Rich Homeless Broken But Beautiful

by Ian Tremblay

  The woman chatted for another forty-five minutes, mostly about Lucille's former employers and what her responsibilities would be and how she would organize things. When they were done, Linda stood up and asked, "Maybe I could walk you around the house now and show you where everything is?"

  "Yes, that would be fine. Thank you, Miss Staunton."

  "Please, call me Linda."

  It took only two days for Lucille Culiver to take control of the house. She was a workhorse and a master of organization. Everything, be it deliveries, meals, maintenance, or cleaning, everything came under her watchful ears, eyes, and control. Nothing escaped her, and she made no mistakes. The house became her territory, and she guarded it with an absolute ferocity. Linda and Charles were impressed by her efficiency and aplomb. Charles quickly became very fond of her, and Linda suspected that he had more than professional admiration for the severe yet attractive Miss Culiver, who, like him, was single, well educated, and loved the arts. She spent her evenings reading. It was her passion, especially art history, Charles's favorite subject.

  So, life organized itself in a pleasant and comfortable way. After all those years on the road, Linda was happy to be able to settle down and to have a place that she could call home and a place that was close to her mother's spirit. Every week she went to the cemetery to lay flowers on her mother's grave. It was a ritual she never missed, no matter what the weather was, like clockwork, on the same day and at the same time. She was there for about an hour while Charles waited in the car.

  Linda kept busy doing little things about the house, but her favorite occupation was taking care of her flower garden. She loved being around her flowers. They filled her with serenity and joy. For her they incarnated life itself, in all its fragility and splendor. Her gardener, Miguel, an immigrant and father of five, came three times a week to tend to her flowers, trees, and lawn. Linda loved to spend time with him. He had a tough, strong feel about him, but in an earthy, grounded kind of way. Miguel loved two things-his family and flowers. He talked to them and cajoled them with his rough, calloused hands, tending to them patiently and giving them what they needed, so that they could explode with the beauty inherent to their genes. He and Linda spent a lot of time outside on the grounds of the mansion, talking about his family or the flowers that they loved. Linda felt good around him; it was as if his sturdy proximity filled her with a sense of security and of belonging, instilling a calmness inside of her, the like of which she had not felt for a long time.

  There was only one thing that prevented her from being perfectly happy, and that was her extreme loneliness. It never left her; it was embedded in her being and tore at her insides, constantly haunting her. A lot of nights she would cry herself to sleep; she desperately missed the warmth and the tenderness of another human being, the magic of being close to someone, to touch, to kiss, and to caress, to hold and to belong to. It was her condemnation and her cross to bear and would be, she believed, until the day she died. "It's so bloody unfair," she kept repeating to herself, "so bloody unfair, to have so much love to give and no one to give it to." At night she would often stand alone on her balcony imploring the heavens. "You God, or whoever or whatever is out there, I know my body is deformed and repulsive, but my soul is more beautiful now than my body has ever been. Why do I have no one to share this with, why?" Of course, there were never any answers that came from the heavens, and the only living things beside her family that Linda could shower her love upon were her three cats and two dogs. She called them her "little rays of sunshine" and spent endless hours petting them and caring for them. There was nothing however, that could assuage the profound forlornness that inhabited her heart.

  Although Linda did not travel the country anymore, she kept in touch with all of her former haunts. She sent donations every year to every shelter or mission she had been to. It was her way of staying in contact with all the friends she had made among the homeless and the dispossessed. Although she was not in their midst, she thought of them often-the other people, the ones who had accepted her as she was and had not judged her on her appearance. They were the only people to whom she had revealed herself completely, and she had been one of them. She missed them dearly; her friends and acquaintances, and she missed spending times with them. It was a strong emotion when it came to her, and it pulled her in the direction of hitting the road again, but then something beautifully domestic would happen, and she would forget her broodings and return to her tranquil daily preoccupations.

