by Sue Grafton
The woman who answered the door was in her thirties and had a gaudy look about her—bright red lipstick, dark red hair. Her skin was pale, as though she seldom exerted herself and never went outdoors. She was definitely not a California type, especially with those eyebrows plucked to thin arches and darkened with pencil. She wore black boots and a narrow black wool skirt that hit her midcalf. Neither the shape nor the length was flattering, but Solana knew it was the current rage, as were the dark red nails. The woman probably thought she had an eye for high fashion, which wasn’t the case. She’d picked up the “look” from the latest magazines. Everything she wore would be dated and out of style before the new year rolled around. Solana smiled to herself. Anyone who had so little self-awareness would be easy to manipulate.
She held the paper up, folded so that the ad was in view. “I believe you placed an ad in the paper.”
“I did. Oh, how nice. I was beginning to think no one would ever respond. I’m Melanie Oberlin,” she said, and extended her hand. Solana might as well have been a fly-fisherman, casting out her line.
“Solana Rojas,” she replied, and shook Melanie’s hand, making sure her grip was strong. The articles she’d read all said the same thing. Keep the handshake firm and look your prospective employer in the eye. These were tips Solana committed to memory.
The woman said, “Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
Solana stepped into the living room, taking in the whole of it without any visible evidence of curiosity or dismay. The house smelled sour. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige, shabby and stained, and the upholstered furniture was covered in a dark brown crepey fabric she knew would be gummy to the touch. The lamp shades were tinted a deep parchment color by the infusion of large quantities of cigarette smoke over a long period of time. She knew if she put her nose against the drapes, she’d inhale decades’ worth of secondhand tar and nicotine.
“Shall we sit down?”
Solana took a seat on the sofa.
This was a place where a man had lived alone for many years, indifferent to his surroundings. A superficial order had been imposed, probably quite recently, but the rooms would have to be gutted to eliminate the many layers of grime. She knew, sight unseen, that the kitchen linoleum would be a dead gray and the aged refrigerator would be small and hunched. The interior light would be out and the shelves would be crusty with years of accumulated food spills.
Melanie looked around, seeing the place through her visitor’s eyes. “I’ve been trying to tidy up since I got into town. The house belongs to my uncle Gus. He’s the one who fell and dislocated his shoulder.”
Solana loved her apologetic tone because it signified anxiety and a desire to please. “And your aunt is where?”
“She died in 1964. They had one son who was killed in World War Two and a daughter who died in a traffic accident.”
“So much sadness,” Solana said. “I have an uncle in much the same situation. He’s eighty-six and living in isolation after the loss of his wife. I’ve spent many weekends with him, cleaning, running errands, and preparing food for the coming week. I think it’s the company he enjoys more than anything.”
“Exactly,” Melanie said. “Uncle Gus seems grumpy, but I’ve noticed how his mood improves with company. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, no. I had two cups this morning and that’s my limit.”
“I wish I could say the same. I must go through ten cups a day. In the city, we think of it as the addiction of choice. Are you a native of California?”
“Fourth generation,” Solana said, amused at the roundabout way the woman had come up with to ask if she was Mexican. She hadn’t actually said she was, but she knew Melanie Oberlin would imagine a once wealthy Spanish family. Solana said, “You yourself have an accent, no?”
“Boston.”
“I thought so. And this is ‘the city’ you referred to?”
Melanie shook her head in the negative. “New York.”
“How did you hear of your uncle’s unfortunate accident? Is there another family member here in town?”
“I’m sorry to say there’s not. One of the neighbors called. I flew out expecting to stay a few days, but it’s been a week and a half.”
“You came all the way from New York? That was very good of you.”
“Well, I didn’t have much choice,” Melanie said. Her smile was self-deprecating, but it was clear she agreed.
“Family loyalty is so very rare these days. Or that’s my observation. I hope you’ll forgive the generalization.”
“No, no. You’re right. It’s a very sad commentary on the times,” she said.
“It’s unfortunate there was no one else living close enough to help.”
“I come from a very small family and everyone else is gone.”
“I’m the youngest of nine. But no matter. You must be anxious to get home.”
“‘Frantic’ is a better word. I’ve been dealing with a couple of home health care agencies, trying to get someone on board. So far, we haven’t been able to make anything work.”
“It’s not always easy to find someone suitable. Your ad says you’re looking for a registered nurse.”
“Exactly. With my uncle’s medical problems, he needs more than a home companion.”
“To be truthful, I’m not an RN. I’m a licensed vocational nurse. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent my qualifications. I do work with an agency—Senior Health Care Management—but I’m more like an independent contractor than an employee.”
“You’re an LVN? Well, that’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?”
