Judy didn't completely buy this—people didn't run these sorts of businesses strictly out of the goodness of their hearts—but guessed that the landlady was too proud to admit she needed extra income.
"I don't have any family living nearby," Puente went on, "so I need my boarders around me. They're like a substitute family for me—-I'd be lonely without them. Besides, they keep me busy." She sat erect, her hands folded, and smiled at them with sealed lips, a toothless Cheshire cat.
Judy and Beth began telling her about Bert and his history. When they mentioned that he was from Costa Rica, with Spanish his native tongue, Puente chimed in, "Well, we'll get along fine then, because I'm Hispanic, too."
She explained that her large family, composed of many siblings, was still in Mexico. "I'm the light one, the baby of the family. They always used to tease me about being the gringa!” She chuckled, seeming amused by distant memories.
Looking at her, no one would have guessed Dorothea Puente to be Mexican-American, but hanging on the walls were framed awards given to her for contributing to Hispanic causes. And regardless of the woman's pale complexion, the general decor did seem to reflect Mexican tastes, Judy decided.
Turning the conversation back to Bert, Judy said that she wanted to make sure Dorothea understood that, even though he'd been staying at Detox for years, Bert Montoya wasn't an alcoholic. "He hears voices—he says they're spirits talking to him—and he answers them and gestures to them. But usually he's very quiet and very sweet. Physically, he's fine, except for a really bad case of psoriasis on his scalp that he's had for years."
"Well, I can clear that up for him," Dorothea announced. "I was an RN in World War II, you know. Some people in the Hispanic community here even call me 'the Doctor,'" she added with apparent pleasure.
As Puente went on, laying out a few of the house rules, Judy appraised her. She had a humanitarian streak, but seemed streetwise, not saccharine. Ordinarily, Judy might have worried about a woman of Puente's age running a rooming house like this, but this little old lady had savvy, with a hint of the sort of toughness one needed in dealing with sometimes unruly house-guests. She made eye contact, which invited confidence. And even with a bandanna tied over her curlers, even without her dentures, she communicated dignity. She certainly didn't seem out to impress them—perhaps that's what impressed Judy most.
"Well, how would you like to look around?" Puente offered, standing.
First, they followed her into the kitchen, where Judy and Beth discovered the source of the delicious aroma that permeated the house. They stood and watched as the apron-clad woman took a spatula and turned several fat hamburgers sizzling on the stove. Not skimpy burgers. Not macaroni and cheese. But big, hearty, half-pound burgers. This was considerably better than typical room-and-board fare; too often, the operators prepared minimal meals and pocketed the profits.
And Bert liked to eat.
"I cook in the morning," Dorothea was explaining. "We have an early breakfast and early dinner. The tenants take care of their own lunch. I'm always up by five, so I like to get started right away. Lots of times I do my gardening first thing in the morning."
From the kitchen, Dorothea stepped out on the back-stair landing and pulled some cat food from a shelf. "I know some people hate cats," she said while filling a small bowl, "but I have a weakness for strays. My mama cat just had kittens."
Dorothea set the bowl in a corner, and Judy watched mewing little balls of fur squirming in a cardboard box. How kindhearted of this woman to take in strays, she thought.
The tour continued. Besides the parlor and kitchen, the upstairs included a dining room, the landlady's bedroom, a guest bedroom, and a bathroom. Downstairs, where the boarders mainly stayed, cheap paneling covered the walls, but the furnishings were sturdy and clean. It was far from luxurious, yet there were plenty of televisions and even a downstairs refrigerator for the boarders to use.
Outside, they saw that the yard was remarkably well kept, with flowering plants and shrubs, even a small vegetable garden. Here was an ornamental cherub, there a small windmill, and in the front, a religious figurine—almost a shrine.
The threesome was soon back in the parlor, and when the conversation drifted to chitchat, Judy asked to use the phone. Leaving Beth and Dorothea, she used this opportunity to take another look around. Magazines and a big stack of mail, mostly bills, sat near the phone. Normal enough. She noticed the liquor cabinet was unusually well stocked . . . but this somehow made the place seem homey. Overall, the house was remarkably clean and well cared for, more than sufficient.