  One morning, Linda was in her room lounging in bed with her cats when Lucille knocked. Linda veiled herself and called out, "Come in." Lucille stepped into the room.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, miss, but there's a man at the door who wants to speak to you." She seemed ill at ease, unsure of herself, and that was definitely not in her character.

  "Well, who is he, Lucille?"

  Hesitantly, she replied, "He says he's your father." Lucille had a troubled look on her face, and her pale skin seemed paler than usual.

  Linda sat motionless and speechless for what seemed like a long time, and then in a very calm voice she said, "Oh really, wow! Well okay, then, Lucille, bring him in the living room. I'll be down shortly." Linda's tone was firm and decisive, even though the thought of meeting her father after all those years scared her half to death.

  "Fine," the firmness of her persona had returned in Lucille's voice, and she left the room. Although Linda had wanted to sound reassuring in front of Lucille, the truth was quite the contrary, and she began to shake like a leaf and felt nauseous. She had a sudden urge to vomit and rushed to the bathroom. When she got back from the bathroom, she slowly began to get dressed, still feeling a bit shaken.

  "My father, my father," she kept repeating in her head. "Can you believe that? Can you believe the audacity he has, of showing up here?" Linda was stunned and incredulous. She kept shaking her head in disbelief, and rage was slowly building up inside of her. She had not seen her father since she was nine years old, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't visualize him. The truth was that she just couldn't remember him. She remembered how she had hated and cursed him when she was young, though, for all the pain and suffering that he had put them through. She remembered that well. It was something that she would never forget.

  When she was ready, she took a deep breath and slowly made her way downstairs toward the living room. Lucille had set it up as she always did when Linda had to meet people. The idea was that the visitors saw as little of her as was necessary. All the shades were drawn, and there were lamps at the three extremities of the room. Lucille would always sit the visitor on a large couch partially lit by one of the nearby lamps, as she had just done; a man was sitting on the sofa. Linda came in from the opposite end of the living room and made her way to a large armchair off to one side, the part of the room that had the least light. She was dressed all in black and veiled; quietly, she put her cane to her side and sat down, comfortable and calm in the semi-darkness. She felt in control now as she looked intensely toward the broad-shouldered man of sixty or so who sat on the sofa across from her. He was partially bald, overweight, and unshaven; his clothes were disheveled and dirty. He was twisting and turning his hands nervously, and sweat was apparent on his forehead. He squinted in Linda's direction when she entered and shuffled his feet about back and forth. Linda did not move, although her heart was beating fast. She felt secure behind her veil; she waited in silence to see what would happen.

  He smiled sheepishly in her direction, bobbing his head from left to right. Roy Staunton was intimidated by the luxurious surroundings and the semi-darkness; he had never been in a house like this before. He decided to break the awkward silence.

  "Hi, Linda, it's good to see you. I guess you don't remember me much, eh?"

  "How could I forget you? You abandoned us when I was nine, remember?" Linda's voice was harsh and filled with bitterness. The sight of him was making her blood boil; she was seething inside and as close as she had e
ver come in her life to actually feeling hatred for someone.

  He had come prepared for her anger and was ready to face it.

  "Look, Linda, I know you probably don't like me and all, but I am your father. I mean, that does mean something, you know."

  "Oh yeah, says who? And you know what else? As far as I'm concerned, you're dead and buried, so don't give me this father bullshit, okay? I'm not buying today." Linda was surprised at the harshness of her own words.

  "Look, Linda, will you just bear with me and hear me out please?" He had raised his voice a bit. Linda had upset him. "I mean, just because you have money doesn't mean you can be miss high and mighty with me, you know." He looked about the room to emphasize his point. Linda did not reply. She was too afraid of her own rage, and he took her silence as his cue to continue speaking.

