Chapter 7
“Where did you say Anne was?” Nora’s hand gripped the phone tightly, her face going hot.
“She’s gone to visit with her grandmother in Oakland,” Susan repeated.
The adrenaline of anger pumped through Nora’s veins. Her daughter wouldn’t do this to her. She couldn’t. Susan Carter was lying. She had to be. Anne-Lynn wouldn’t dare betray her like this.
“Mrs. Gaines?”
“You must have misunderstood, Susan.”
“Leota Reinhardt. Isn’t that her grandmother’s name?”
Nora’s heart pounded.
“Would you like to leave a message, Mrs. Gaines?”
“Did Anne-Lynn say what time she would return?” Her hand gripped the phone so hard her fingers hurt. She had no intention of leaving a message with Susan Carter. It was sure to be forgotten or given incorrectly.
“Later this afternoon.”
“Could you be more specific, Susan?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I can’t.” She sounded anything but sorry. “But I can tell you Annie and I are both on the same schedule at the restaurant this week. I’m sure she will be home in time to get ready for work.”
Nora fumed. How dare the cheap little no-account call some hole-in-the-wall flat Annie’s home. Nora could hear someone talking in the background! “You have a male visitor.” Some hooligan, probably on drugs. Any self-respecting man would be working at this time of day. Or going to college.
“There’s no one in my apartment, Mrs. Gaines. I’m all by myself.”
“You needn’t lie, Susan. I can hear him.”
“What if I told you he wasn’t a man?”
“A television, I assume.”
“We don’t own one.”
Cheeky girl. Nora had never liked her. She liked her even less now that her daughter was living with her. She could just imagine the sort of influence Susan Carter was going to be on Anne. The man continued talking in the background, and what he said raised the hair on the back of Nora’s neck. “What’s he telling you? To call the police? What’s going on, Susan?”
“Oh, nothing much. He’s talking about another mugging, I suppose,” Susan said with airy indifference.
“He’s telling you to dial 911!”
“Good old Barnaby. Always the one to overreact.”
“I knew there’d be trouble if my daughter lived with you.”
“I’ll tell Annie you called, Mrs. Gaines.”
The sharp click in her ear made Nora wince. Furious, Nora grabbed her personal directory, slapped through the pages until she found the number she needed, and punched it in. The telephone rang four times before she heard an answering machine message. “This is the Carters’ residence.” The calm, sweet voice made Nora feel she was listening to fingernails raking down a blackboard. “We’re sorry, but we can’t come to the telephone right now. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
“This is Nora Gaines. I suggest you look into what’s going on in your daughter’s apartment before she gets arrested for indecent behavior! One of the men she’s entertaining was screaming for 911 when I called.” She slammed the telephone down and stood up. She was so angry she was shaking.
How could Anne-Lynn do this to her? Nora was meeting two friends for lunch in half an hour. What was she going to say to them? If she didn’t have her emotions under control by then, they’d be like sharks in bloody water. They’d want to know what was wrong. They would want to know what had happened to make her so upset. What could she tell them? That her perfect daughter had run away? That Anne-Lynn, with her straight A’s and sky-high SAT scores, had thrown away the opportunity to go to a prestigious eastern college? That Anne-Lynn preferred living in some cheap little dump with some cheap little tramp in San Francisco rather than live another day in Blackhawk with her own mother?
“Stupid! She’s stupid!” Nora went into the kitchen, opening and slamming cupboards as she took down the coffee grinder, a cup, and some sugar. Her heart pounded hard and fast as she stuffed a filter into the coffeemaker. Beans scattered as she poured them too quickly into the grinder. She shook the machine as it hummed. Taking the top off, she poured the grounds carelessly, spilling half over the sides of the filter and some onto the tile counter. Cursing, she hurled the basket into the sink, leaving a trail of grounds across the floor in its wake. The maid was coming this afternoon. Let her clean up the mess!
She didn’t want coffee anyway—and she certainly didn’t need it when her heart felt as though it would burst any second. One cup of coffee and the caffeine would push her over the edge into a heart attack.
