was supposed to retrieve. He squashed it.

“What on earth are you doing up there?” Leota Reinhardt cried out from below.

“Killing a spider.”

“How big is it? The size of my dining room table? You’re going to pound a hole right through my ceiling.”

The flashlight flickered. He swore again as he shook it.

“Is that the only word you know, Mr. Solsek?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, realizing what he had said.

“For someone who attends one of the best schools in the country, you have a very limited vocabulary.”

“I apologize, Mrs. Reinhardt.” Enough already!

“That’s all very well and good, young man, but if you’ve broken my flashlight, you’re going to buy me another one!”

The beam came back on. “It’s still working.”

“It had better be. Just get the boxes and get down from there before you wreck my house.”

Corban made six trips up and down. He was panting and sweating worse than he had from the walk up the hill. His leg muscles were beginning to cramp before she finally said, “That’s the one I want.” It had better be. It was the last one.

He hated even to suggest it. “Do you want the other ones put back up there?”

She looked him over. “No. I think I’ll look through them first. When I’m done, I’ll just push them into the guest room.”

“Good idea,” he said, appreciating the reprieve.

“You can put them away again next Wednesday.”

“You know what really ticks me off?” Corban told Ruth that evening. “I’ve been over there three times already, and I don’t know bo-diddly about her.”

“What’s the problem? She won’t answer your questions?”

“I haven’t asked any! I’m so tired by the time she’s finished using me for slave labor, I forget why I came.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Ruth said, continuing her exercises. She was sitting on a mat with her legs in Chinese splits and touching her head to her knee. Bounce, bounce, bounce and then swing across to the other leg, touching her head to her knee. Bounce, bounce, bounce.

“I’m going to go back this weekend and tell her about my report.”

“Do you think she’ll cooperate?”

“If not, I won’t waste any more time on her.”

Over the next two days, Leota opened all six boxes. Each brought memories flooding back. Some were good; some were better off locked away in the recesses of her heart.

The first box was filled with Christmas decorations. It was a box with twelve dividers, designed for shipping bottles of wine. Over the course of two hours, Leota removed the tissue paper from every carefully wrapped ornament and took out the shiny, beaded garland and strings of lights wound around tissue-paper rolls. She hadn’t put up a Christmas tree in ten years. Christmas trees were expensive these days. One cost as much as her electric bill for a month! Even if she’d had the money, she’d had no way to bring one home.

The best Christmases had been the earliest ones, when she and Bernard were alone with their children in their own little apartment. What joy to see the bright-eyed wonder in the children’s eyes as they stared at the tree. She remembered evenings when Eleanor would be snuggled in her lap and George cuddled against her as she read stories to them. Those were her most precious memories, for after moving into this house, there had been little time for anything but work. Mama Reinhardt had been quick to take responsibility for her grandchildren.

Leota carefully rewrapped each ornament and replaced it in the box. She tucked the garland and lights back in their slots and pushed the box to one side.

The second box was filled with old clothing, and each item made her remember why she had saved it. Her wedding suit; a beautiful, satiny robe Bernard had given her for their first Christmas together; a red dress she had purchased for her birthday while Bernard was in the army. He had sent the money and told her to buy something nice for herself. Mama Reinhardt had been scandalized that she had spent all the money on herself rather than using some of it for her children. Papa had come to her defense, but it hadn’t taken the sting from Mama’s opinion of her.

Running her hand over the dress now, Leota remembered how angry she had been. Mama Reinhardt had been so resentful of her. Nothing she could do in those days had been good enough. Papa said she didn’t understand, and indeed, she hadn’t. Leota had worn the dress the evening she bought it. She had been so angry, so defiant. When she came home, Mama had been waiting up. It hadn’t been that late—only ten o’clock—but the children should have been in bed long before. Mama told her that they had stayed up because they were worried about their mama. She said she told them there was no need to worry about someone so selfish. Their mother certainly knew how to take care of herself.

That had been the last straw. She had tucked her children into bed and then come back to have it out with Helene Reinhardt. But as it turned out, her mother-in-law was the one who poured out all her frustration and resentments before Leota even had the chance to open her mouth. Papa Reinhardt intervened and said enough to silence his wife.

Even then, Mama hadn’t understood everything.

Leota hadn’t thought the children knew anything about that night. Not until a few years ago, when Eleanor had told her she had discussed it with her psychologist. She had flung that bit of information like a grenade. It had exploded in the living room, its shrapnel wounding both of them terribly. Eleanor thought she knew everything. Oh, how wrong she was, but it would do no good to explain that Eleanor had heard only one side of things. What good would it do to remind Eleanor she had been five at the time and couldn’t have understood all of what she heard, let alone the intensity of the anguish involved? Once Eleanor got an idea in her head, there was no changing it. She was like a pit bull, jaws clamped shut, shaking the life out of something.