  "I know you guys had it rough back then, but I've had some rough times too. I mean, I've had to fend for myself out there. I know what it's like. I didn't make out too good neither, you know, doing odd jobs, making just enough money to be able to eat and to have a place to sleep. Being treated like a bum and being cheated by everyone." He was practically whining now, playing the victim, as he had done all his life. "Plus, I've been sick lately, real bad, you know, Linda. I've got diabetes and hypertension too, no insurance and no pension, so things are really tough. I mean, it's been bad before, but never like this. You understand, eh, Linda? You hear what I'm saying, right? I mean, most days I don't even have anything to eat, or money to buy my medicine. It's bloody awful to hit bottom at my age, Linda, bloody awful." He paused and looked in her direction, hoping that he was succeeding in appealing to her compassion and sympathy.

  It suddenly dawned on Linda why he was there; it was not to beg for her forgiveness as she had assumed, or to be reunited with her and her siblings. He wanted money; he had come to beg for money. She was stunned by his shamelessness and gall, and she felt even angrier. He continued, oblivious to the mounting fury building up inside of her.

  "So anyway, when I heard from a buddy of mine that you'd come back here, I decided to come to see you. I mean, we're family, right? So I figured I have to go see her and tell her how bad I'm doing. I'm sure she'll understand. I mean, I can't even work no more, Linda. What's a man to do if he can't work? He can't take care of himself, and he's got no dignity left, no more self-esteem, nothing. I mean, I know what I did back then, running away from your mom and you guys, I know that was wrong, dammed wrong. You think I don't know that? Of course I do. And you know what? I've regretted that every day of my life. Linda, not a day has gone by that I didn't think about you, your mother, and brother and sisters, not one, I swear. God be my witness." He pointed toward the ceiling.

  "I'd have sent money, Linda; I swear I would have, if I could have. I just never got a good day going, even for myself. I mean, I barely survived all those years. I only wished I could have helped you. It broke my heart, all of that, Linda, I swear it did, and many a time I just wanted to finish it all and to end my miserable existence." His voice had become shaky, as if his emotions were getting the better of him. Roy Staunton was a lifetime loser and a manipulator extraordinaire, and today, sensing a big payday, he was going for the jugular.

  "I loved you guys. I loved you more than anything in the world. I swear I did, but I fell on hard times back then. I lost my job, and your mother just kept screaming at me to get it together and I lost it. I mean, I just lost it. I'm sorry, Linda, I'm really sorry." He bent his head forward, looking to the floor. Linda was seething, and the thought that he should blame her mother for anything sent her over the top.

  "How dare you talk about her, you bastard? You're the one who put her in her grave before her time, and you didn't even have the decency to come to her funeral. Don't you ever say anything bad about her again, not in this house and not in my presence, ever, do you hear me?" Linda had raised her voice; she could not help herself. His whining, pathetic presence was an aggression on every single cell of her body. He was taken aback by her tone, and so he decided to change approach. He spoke softly, pleading with her.

  "Okay, Linda, I hear you okay, but look, I loved your mother too, you know. I know you probably don't believe that right now, but she was the woman of my dreams. She was everything to me. I loved her more than anything in the world. But I blacked out. Okay, I panicked, and I bolted, and then later I was too ashamed to come back even though I thought about doing it often. I know I shouldn't have left like that. I know that now, but I did, and I'm very sorry for all the pain and suffering I put you guys through and I will be till the day I die." He lowered his head and put his face into his hands for a moment, as if he were crying. "Do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me, Linda?" He whimpered, "Do you?" He slowly raised his head, and Linda saw that his eyes were dry, and she remained silent.

  "You know I only found out a few years ago about your accident. I cried when I heard about that. I mean, you're still my little girl, Linda, you know. God I wish I could have done something for you. Then recently I heard of your mother's death. It broke my heart, Linda, I swear it did. God I loved that woman. I would have come to the funeral, but I was too ashamed, ashamed of myself and of having to face all of you." He put his face in his hands again and bowed his head again, shaking his shoulders a bit as if in tears. With his head still down, he asked her again.

  "Do you think you can forgive me, Linda? Do you think that you can find it in your heart to forgive me and help me in my old age?" He raised his head, staring across the semi-dark room, trying to see her more clearly, but he could only make out her black, veiled silhouette, immobile and stoic.