And it’ll be your fault, Anne-Lynn Gardner. All your fault. You’ll be sorry for hurting me like this. You’ll come to the hospital and stand by my bed and hold my hand and beg me to forgive you. You’ll say, “I’m sorry, Mother. You were right. I should’ve gone to Wellesley. I should’ve listened to you.” Nora uttered a ragged sob and bit her lower lip.
She deserts me and goes to visit my mother!
Nora itched to grab her car keys and drive to Oakland. She wanted to tell her daughter what she thought and how she felt. The hot words were already bubbling, the steam building. Oh, the sacrifices she had made. And did Anne even appreciate them? No! It was bad enough that Anne refused to go to college. It was bad enough that she had run out on all of the wonderful, painstaking plans made for her. It was bad enough that she had gone off to live like some bohemian in the city. But this . . .
“She’s gone to visit with her grandmother in Oakland.”
It was nothing short of betrayal.
Annie drove across the Bay Bridge, the portfolio of Great-Aunt Joyce’s work on the seat beside her. Grandma Leota had insisted she take it. “It’s been up in the attic all these years, dear. You take it home with you. It’s part of your heritage. Maybe looking at those pictures will encourage you with your art.”
And she had given her a thin box that contained an exquisite hand-embroidered handkerchief with lace edging. “Your great-grandmother made it. She sold things like that. She wasn’t able to do anything else because of her poor health. Just hankies and embroidered pillowcases and the like. She made crocheted lace, but I don’t have any of that left to show you. She’d send me down to a fancy millinery shop a few blocks from where we lived and have me sell it to the lady there. I can remember my mother sitting by the front window where the sunlight would spill in on her. All day she would sit there and do needlework.”
Annie had never seen such beautiful work and said so. Her grandmother had been so pleased. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? I knew you’d appreciate it.”
It would look wonderful pinned to black velvet and put in an antique frame. The next time she went down to the art supply store on Market, she would buy what she needed.
When she entered the flat, Barnaby let out a screech. “Call 911! Call 911!”
“Oh, hush, you dumb bird!” Susan said from the bathroom, where she was brushing her hair. “You’ve gotten us into enough trouble today!”
“What happened?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Annie laughed. “That bad?”
“Worse than bad. Catastrophic.” She stuck her head out the door. “But there’s no time to tell you about it now. We have to leave for work in fifteen minutes. Are you going to have something to eat?”
“I took Chinese to my grandmother’s.” She added some bits of fruit to Barnaby’s bowl. “Here you go, my fine, feathered friend.”
“Polly wants a cracker.”
“Dumb bird,” Susan said, coming out of the bathroom. “Your name is Barnaby, and you don’t eat crackers!”
“Tough,” Susan said. “Fruit it is, buddy.”
“Call 911!”
Annie laughed and headed for the bathroom to change her clothes, while Susan stood glaring at the rainbow lory. “What is it with this bird?” Susan said. “It’s getting so I say anything and he’s calling for the police.”
“He doesn’t think you like him.”
“Oh, now, where would he get an idea like that?” Susan glowered at the bird pacing back and forth on his perch.
“Call the cops! Murder she wrote.”
“Maybe we should put a hood on him when the telephone rings. You know, the kind they put on a falcon. That might shut him up.”
“911!”
“If you were a dog, Barnaby, I’d have you in a choke collar so fast your head would spin!”
“Polly wants a cracker!”
“Starve, you mangy buzzard!”
“She doesn’t mean it, Barnaby,” Annie crooned, coming out of the bathroom in her straight, black skirt and white blouse. She’d brushed her hair quickly and was doing a French braid. “I’ll be ready in just a minute, Suzie.” She came over and stood near the bird as she finished her hair. “You’re a pretty bird, Barnaby. A very pretty bird.”
“You might not think so after I tell you what he did today. Your mother called.”
Annie turned and looked at her. The rueful look on her friend’s face was warning enough. “What happened?” she asked as they left the apartment.
“She heard Barnaby calling for the police. So she called my mother, and my mother called me. She wanted to know if it was true I was about to be arrested.”
