The way he figured it, she was hiding something over there in her little cottage. Or hiding from something. He just didn’t know that he wanted to get all caught up in that kind of drama, not at his age, anyhow. A damsel in distress was especially hard for him to resist, but it was also more trouble than he needed right now. As long as he didn’t get too curious, he could just keep to himself, plant his spring garden, play games with Vivian, and live out his days in this parking lot at the end of the road of life.
“When you gonna plant yourself a little vegetable garden, Miss Patti?” he called out, waving his hand-trowel over the fence at her. The woman loved to talk about plants—she was always asking him what he had growing—and he kept offering to help her put a few tomato plants or collard greens in the ground on her side of the fence. Now that was the kind of helping he was happy to give.
“You know, Joe,” Patti replied, leaning against the rail at the top of her steps. “I was actually thinking that it might be good for both me and Richie to do something about this place. I know we could use the exercise and sunshine. I just…” She faltered, and Joe thought he understood why. It was always hard to start something new, but he nodded reassuringly, ready to pull out the stops to convince her to give it a go.
“Hello, beautiful people,” a voice called from behind him.
He realized, then, that Patti hadn’t faltered at all. She’d been distracted by a red-haired firefly surrounded by her whirlwind of secrets.
Chapter 2
Willow Goodhope stopped at the fence-line that separated Space #9 from Space #10, speaking to everyone collectively. “Did you all know that Joy is my middle name?”
“Is it?” Patti was smiling like she’d just swallowed a glass of sunshine, and Joe eyed his neighbor, still marveling at the changes in the woman.
Willow let out a laugh the size of a Loblolly pine tree, and he shook his head, not even trying to hold back his own smile. Boy, that woman could laugh!
“Not legally, no. It’s really Eve. But today, I’m going to imagine that it’s Joy, and see what happens to me. Calling something by a new name can turn the world inside out, I’ve discovered.”
“Speakin’ of names, I hear you’ve gone and named that little shanty of yours.” Joe waved his trowel in the air to shoo off a pesky fly.
“That I did, Joe. Elderberry Croft. Isn’t that perfect? I named it after the little elderberry tree growing by the stream. Have you seen it?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. One of these days, maybe I’ll swing by and take a peek.”
“Oh yes, do! And speaking of new names,” she continued, picking up the conversation where they’d veered off. “Did my little house have a name before I moved in?”
“Child, that little house of yours was a hotbed of iniquity back when The Coach House was havin’ its heyday on the stagecoach line. I don’t think you really want to know what it used to be called. Let’s just say, your little love shack saw its share of pretty lights long before you moved in. Red ones.” Joe chuckled, hoping to take the edge off his gritty words, not sure exactly why he tossed them out there like that.
But Willow only guffawed again. “I know! I look around at those four walls in there and thank God they have a few thick layers of paint on them, separating me from all they’ve seen.”
Joe shook his head. “No amount of paint could wipe that kind of sin clean. At least John Bishop was a prayin’ man; I know that for a fact.”
“John Bishop. He was the last tenant, right? Well, did he name it?” Willow leaned over the fence toward Joe.
“Listen, Miss Willow. Men don’t name their houses. That’s a woman thing. Right, Richard?” Joe rocked back on his heels and thrust a chin toward his neighbor.
“Good morning, Willow.” Richard spoke kindly, making Joe shake his head again. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that man was smitten. “Joe’s right. This is Space #10. Joe’s place is #9. You’re in Space #12. I’m afraid that’s as creative as we get.”
“Yep. John Bishop lived and died there, and never called it anything but Space #12,” Joe confirmed.
“What?” Willow’s eyes went all round at his words, and he had the decency to feel remorse. What was he thinking, letting something that morbid slip out of his mouth?
“He didn’t die in your house, Willow.” Patti crossed her arms and shot a glare at Joe.
“I guess that’s not such a bad thing, dying in one’s home,” Willow surprised them all by saying. “I mean, if I had the choice of where I’d want to be when I took my final breath here on earth, I think I’d want it to be in my own bed, too.”
“Well, now, there’s the first bit of sense I’ve heard come out of your mouth today, child. You keep talkin’ and I bet you’ll have friends all over this retreat.” Joe always called The Coach House Trailer Park a retreat. ‘Park’ made it sound like they were on some kind of playground, and he’d had a bad experience in the neighborhood park when he was growing up, being the only colored boy on the swings. But he did think of this place as his retreat, as his place to while away the days in his garden, watching the changing seasons, and entertaining the likes of Vivian.
Vivian. He let the sound of her name swirl around inside his head. Who-ee! That woman. He could only handle so much of her in one setting, but handle her, he did. His hands were itching for her right now, and he squeezed the handle of the trowel, feeling the grit of dirt in the creases of his palm, and in the more tender skin between his fingers.
“Tell me,” Willow’s voice drew him back to the moment they were in. “What was he like? And how did he die? Where?”
Richard cleared his throat, and Joe nodded, letting him tell the story. “John lived in your place for nearly thirty years. He was like a fixture here. In fact, he was already living here when the Swifts bought the park. There was always some kind of project of his out on the patio; a radiator, an old refrigerator he was taking apart or putting back together. But if you ever needed help getting your car started, or your water heater repaired, John was the man to call. He didn’t say much, but he always had his hands busy doing something.”
“Remember that awful carousel horse he found?” Patti shook her head. “He thought he’d stumbled across a treasure because so many people were collecting them for a while. But that thing was terrifying! A horse with fangs? It’s no wonder the owner removed it from the carousel. He probably had parents threatening to sue him for giving their kids nightmares.”