The two VOA co-workers were soon saying their good-byes. Judy waited until they were back in the van before venturing, "Well, Beth, what do you think?"
Without hesitation, Beth answered, "I think Bert would really like it here."
"Oh good," Judy said, flashing her wide smile. "I'm glad it's not just me."
After so much delay, Judy and Beth felt the system was finally working for Bert. There seemed no reason to wait, so they decided to bring him by that very afternoon.
If Bert Montoya had any reservations about meeting this stranger, they melted within minutes of his arrival. He spoke little, his reactions always filtered through his innate shyness, but Mrs. Puente was thoroughly disarming, speaking Spanish with him, showing him around, patting him as if he were a son.
"You know, if you move in here, I like cooking Mexican meals," Dorothea told him. "At the moment, no one here is Mexican, but I like Mexican food, and I would be real happy to cook some for you. Wouldn't you like that?"
Bert probably couldn't remember the last time someone had offered to cook a meal especially for him. A blush of pleasure showed on his face.
Dorothea showed him the room that could be his if he decided to move in. It was small and tidy, with just the essentials, really, but private, and with his very own TV. To anyone accustomed to first-class treatment, it would seem a dump; but to someone used to a vinyl mat on a concrete floor, it was a palace.
By the time they were ready to leave, Bert seemed utterly enamored of this Hispanic landlady with the big house. He let them know that he was ready to move in that same day.
But, knowing how easily he was swayed, Judy and Beth cautioned him to take a couple of days to think about it. This was the first place he'd seen, after all, and he might like another boardinghouse even better.
This was Monday. On Wednesday, February 8, Bert Montoya moved into 1426 F Street. Leaving behind the corrugated metal warehouse on Front Street and saying good-bye to his friends at Detox, he moved to a cozy, storybook house of blue and white near the heart of downtown. After years of living in a shelter meant as a last resort for the woefully down-and-out, Bert finally had a home. That night, for the first time in years, he would lay his head on a real pillow and sleep in a real bed.
PART II: F IS FOR FATAL
Dorothea was a woman you just didn't question. . . . She was Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde as far as I could tell.
—John Sharp, Tenant
CHAPTER 4
From the moment Bert moved into Dorothea Puente’s boardinghouse, the texture of his life changed. He was no longer ignored, isolated, an outcast among outcasts. Rather, he became an important consideration within Dorothea's busy arena. From now on, what he wore, whom he spoke with, and how he spent his time were matters worthy of interest, even scrutiny.
Dorothea was constantly patting down his unruly hair, straightening his clothes, tucking in his shirts. In Spanish, she was always instructing him: "Don't forget to shave, Bert," or "Go and wash your hands," or "Give me your laundry, and I'll make sure you have some clean shirts."
Within two weeks, Dorothea had managed to eradicate Bert's chronic psoriasis—an accomplishment so swift and complete that Judy and Beth blinked with amazement at the sudden improvement in his appearance. His hair was clean; the mantle of flakes had disappeared from his shoulders. And this proved only the beginning.
During their visits over the next s
everal weeks, Judy and Beth were delighted to see how Bert thrived under Puente's care. It seemed that every time they came by, Bert had undergone yet another transformation. The man who had wandered barefoot in summer, or clomped about in ill-fitting boots in winter, now wore snappy new shoes; Dorothea had given him two new pairs. His hair was combed, his nails were clean. And Dorothea made sure he had fresh clothes, making a present of six new shirts, a couple pairs of slacks, and a jacket.
Besides improving his grooming habits, Dorothea seemed to help him psychologically. She curtailed Bert's discourse with the spirits, openly scolding him for "talking to the devil." She even managed to get him to again start taking his antipsychotic medication, Mellaril (though he continued to murmur protests; he never did like the drug).
Over the weeks, Bert seemed more aware, more grounded, more confident. He even started speaking more clearly. One afternoon when she came by the F Street boardinghouse, Judy was startled when Bert came out to greet her, asking, "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," she answered, stunned that, for the first time, Bert had initiated a conversation.