“Oh, Suzie.” Annie closed her eyes.
Susan laughed. “Still think Barnaby’s a pretty bird? Want to go back in and wring his neck?”
“I’m sorry.” She was always apologizing to someone about something her mother said.
“Why’re you apologizing? You’re always doing that, Annie. It’s not your fault.” She came down the stairs.
“What did you tell your mother?”
She shrugged. “I told her we were throwing beer busts and orgies and running track lighting so we can grow pot in our living room. What else?”
“You didn’t!” Annie went cold inside at the thought of what her mother would make of such a statement.
Susan laughed. “Of course, I did. She knows me better than that, Annie. She didn’t believe me for a second. In fact, she laughed. Especially when I told her about our bird.” Her smile turned rueful. “A pity your mother doesn’t know us as well.”
The mailman came shortly after Annie left. Leota opened the door and reached out, pulling the sparse bundle from the metal box mounted on her wall. She closed the door and locked it again.
Well, well. She had won one million dollars from some publishing clearinghouse, and they were sending it to her bulk mail. What did they think? She was born yesterday? She walked into the kitchen as she sifted through the rest of the mail. A mailer advertised carpet cleaning. Forty-nine dollars to shampoo the rugs in two rooms. Highway robbery. She’d rented a machine five years ago for less than ten dollars and done the whole house.
Of course, it had been days before the rugs were completely dry, and the work had almost killed her.
She looked at the gray rug. Was it five years? Maybe it was longer than that. Six? Seven? Too long.
On the other side of the advertisement for carpet cleaning was a notice about a missing girl. Stranger abduction. Missing since December 15. Not a day went by that Leota didn’t find one of these depressing notices in her mailbox. What was happening to the world that so many children were missing?
Two envelopes were from charities, undoubtedly looking for donations. One of them was from the organization that had sent Corban Solsek. She should have known she would end up on their mailing list. Maybe she’d send them a check for ten dollars, rent that rug-cleaning machine at the grocery store again, and have Corban Solsek shampoo carpets for her. Oh, wouldn’t he greet that idea with a happy smile. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. She would suggest it the next time he came just to see the look on his face.
If he came back . . .
Dumping most of the mail into the recycling bin, she tore open her bank statement and sat down at the kitchen table to study it. Everything looked in order. Social Security had deposited her monthly check. A dividend had been added. Twice a year, enough to pay taxes, plus some. She was saving in case the house needed repairs. But not this year. She wrote so few checks, balancing the statement was always easy. She was even making interest, enough to buy stamps to send in the few bills she had. Utilities. Water. Telephone. Fire and theft insurance.
Pushing the statement aside, she gazed out at the garden again. Time would tell if Annie had been serious about bringing the garden back to the way it was. Whatever happened, it had been a sweet thought, sweet enough to spark something inside Leota for the first time in a long time. Her mouth curved.
“And there isn’t much spark left in this old gal, Lord.” But what a day. Perfect, in fact. Annie’s wonderful, isn’t she, Lord? It makes me feel good knowing a little of my blood runs in her veins.
The telephone rang. Who would be calling her this time of day? Annie, perhaps, just to let her know she had arrived home safely. Leota made it to the telephone by the seventh ring.
“Mother, is Anne-Lynn with you?”
Leota blinked. “Eleanor?” When was the last time she had called?
“Nora, Mother. Remember? Nora. I hate the name Eleanor. That’s why I never use it.” She huffed as though striving for calm. “I’m calling for Anne-Lynn. Is she there?”
“No. She isn’t here.” Leota tried to push down the hurt feelings that rose again. Her daughter had never understood, never even tried . . .
“Was she there this afternoon?” Eleanor spoke as though talking to a small child.
“Yes. She left over an hour ago. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I can’t take care of.”
“How have you been, dear? It’s been a long time since—”
“Just hunky-dory.” Eleanor’s tone was filled with mockery. Her anger radiated through the telephone lines. “I’ve been busy, very busy.”
“You’ve raised a wonderful daughter. You should be—”
“I can imagine what you two talked about today.”