Solana shrugged. “There’s a difference in training and, of course, an RN earns far more than someone of my humble origins. In my own behalf, I will say that most of my experience has been with the elderly. I come from a culture where age and wisdom are accorded respect.”
Solana went on in this vein, inventing as she went along, but she needn’t have bothered. Melanie believed every word she said. She wanted to believe so she could make her escape without feeling guilty or irresponsible. “Does your uncle need around-the-clock care?”
“No, no. Not at all. The doctor’s concerned about his managing on his own during his recovery. Aside from the shoulder injury, he’s been in good health, so we might only need someone for a month or so. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Most of my jobs have been temporary,” she said. “What are the duties you had in mind?”
“The usual, I guess. Bathing and grooming, light housekeeping, a little laundry, and maybe one meal a day. Something along those lines.”
“What about grocery shopping and transportation to his doctor’s appointments? Won’t he need to be seen by his primary care physician?”
Melanie sat back. “I hadn’t thought about that, but it’d be great if you’d be willing.”
“Of course. There are usually other errands as well, at least in my experience. What about the hours?”
“That’s up to you. Whatever you think would work best.”
“And the pay?”
“I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of nine dollars an hour. That’s the standard rate back East. I don’t know about out here.”
Solana covered her surprise. She’d meant to ask for seven fifty, which was already a dollar more than she usually earned. She lifted her brows. “Nine,” she said, infusing the word with infinite regret.
Melanie leaned forward. “I wish I could offer more, but he’ll be paying out of his own pocket and that’s as much as he can afford.”
“I see. Of course, in California, when you’re looking for skilled nursing care, that would be considered low.”
“I know and I’m sorry. We could maybe make it, you know, like nine fifty. Would that work for you?”
Solana considered. “Perhaps I could manage, assuming you’re talking about a straight eight-hour shift, five days a week. If weekends are necessary, my rate would go up to ten
an hour.”
“That’s fine. If it comes down to it, I can contribute a few dollars to help offset the expense. The important thing is that he has the help he needs.”
“Naturally, the patient’s needs are paramount.”
“When would you be able to start? I mean, assuming you’re interested.”
Solana paused. “This is Friday and I do have a few things to take care of. Could we say early next week?”
“Would Monday be at all possible?”
Solana shifted with apparent uneasiness. “Ah. I might be able to rearrange my schedule, but much would depend on you.”
“Me?”
“You have an application you want me to complete?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ve covered the basics, and if something else comes up, we can discuss at the time.”
“I appreciate your confidence, but you should have the information for your files. It’s better for both of us if we put our cards on the table, so to speak.”
“That’s very conscientious. Actually, I do have some forms. Hang on a second.”
She got up and crossed the room to a side table where her handbag was sitting. She took out a folded set of papers. “You need a pen?”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll complete the application at home and bring it over first thing tomorrow morning. That will give you the weekend to verify my references. By Wednesday, you should have everything you need.”
Melanie furrowed her brow. “Couldn’t you go ahead and start work on Monday? I can always make calls from New York when I get home.”
“I suppose I could. It’s really a matter of your peace of mind.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m sure everything’s in order. I feel better just having you here.”
“Your decision.”
“Good. Why don’t I introduce you to Uncle Gus and I can show you around.”
“I’d like that.”
As they moved into the hall, she could see Melanie’s anxiety surface again. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. Uncle Gus hasn’t done much to keep it up. Typical bachelor living. He doesn’t seem to notice all the dust and disrepair.”
“He could be depressed. Elderly gentlemen in particular seem to lose their zest for life. I see it in their lack of personal hygiene, indifference to their surroundings, and limited social contacts. Sometimes there are personality changes as well.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. I should warn you he can be difficult. I mean, really, he’s a sweetheart, but sometimes he gets impatient.”
“Short-tempered, in other words.”
“Right.”
Solana smiled. “I’ve seen it before. Believe me, the shouting and tantrums roll right over me. I don’t take any of it personally.”
“That’s a relief.”
Solana was introduced to Gus Vronsky, in whom she took an avid interest, though she said very little to him. There was no point working to ingratiate herself. Melanie Oberlin was doing the hiring and she’d soon be gone. Whatever the old man was like, foul-mouthed or disagreeable, Solana would have him to herself. There’d be plenty of time for the two of them to sort themselves out.
That Friday afternoon, she sat at the round Formica table that served as her desk in the dining area of her small apartment. Her kitchen was cramped, with scarcely enough counter space to prepare a meal. She had an apartment-sized refrigerator, a four-burner stove that looked as inadequate as a toy, a sink, and cheap wall-mounted cabinets. She paid bills from this table, which was usually covered with paperwork and therefore useless for eating purposes. She and her son ate sitting in front of the television set, resting their plates on the coffee table.