  "Is that why you came here, Roy?" Linda used his first name to affirm her command of the situation. "To ask for my forgiveness and for some money? To say you're sorry for what happened, or is it just the money, Roy? What will it be?

  "Well, it's all of that." He was irritated by her tone. "I'm getting old, Linda, and I want to receive your forgiveness before it's too late. It's important to me, Linda. I pray now, you know. God has entered my life, and I go to church every week. I pray for you and for your brother and sisters. I think God would want you to forgive me and to help me, Linda, don't you think so?"

  "I haven't spoken to him recently, Roy, so I don't know what he wants or doesn't want me to do." Linda's sarcasm was acerbic; she was disgusted by the poor excuse of a man who sat in front of her. As far as she was concerned, her father was a loser and a drunk. He always had been and always would be.

  "There you go you're angry. I knew you'd be angry at me. I shouldn't have come; that's why I hesitated for so long. Don't you see? I'm just a broken, sick old man asking for your forgiveness. Is that too much to ask?" He had raised his voice; he was angry and frustrated at how little effect his pleas were having on his daughter.

  Hearing him raise his voice that way reminded Linda of when he used to beat his mother when he came home drunk, she remembered that tone of voice well, and she became incensed. She had had enough of Roy Staunton.

  "I'll tell you what I see, Roy, you son of a bitch. I see the bastard that abandoned my mother, my brother, my sisters, and me when the oldest of us was nine years old. That's what I see, Roy; do you know the hardships we went through? Do you have any idea of the misery and pain that you inflicted on us? Do you? Do you know how many nights we went to bed hungry?" Linda was shouting now. Never in her life had she been this angry with another human being. Her father tried to respond, but she cut him off brutally.

  "Shut up," she screamed. "I'm talking now. I've heard enough of your crap, you son of a bitch. Do you know what it's like to have no clothes to go to school with, to have no presents at Christmas, to be the poorest people in this town? Do you? Do you know how hard mom had to work to feed us and provide a roof over our heads? Do you know, Roy? Do you?" The power and rage of Linda's voice reduced him to silence. He knew that tone; he could feel the violence and the danger in her voice. Linda's screaming brought Lucille into the room; she stood upright in t
he middle of the room between Linda and her father.

  "Is everything okay, miss?" She looked from one to the other, eying Linda's father with a severity that said, "You had better not move." Using her cane, Linda got to her feet.

  "No, Lucille, everything is not okay. I want you to escort this scumbag out of my house, this whining, cheating bastard, get him out of here, now." Linda was screaming and pointing her cane in his direction; tears were running down her cheeks under her veil, and she was trembling from head to foot.

  Lucille was stunned by Linda's vocabulary and screaming, but she did as she was told. She walked over to Linda's father and stood firmly in front of him, hands on her waist.

  "Okay, you heard her. Follow me now, please." She looked him straight in the eyes with a look that said, "You had better obey me, or all hell will break loose." Roy Staunton got up; he looked over Lucille's shoulder toward Linda pleadingly.

  "Sir, please, let's go now." Lucille's voice was sharp and incisive; she took a step forward and grabbed him firmly by the arm.

  He pulled his arm from her grip roughly and began to walk toward the door with Lucille in tow, his shoulders drooping, crushed by his failure to gain his daughter's sympathy or help. As he walked out the door, Linda shouted, "Don't ever come back here again, Roy Staunton, ever, do you hear me? You're dead. You're dead and buried." Roy Staunton did not respond. He just walked away and never looked back, as he had done so many years before.

  Linda sat back down in her chair, shaking from head to foot. Tears were still rolling down her face. Her shoulders began to shake, and she began to sob uncontrollably. She was in shock; her whole being in turmoil, she was surprised by the vehemence and force of her own anger.

  Lucille came back from the front door and walked over to where Linda was sitting. She leaned down and put a hand on Linda's shaking shoulder and said softly, "May I get you something, miss?" Lucille's voice was filled with warmth and genuine sympathy. Linda took a deep breath.