Anger rose through the pain. “No, I don’t think you can.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mother, but I don’t have time to talk with you right now. I need to talk with my daughter.”
Leota had no doubt in her mind what that meant. “Try not to say anything you’ll regret, Eleanor.”
Her daughter hung up.
Leota put the receiver back slowly and sat down in her recliner. She should have held her tongue. Eleanor never would listen to anything she had to say. Why had she even made the attempt? She put her head back and closed her eyes, all the joy from the day with Annie dissipating.
I didn’t need that, Lord. I didn’t need that one bit.
Corban thought about Leota Reinhardt’s question for several days. In fact, he couldn’t get it out of his head. Why did he want the elderly singled out and settled in one area? He thought of all kinds of practical reasons. Medical care would be more readily available. More services at lower costs could be provided. He couldn’t think of one negative about his idea for facilities financed by private money and assisted by government funding. What had she seen in it that he was missing? Why had she made that crack about Professor Webster? Why should anyone be horrified by his ideas? They were sound. They were compassionate.
She abhorred the ideas he had presented. Why?
He obsessed about it so much, he finally called Leota Reinhardt and told her yes, he’d like to come by on Wednesday to talk with her again. She sounded surprised to hear from him and said he could come as long as he would walk with her to the bank. “They open at nine. Come early.”
“All right.” He was unable to keep the annoyance from his tone. He’d been hoping to sit down, talk for an hour or so, and leave. Now, it seemed he would be making another trek to Dimond.
“I think we can walk and talk at the same time, Mr. Solsek. Be here at ten. Anytime after that and I’ll already be on my way.”
The next morning, he rang her doorbell at nine thirty sharp, sure that if he got there any later, she’d have left just to irritate him.
“Good morning,” she said, letting him in. “You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
He knew how he looked. He had been so bleary-eyed this morning, he’d nicked himself while shaving. “I was up late working.”
“On your paper?”
“No. Another class. Philosophy.”
She smiled sardonically. “It’s that interesting, is it?”
“After one in the morning, it’s a little hard to make any sense out of anything.” Everything about this old woman made him feel he had to defend himself.
“Are you a slow reader?”
“No, I’m not a slow reader. You try getting through two hundred pages of reading in a night.” He saw the flicker in her eyes.
“It was a simple question, Mr. Solsek, not an accusation.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound insolent.”
She gave a cool laugh and headed into her kitchen. Stifling his annoyance, Corban followed. Standing in the doorway, he watched her turn the knob on the stove. There was a click as the flame caught on the front burner.
“Read enough and you’ll learn there’s nothing new under the sun,” she said and set a kettle firmly upon the burner. “Take a seat, Mr. Solsek. Would you like coffee or tea?”
Something about the way she said Mr. Solsek made him uncomfortable. He wanted to start over. He wanted to like her and have her like him. And he knew he was making a mess of everything. “Why don’t you call me Corban, Mrs. Reinhardt?”
She looked at him then, studying him briefly. “Corban, it will be. Coffee or tea?”
Was she mocking him again? “Coffee. Please.”
“Plain or fancy?”
He almost rolled his eyes. What was going on here? He felt like a turkey facing Thanksgiving. “Are you having any?”
“I’m not the one who needs to wake up.”
“I’m awake.”
“Barely. Sit. You haven’t eaten, either, have you?”
“No.” He never ate breakfast. He guzzled black coffee and went to classes. He never ate until afternoon.
“I think I might even have a sweet roll left for you.”
Suspicious, he watched her bustle around her small kitchen, taking a mug from the cabinet, then a brown bag from a breadbox. She wanted something from him, that was for sure—something more than a walk to the bank.
“So,” she said, pouring hot water into a mug. “Did you come up with an answer to my question yet?” She spooned in instant double-chocolate mocha.
“No.”
“Have you been thinking about it?” she said, setting the cup in front of him.
Corban stared down at it grimly, the aroma of the steaming chocolate-coffee combination assaulting his senses. He remembered how she had complained about the cost. He didn’t dare tell her now that he hated sweetened coffee. He always made his strong and black. During finals, he lived on Mad Maxes: three shots of espresso in a cup of black coffee.