“That was the night you hurt Grandma Helene so badly she never got over it,” Eleanor had accused.

In a sense, it was true. Once Mama understood why Papa had invited Leota to live with them, she never got over it. Poor Papa. Even after that evening, he continued to walk down to Dimond Park and spend hours there, rain or shine. In the later years, Mama had gone with him.

Leota looked at the red dress that had caused such a ruckus. It was still brand-new. She had only worn it that one evening. After that night, she folded it up and put it away.

Next she pulled out an old wool shirt Bernard had worn. She had given it to him for his birthday the first year he had come home from the war. He had worn it for Sunday dinners. She could still see him sitting at the foot of the table, facing Papa. They loved and understood one another. It was Mama who had never completely understood. She didn’t want to face the fullness of what life had dished out to them. Bitter herbs and sorrow. So much sorrow.

In the bottom of the box was Bernard’s army uniform. Pinned to it were the medals he had received: the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, and the Purple Heart. He had told her to burn the uniform, but she had tucked it away. She had been proud of him. He had made his stand, not counting the cost. And, oh, what a cost it had been! The memory of what he had told her in a moment of weakness made her shudder. She had asked him once if he had talked about everything with Papa. He said no. Yet over the years Leota had wondered if Papa hadn’t known everything already.

Some things were better left unsaid.

As for Leota, she had chosen to close her mind to the things she couldn’t change and move forward. There were too many good things in life to allow things beyond your control to destroy you.

If only Bernard had been able to think the same way.

The next two boxes were filled with children’s toys, games, and books. She set the items out one by one: a cigar box full of cowboys and Indians; a denim sack of Lincoln Logs; a homemade doll in a flour-sack dress, with embroidered hem and sleeves; an envelope full of jacks and a ball; a checkerboard and a box of checkers; a tin of used watercolor paints; a can of used crayons; and a number of old, worn books—including George’s favorite, Kidnapped. She had put these things away as George and Eleanor had outgrown them, hoping one day she would take them out once again for her grandchildren to enjoy. She had imagined holding her grandchildren in her lap and reading to them.

She looked through the books: the first edition of Curious George, an old discolored booklet from Montgomery Ward titled Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, a dog-eared collection of fairy tales, Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses, and The Wizard of Oz. Stacking them again, she placed them back in the box, once more packing away the lost hopes and broken dreams.

Doesn’t every young wife imagine a life of fulfillment and joy? And then reality comes barging in, and she has to do what’s necessary and right for the time. No one can see ahead to what comes from circumstances. Life is filled with trials and tribulations.

“Take heart, beloved. I have overcome the world.”

I know, Lord, but You’re up there in heaven, and I’m still down here. You lived thirty-three years on this earth. You know what it’s like. And here I am, over eighty. I’m tired of it. The first twenty were wonderful, and I thank You. If I didn’t have good times to remember, what state would I be in? But You must know, Lord, the last sixty-plus haven’t been much fun.

She thought of the Old Testament people who had lived hundreds of years. What a daunting thought.

The fifth box held a jumble of personal mementos from Mama and Papa Reinhardt and the children. Mama had been good about helping Eleanor keep special mementos from her school years in homemade scrapbooks. She used cardboard from the heavy boxes she got for free from the grocery store. Papa would cut them for her, and she and Eleanor would glue magazine pictures over them. The front of one was a collage of Hollywood movie stars. Inside it were essays Eleanor had written, party favors from school dances, programs from events she had attended, and school pictures. Another album was papered with pictures of places to see, such as the Grand Canyon, the California redwoods, Oregon beaches, the Rocky Mountains. Inside that scrapbook were mementos from George’s school years.

There had once been pictures of relatives, but they were all gone now. The few pictures left were of the children during their school years. All the remaining pictures Leota had of her family were sitting on the mantel. She only had three pictures of Bernard. The one taken on their wedding day hung in her bedroom. The second was of her and Bernard with George as a toddler and Eleanor as a baby. The third was of Bernard in his uniform. It had been taken and sent home to her when he graduated from boot camp. She had given it to his parents, and they had displayed it proudly on the mantel until he came home and told them he wanted no reminders of the war. Mama had put it away after that. She didn’t even hang it on the wall in the little apartment behind the carport. When Bernard died, Mama had placed the picture on top of her television set where she could see it every morning, noon, and night of her last ten years of life.

Tucked in the box among the collection of mementos was an old shoe box. Leota untied the pink ribbons and lifted the lid. Inside were letters from the old country that Mama Reinhardt had saved. They were written in German and beyond Leota’s comprehension. Yet, when Mama Reinhardt had died, Leota couldn’t bear to burn them or throw them away. If Mama Reinhardt had cherished them enough to save them all those years, who was she to discard them? They were neatly organized in small bundles and tied with slender pink silk ribbons. One bundle for each year, starting in 1924—the year after Mama and Papa Reinhardt had immigrated to the United States. There were no letters after 1940.