"Beth said you were sick," he mumbled, but Judy was impressed by Bert's improved pronunciation.
"I was sick this morning but now I'm better," she replied with a nonchalance that masked her astonishment. His former grunts, his monosyllabic "yeah" and "nah" answers had given way to complete sentences!
Judy and Beth, who felt a special responsibility for Bert, were elated. After such a frustrating struggle with his "identity problem," they felt doubly gratified that Bert now had his own room, his own wardrobe. And more than the big meals, more than the creature comforts, they saw that Dorothea Puente offered Bert dignity, reviving in him a connection with his long-neglected Hispanic roots. His self-esteem seemed to soar under her tutelage as they never would have dared hope.
Whatever Dorothea was doing, everyone noticed the near-miraculous improvements in Bert's appearance and demeanor. And Dorothea clearly enjoyed reaping credit for this, seeming to derive personal satisfaction from Bert's progress.
But Bill Johnson, Bert's bearded friend from Detox, viewed the move to Puente's residence with some skepticism. Time and again, Johnson had watched people leave the humble sanctuary of Detox for better accommodations, only to end up having their benefit checks snatched up by greedy landlords. One day while visiting Bert, he even said as much to Mrs. Puente. "All board-and-care operators are in it for the money," he muttered.
Not one to sit back and take insults, the landlady shot back, "If I was, I would have kept the other place," referring to the grand house at 2100 F Street that she'd operated years before.
Johnson knew little and cared less about places she'd managed in the past; he cared about Bert, who he believed was due a large retroactive payment from SSI, (Supplemental Security Income, formerly called Aid to the Totally Disabled). And Johnson harbored a festering suspicion that Puente, that sly old cat, "was going to snag it."
It didn't set well with Dorothea Puente that her favorite tenant's buddy didn't trust her.
The next time Bill Johnson stopped by for a visit, Bert wasn't there, so Mrs. Puente seized this opportunity to give him a tour of the premises. She slowly led him through the house, room to room, purring with fondness for Bert. She showed him the thriving vegetable garden, gushing about how Bert so enjoyed helping with the gardening, and was so helpful with the weeding and planting. She steered Johnson downstairs, pointing out that a downstairs refrigerator was stocked with sodas so that her tenants could help themselves (unusual for this sort of establishment), and showed him that most of the tidy rooms had televisions.
Bert's room, Johnson noticed, was spotless. But as they wandered in and out, what lodged in Johnson's mind were not the domestic touches, the quilts and paperbacks, the cleanliness and comfort of the house, but the delectable aromas streaming from the oven. Pot roast: mouth-watering and savory.
Later, with that tantalizing fragrance still in his nostrils, Johnson grudgingly admitted to himself that such hearty fare set Puente's place above others. Bert was lucky to be living here. Few former Detox dwellers had it so good.
With time, Johnson learned that Dorothea Puente did much more than the ordinary boardinghouse operator, and took special care of Bert. She cooked him Mexican meals, and Johnson knew how Bert loved Mexican food. And she made sure Bert went to church every Sunday, a fact that the devout Mr. Johnson found heartening, since he'd assumed a similar role for Bert back at Detox.
Still, Johnson wasn't as thrilled as some about the changes in Bert. It seemed to him that the landlady "hovered over him, put too much emphasis on his appearance." She was always straightening his collar or flicking lint off his shoulders, and she made him wear a sports coat, even in hot weather. In retrospect, Johnson perceived that Mrs. Puente wielded excessive control over his docile friend. "She manipulated him," he decided. But that's hindsight.
Dorothea Puente was taking such good care of Bert that the other tenants were jealous. They complained that she babied him and granted him special favors. And it was true. She made lunches for him, while everyone else was offered only breakfast and dinner. She gave him spending money, and even ran a tab for Bert across the street at Joe's Comer Bar, supporting what became Bert's daily pilgrimage to the darkened tavern for burritos and beer.