Shuddering inwardly, Corban turned the cup between his hands, determined not to blow this interview no matter what he had to swallow. “I’ve been thinking about your question. In fact, I’ve been thinking about little else.”
“That’s good.” She eased herself into the chair opposite him. Folding her hands on her newspaper, she waited.
He sipped the coffee and tried not to grimace. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just spell out your objections to what I proposed, Mrs. Reinhardt. It’d make it easier.”
“Easier, perhaps, but it wouldn’t sink in as deeply.”
“That’s just it. I don’t know what you want to sink in.”
She was silent for a long moment, looking at him. He could almost see her wheels turning. There was such sadness in her eyes, Corban felt uncomfortable. He had disappointed her in some way, and he couldn’t stop the twinge of conscience.
“I want to help people like you, Mrs. Reinhardt.” He meant it.
“Corban, I’ll put it simply. What begins in mercy can end in destruction. I have objections, but some of them I can’t put to words. It’s a—” she thought for a moment again, frowning—“a sense of impending doom.”
He should’ve been insulted, but something in the way she said it made him pause. “Maybe you just don’t understand what I want to do.”
“Corban, you think you’re blazing a new trail, but you’re just going down the same worn path. Where do you think it’ll end up?”
“Better off than we are now. There are already facilities similar to what I’m writing about, but they’re all privately funded. People have to be loaded to get into them. You’d have to come up with one to two hundred thousand dollars just to get in the door of some of these places. Once you’ve signed, you’d have complete care until you died. What I’m trying to work out is a program for people who’ve worked all their lives but don’t have a big estate to show for it.”
She shook her head sadly. “You don’t see it, do you? The dangers. Maybe you haven’t got it in you to see what I do.” Her eyes looked moist and troubled. “Then again, I’ve probably overstated my concerns. I’m just an old woman. What do I know?”
He felt the subtle rebuke, but before he could comment, she went on. “Let’s leave it alone awhile, shall we? Let the idea perk. After a while, you’ll get the real taste of it.” She looked down at his cup. “You don’t like the coffee?”
Corban thought about lying but knew he’d have to finish the whole cup if he did. He still had the cloying aftertaste of the first sip. “I’m sorry, but it’s a little too sweet for me.” Seeing her mouth tighten, he added, “I’ll buy you another tin of it.” He hoped that would stave off any complaints about how much she had spent on the stuff.
She took the cup and poured the contents into the sink. “Thank you, but I think the tin I bought will be around long after I’m gone.” She rinsed the mug and set it upside down on a towel on the sink board. “I’ll get my sweater and we can go to the bank.” She sounded as though she were marshaling her troops. She went into the front room.
On the way down the hill, her hand tightened on his arm. Corban could tell the walk to the market and bank was not an easy one for her. He couldn’t understand her stubborn refusal to ride in comfort. “Why won’t you let me drive you, Mrs. Reinhardt?” He spoke gently, remembering the last time and how tired she had been. Worn out, in fact.
She kept walking, looking straight ahead again. “This is the only time I get outside anymore. I used to walk all the way around Lake Merritt on my lunch hour, and now my world has narrowed down to the few blocks between my home and the market.” She glanced up at him. “Would you have my world narrowed even more?”
He knew where she was going with that question and was gratified the subject wasn’t closed. “The facilities wouldn’t have to narrow your life. There would be activities.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Why should it?”
“Well, you tell me. What sort of activities do you have in mind for us old folks? Maybe I’ll change my mind about where this idea of yours is heading.”
He dove in, hoping to sway her. “Arts and crafts?”
“Oh.” Leota Reinhardt said nothing more.
They turned the corner and walked a block, then stood at the stoplight, waiting for the pedestrian sign to go on. He held his silence all the way across the street, down another block, under the freeway overpass, and to the next light before he surrendered, knowing she wouldn’t say anything until he pressed. “I take it you don’t like that idea.”
“Oh, I suppose it would depend on the arts and crafts. Were you thinking about gluing Popsicle sticks together and making birdcages? Things like that?”