Leota wondered what the letters said. Perhaps she should destroy them, yet the thought bothered her. The shoe box of letters only took up a little space. Maybe someday a relative would learn to read German and decipher them. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea.

She knew what Bernard would have wanted.

She weighed the box in her hands. Lord, what should I do? Our family history may not be pristine, but it’s ours nonetheless. What risks are involved in saving them? Who might be hurt by what they contain? And if I did burn them, how much of who we are would go up in smoke?

Sighing, Leota set the box aside. She didn’t know what to do about the letters. She would think about it for a few days and then make up her mind; if she couldn’t decide, it would be left to someone else to figure out. Let Eleanor or George burn the past if they so chose.

Before she put the lid back, she noticed one long, brown envelope tucked lengthwise in the box. She took it out and turned it over in her hands. It had no markings on it and was unsealed. Opening it, Leota took out some official-looking documents. Spreading them out, she read them. Mama and Papa Reinhardt’s naturalization papers! Both had passed their test before a judge and become American citizens in May of 1934.

It was no accident that these papers were in with the letters from Germany. “Oh, Mama, you were pulled between two worlds, weren’t you?” Yet, it was a message, too.

Leota folded the papers carefully and tucked them back into the envelope. She wrote on top, “Naturalization Papers for Gottlieb and Helene Reinhardt.” She placed the envelope on top of the letters, so anyone opening the box would see it first. Then she replaced the lid, retied the ribbons, and set the box aside. She didn’t need a few days to decide after all. She would keep the letters.

The last box was filled with her own keepsakes. She had weeded them out the last time she went through this box. It had been the month after Mama Reinhardt had died and she had tucked some of her things away in the attic. She held a bundle of letters from Bernard while he was away at war, and took out another of cards he had bought for her over the years for her birthday and Mother’s Day.

For the rest of the day, she read them. Some made her weep, especially the ones from the war. Bernard had been so full of life and fun when she met him, but the youthful optimism and enthusiasm had quickly given way to the realities of war. She read until midnight, when she became too tired to continue, and left the remaining letters and cards on the dining room table to finish the next day.

There were fifty-three letters in all. She could hear Bernard speaking to her as she read them, the young Bernard, so full of passion and hope for the future. She read every single one of the eighty-nine greeting cards. Each had a note written at the bottom. All my love, always, Your Bernard . . . I couldn’t have made it a day without you. . . . You are the light of my life. . . . Ever yours by the mercy of God . . . All my love . . . All my love . . . All my love . . .

Someday perhaps her children would read them. Perhaps then they would understand. These were her proof that Bernard Reinhardt had always loved her, even through the years of heavy drinking and the bouts of deep depression and silence.

Oh, Lord, in that day, let the accusations against me be put to rest. Let my children’s eyes be opened so they will see and finally understand some small part of why things were the way they were. They don’t have to know everything, Lord. Not so much that their lives will be shattered. Just let them know enough to put their sour feelings about me aside and count their blessings. I did the best I could with what I had.

Carefully stacking the letters in order, she bundled them again.

For now, she supposed Eleanor would continue to cling to her own view of the past. She would hold on to the tattered crazy quilt of experiences stitched together by her own fertile imagination. Bits and pieces of conversations, things she had been told or overheard—fragments of truth, but never the whole of it.

Stand back, Eleanor. Stand back and take a good look.

Leota stacked the letters, retied the ribbons, and went through the rest of the things in the last box. What other treasures might she find? She took out a beaded evening bag, a lace collar with pearl buttons, a prayer book with a worn, leather cover, and the portfolio of Great-Aunt Joyce’s drawings. She would go through them later with Annie.

Near the bottom of the box, she found three white hankies wrapped in tissue paper. One was edged with lace, another with tatting, and the third was beautifully embroidered with forget-me-nots. Her mother’s work. So fine. She had never been able to bring herself to blow her nose in one of them, the mere thought seeming almost sacrilegious. Leota thought about Annie as she took each hankie out and admired it. As an artist, her granddaughter would appreciate the time and effort that had gone into making these lovely things. It was right that she have them.

On the bottom of the box were two sets of clothing. One set had belonged to George when he was a toddler: a pair of worn jeans with holes in the knees; a blue-, red-, and green-striped shirt; a cowboy hat; and a pair of boots. The other set belonged to Eleanor: a blue dress with tucks and gathers, pink ribbons stitched around the bodice, and white embroidered flowers on the collar and hem. Mama Reinhardt had made it.

Along with the dress was a pair of scuffed white Mary Jane shoes for a baby.

Leota held the items of clothing in her lap and wept.