Moreover, it was uncommonly generous of Dorothea to agree to take in Bert even before his entitlement checks started coming. He wouldn't start receiving food stamps until early March, his first SSI check wouldn't come until June, and in the meantime he was living at 1426 F Street, for $175 per month, more or less on credit. Dorothea had said that if Bert's benefit checks were at first a little slow in coming, that was all right. This was typical of the extraordinarily kind Dorothea Puente.
Various charities—from the Policemen's Association to Mexican-American groups—benefited from her checkbook. On occasion, she even made it to the hundred-dollar-a-plate political fund-raisers. Sometimes she would pop into the Camellia Senior Center to donate a box or two of clothes—sometimes men's, sometimes women's. She made sure that workers collected her recyclables every Friday, which contributed a little extra cash to the work furlough center. And every Thanksgiving she donated a turkey to some needy group.
John Sharp, a tall, thin man with keen blue eyes and a bald pate rimmed with white hair, had nothing but praise for his new landlady. Sharp had moved in about a month before Bert. Just out of the hospital after back surgery, the sixty-four-year-old retired cook had no place to sleep. But Puente had a room for him under the stairway landing at the rear of the house for $160 per month, plus another $87 in food stamps.
To him, she seemed a whirlwind of activity, constantly cooking and cleaning. Super-landlady. And Sharp appreciated Puente's thoughtfulness. "She had cable TV wired into my room at no cost to me, and she bought me a recliner chair because of my bad back," Sharp crowed. "She also bought a three-wheel bicycle for another guy who was crippled.”
Some other tenants were less coherent or less reputable than the sober Mr. Sharp. John McCauley, a bearded, truculent fellow who lived upstairs, was such a mean drunk that people generally stayed out of his way, though Dorothea seemed to like him. Homer Myers, a lumbering, white-haired old guy who was hard of hearing, tended to shy away from strangers, smiling vaguely at comments he probably didn't catch. And Ben Fink, a wiry man in his late fifties who walked with a cane, would characteristically drink up his benefit check as soon as it came each month, floating through the first few days, then drying out until his next check arrived.
Besides these men—five including Bert—other men and women occasionally stayed at Dorothea's. A week, a month, they were a transient population. But in the midst of this flux, Dorothea carved out a routine and stuck to it.
She was up before dawn, and the first light of day usually found her in the yard, gardening, watering, sweeping, and raking. Breakfast was on the table at 5:30. Though not everyone fancied the idea of such an early meal, Do
rothea treated the early risers to a hearty spread of eggs, bacon, pancakes—the works.
It was Dorothea's daily habit to remind her tenants to take their medications. Each had individual health problems, and it wasn't strange to see pill bottles sharing the table with the salt and pepper shakers. On a kitchen calendar Dorothea noted appointments with dentists, social workers, and doctors, reminding her tenants of the dates, even making sure they arranged for transportation. The woman was organized.
And she was busy. She took care of chores, laundry, and shopping herself, and by early afternoon she was usually dressed and ready to go out.
At home, she was just an old hausfrau in an apron, but when she went out, she was always the lady. She favored bright dresses and, ever-conscious of her appearance, put on a touch of makeup and a mist of her favorite perfume before leaving.
Dorothea Puente didn't mind walking to nearby destinations, such as McAnaw's Pharmacy, where she routinely picked up a variety of cigarettes, cosmetics, over-the-counter drugs, scandal sheets, greeting cards, and monthly prescriptions. Or, just down the street, she'd stop in on a Mexican friend who had a magic touch for making tamales. Dorothea might buy a dozen or two at a time, carrying the heavy bags back up the street and upstairs into her kitchen, where she would serve them for dinner.
The Clarion Hotel, also just a short walk away, was another favorite stopping spot. With its plushness and polish, the Clarion offered a pleasant reprieve from the coarse habits of her tenants, and Dorothea's pale, pretty face was often seen here at the bar. She befriended one bartender in particular, whom she surprised on her birthday with a dozen roses and a big bouquet of balloons.
This was Dorothea's way: the big display, the lavish gesture. After all, she was a retired doctor; she had the money, didn't she? Hadn't she come in here one morning looking dog-tired, complaining that the hospital had called her in on some emergency and she'd been up all night in surgery?
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