She had the Vronsky job application in front of her. Close by she had the copy of the application she’d taken from the Other’s personnel file. Fifteen feet away, the television thundered, but Solana scarcely noticed. The living room was actually the long part of the L-shaped combination living-dining room with no discernible difference between the two. Tiny, her Tonto, was sprawled in his recliner, his feet elevated, his eyes fixed on the set. He was hard of hearing, and he usually had the volume turned up to levels that made her wince and encouraged her close neighbors to pound on the walls. After he dropped out of school, the only work he could find was as a bagger at a nearby supermarket. That didn’t last long. He thought the job was beneath him and he quit six months later. He was then hired by a landscape company to mow lawns and clip hedges. He complained about the heat and swore he was allergic to grass and tree pollens. Often he went to work late or he called in sick. When he did show up, if he wasn’t properly supervised, he’d leave when it suited him. He quit or was fired, depending on who was telling the tale. After that he made a few attempts to find work, but the job interviews came to nothing. Because of his difficulties making himself understood, he was often frustrated, lashing out at random. Eventually he stopped making any effort at all.
In some ways, she found it easier to have him at home. He’d never had a driver’s license so when he was employed it was up to her to take him into work and pick him up afterward. With the shifts she worked at the convalescent home, this presented a problem.
At the moment, he had a beer balanced on the arm of the chair and an open bag of potato chips resting against his thigh like a faithful hound. He munched while he watched his favorite program, a game show with lots of sound effects and lights. He liked to call out the answers to questions in that strange voice of his. He didn’t seem embarrassed that all his answers were wrong. What difference did it make? He enjoyed participating. In the mornings he watched soap operas, and later in the afternoon, he watched cartoon shows or old movies.
Solana studied the Other’s employment history with a familiar feeling of envy, mixed with a certain degree of pride since she was now claiming the résumé as her own. The letters of reference talked about how reliable and responsible she was, and Solana felt the attributes exactly described the sort of person she was. The only problem she could see was an eighteen-month gap, during which the Other was out on medical leave. She knew the details because the subject had been much discussed at work. The Other had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d subsequently undergone a lumpectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiation.
Solana had no intention of incorporating that information in the application. She was superstitious about disease and didn’t want anyone to think she’d suffered from something so embarrassing. Breast cancer? My god. She didn’t need the pity or the fawning concern. In addition, she worried about a prospective employer voicing curiosity. If she included the talk of cancer, someone might inquire about her symptoms, or the nature of the drugs they’d used, or what the doctors had told her about her chances of recurrence. She’d never had cancer in her life. No one in her immediate family had ever had cancer, either. In her mind, having cancer was as shameful as being an alcoholic. Also, she was worried that if she wrote it down, the disease might actually manifest itself.
But how could she explain that interval when the real Solana—the Other—had been off work? She decided she’d substitute a position she herself had held right around that time. She’d worked as a companion for an old lady named Henrietta Sparrow. The woman was now dead so no one could call her to ask for a letter of reference. Henrietta was beyond complaining now (as she had at the time) that she was mistreated. All of that had gone to the grave with her.
Solana consulted a calendar and wrote the start and end dates for the job along with a brief description of the chores she’d been responsible for. She wrote in neat block letters, not wanting a sample of her handwriting to appear anywhere. When the application was completed, Solana joined her son in front of the TV set. She was satisfied with herself and decided to celebrate by ordering three large pepperoni pizzas. If it turned out Gus Vronsky didn’t have two nickels to rub together, she could always quit. She looked forward to Melanie Oberlin’s departure, and the sooner the better.
11
The following Monday, I stopped by my apartment at lunchtime, hoping to avoid the temptation of fast food. I heated a can of soup, of the do-not-add-water type, that I knew had enough sodium to approximate my swallowing a tablespoon of salt. I was washing up afterward when Melanie knocked on my door. Her black cashmere coat was form-fitting and long enough to bisect her black leather boots. She’d folded a wide black-and-red paisley shawl into a voluminous triangle and secured it across her shoulders. How did she have the confidence to carry it off? If I tried it, I’d look like I’d inadvertently walked through a clothesline and gotten tangled in a sheet.
I opened the door and stepped aside, letting her in. “Hi, how’s it going?”
She breezed by me and sat down on the couch, extending her legs in a gesture of collapse. “Don’t even ask. The man is driving me insane. I saw you parking your car and thought I’d catch you before you went out again. Is this a bad time? Please tell me it’s fine or else I’ll have to kill myself.”
“It’s fine. What’s going on?”
“I’m just being dramatic. He’s no better or worse than he’s always been. Anyway, I can’t stay long. I have a gal who started work this morning, which is what I want to talk to you about.”