Kindergarten stuff? “Not exactly.” What exactly? He hadn’t thought about it.
“Paint by numbers, perhaps? That’s real challenging.”
“Okay,” he said dismally, “I haven’t thought about all that in detail. Would you like to make a few suggestions?”
“How about a class on how to work a computer?”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “A computer? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Why? You don’t think someone my age could learn?”
“Maybe. But why would you want to?”
“That’s the sort of question they ask someone intent on climbing Mount Everest. Because it’s there. Why else?”
“It’d drive you nuts.”
“Push me over the edge into complete senility, hmm? Is that what it does to you?”
He grinned. “On occasion.”
“You have the idea locked in your head that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. What if the old dog wanted to learn?”
He had the feeling she was baiting him. “I suppose you could learn the elementary stuff. A class could be pared down to the bare basics.”
“Meaning what? I’d be dead before I could figure out any more than that?”
Was she determined to tick him off? “I didn’t say that.”
“You think it would be better to offer classes that require no thinking, is that it? What do they call them these days? No-brainers? Something that won’t challenge us poor old folks too much. God forbid—we couldn’t take anything too mentally challenging. Put us under any kind of stress, and poof, we’ll croak. And then who’s responsible?”
She was warming to the subject, he thought grimly. She wasn’t walking anymore. She was marching, and dragging him along with her. Cantankerous old broad! He groped for reason.
“Why would you want to learn how to use a computer?”
“I didn’t say I would.”
“You just suggested it!”
“I was thinking out loud. I suppose you don’t do that sort of thing.”
“I talk to myself on occasion.” Especially after a visit with her! “Fine. Computer classes. Why not?”
“Consider it preventive medicine.” She slowed down. “I’ve read articles that say maintaining an active mind could ward off Alzheimer’s.”
“Are you worried about developing that?”
She glowered up at him. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
He had no doubt this old lady was of sound mind. Right now, at least. “Did the articles suggest what kind of activities?”
“Games like chess. Learning a foreign language. Putting complex puzzles together. Studying music. That sort of thing.”
“Do you do any of those things?”
“Well, I don’t play chess. You need two people for that.” She looked up at him. “Do you play?”
“No. It never appealed to me.”
“A pity. Music is out. I don’t have a piano. A foreign language might be something, but I can’t get very excited about that. It’s one thing to learn French if you’re planning on going to France. Since I’m not going anywhere, it seems a sorry waste of time. Ebonics, perhaps. That would make more sense.”
He laughed, imagining this little, old lady learning to speak street lingo.
“Or I could just stick to what I do,” she went on. “Work crossword puzzles. Read the newspaper. Read my Bible.”
“I noticed you have a lot of books around.”
“They belonged to my husband. I never had much time for reading.”
He sensed an undercurrent and decided to go with it. “Why not?” Maybe he would get some family history.
“I preferred spending what spare time I had in my garden.” She glanced up at him again. “I don’t imagine there’d be much gardening in one of those facilities of yours, would there? Potted plants only. Did you know that plants grown in hothouses have barely any scent at all? Might as well have one of those silk things that fade in the sunlight.”
He sighed inwardly. He was beginning to understand that Leota Reinhardt’s mind didn’t wander. It was fixed, steady as you go. “I think I get your point.” The only way anyone would get Leota Reinhardt into the kind of facility he thought would be the wave of the future would be doped and tied, gagged and dragged.
Shaking his head, he opened the door of the bank for her and followed her inside. Why was she so set in her thinking? Why did she find his ideas so repugnant? She’d already made it clear she wasn’t going to spell it out for him. She wanted him to “get the real taste of it” for himself.
He felt as though he’d just been enrolled in kindergarten and was learning by tactile experiences.
He needed to figure out what she was thinking. He needed to see from her perspective. The only way he was going to get what he needed from her was by spending more time with her. Oddly enough, his decision didn’t fill him with the grim despair he knew he would’ve felt a week ago. The more time he spent with her, the more he wondered what she was thinking. And why she was thinking it.
Leota Reinhardt was turning into an interesting challenge.