Joe chuckled, nodding. “That truly was a demon horse, Miss Willow. You’d be walkin’ along, mindin’ your own business, carryin’ your laundry down the way, when all of a sudden, you’d feel something watchin’ you, something’ breathin’ down your neck. Sure, it stood still as a statue up there under that eucalyptus, but there was no doubt whose eyes were followin’ you. Demon horse. Wasn’t it, Richard?”
Richard nodded and continued his story. “John was a good man, but he usually just kept to himself if no one needed him. It was Doc, the fellow that lives over the garage up front, who noticed John’s absence after not seeing his car parked out front for a few days.”
“Poor thing. Myra—you’ve met Myra, haven’t you?—started calling all the local hospitals looking for him. When a week had passed, Doc insisted that Eddie call the police.” Patti said it with the emphasis on po, then nodded at her husband, indicating that he take over again.
“They found him that same day. He was in his car parked at a turnout up the mountain road a bit. The police said it looked like he’d pulled over to rest and just never woke up. No evidence of foul play.”
The Goodhope girl chewed on her lip as she listened to them, and Joe watched her, appreciating the way she was paying such close attention, as though she really cared about what had happened to the dead man.
“All alone like that?” Her voice came out small, tight. “Did anyone come for his things? Any family?”
“No. The man never married. He had no one that any of us knew of. I thin
k we were the closest thing he had to a family, those of us here.” Patti shook her head. “Eddie said there wasn’t even anyone on his rental agreement to notify.”
“Did you—was there a service?” Willow actually looked like she might be ready to cry.
“Oh, honey. They don’t do services for folks like John. He had no one. There was no one to plan one.” Patti smiled gently.
“So…what did they do with him? With his body? I—I’ve just never really thought about it before.”
Joe could see the inner workings of Willow’s head trying to line up with her heart, and her ghosts were respectfully silent.
“In the old days, they called it a pauper’s burial. In some places they still do, certainly back home where I’m from. But here, well, I think they’ve gone all politically correct and call it a county burial or a state burial or some such nonsense. But there’s a spot in most cemeteries allotted for penniless folk or those without kin, like John Bishop was. It’s a perfectly respectable place, Miss Willow. Now don’t you be worryin’ yourself over him. He’s doin’ just fine where he’s at these days. Probably busy keepin’ the good Lord’s fleet of Cadillacs runnin’ for him.”
She stood silent for so long that Joe felt the need to change the subject. “I’ve been meanin’ to compliment you on your place, by the by. You sure have made it out to be quite an eyeful. From one gardener to another, I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, Joe. Coming from you, that’s a high compliment.” Willow dropped into a quick curtsey. “And now I must be off. I just wanted to stop and say ‘hi’ to all of you. Have a wonderful day!” And with that, the girl flitted away, her little comet-tail of shadows swishing after her.
Chapter 3
Joe was putting the last of his supper dishes away when there was a light tapping at the front door. He glanced up at the clock on the wall above his sofa; he had to call Vivian in exactly thirteen minutes. Eight o’clock, every night. That was their arrangement. If he didn’t call her, she got worried and started calling him, then his sisters, then his nieces and nephews, and pretty soon the whole family was up in arms about him lying dead on the floor in his underwear, with no one around to cover up his sorry backside.
Well, whoever it was would just have to make it quick. He pulled open the door to find Willow Goodhope standing on his front stoop.
“Well, good evenin’, Miss Willow. What brings you to my door tonight?” He wouldn’t have been more surprised if it had been Vivian herself.
“I brought you something. I wanted to thank you for telling me about John Bishop today. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him, about how he made Elderberry Croft his home before it was mine.”
“Well, goodness, child. What does that have to do with me?” In her arms she held a square twig basket with a cloth draped over the top, but the aroma wafting into his living room made him think of Mama on baking day. Whatever she had in her basket was fresh out of the oven.
“I don’t know, really. I was feeling so joyful earlier today, even the tale of that poor man didn’t get me down too much. But once I was all settled in for the evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about him; about how he died alone. No one even waved goodbye as he passed from this life into the next.” Her eyes glistened with emotion as she spoke, and Joe felt his defenses beginning to crumble. “I started making him a pie before I realized I’d have to eat it all by myself. Then I thought of you, and I became certain that this pie was actually for you, not John. So,” Her eyebrows rose in question. “I was wondering if you might want to take a few minutes and celebrate the life of John Bishop with me. Over this.” She held up her basket.
Joe paused incrementally, but it was enough for her to notice.
“Oh dear. I’m interrupting your evening, aren’t I? I didn’t even ask if you were busy. Here. For you.” She thrust the basket toward him, and when he took it, she smoothed the hair away from her face in a nervous gesture. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay?”
“No, no, missy. You come on in. I just have to make a quick phone call, lest the alarm bells go off all over Los Angeles, and my over-zealous family members start rumors about me breathin’ my last.” He grinned and stepped back from the door. “Make yourself comfy. I’ll be quick.” Carrying the basket to the round captain’s table where he ate most of his meals, he set it down in the middle of the marquetry checkerboard top. Picking up his cordless telephone, he dialed Vivian’s number and waited for her husky answer.
When he reached her answering machine, he was actually relieved; still trying to figure out how he was going to explain that he couldn’t talk with her because he had another woman waiting for him on his sofa.
“Vivian, honey, I have a neighbor over here needin’ my time right now. I’ll call you when we’re through. No later than nine, I promise.” That should smooth her ruffled feathers a little, although he knew she wouldn’t be happy about having to wait. He could picture her now, fluffing her hair and putting on the last coat of lipstick for the day. She liked to look her best when she called him; she said it made her feel like there was less distance between them when she gussied herself up for him. He laughed when she first told him so, but she’d set him straight.
“When I’m slouching around in my pajamas and hair-rollers, I don’t want to talk to anyone, Joe. But when I look good, I love imagining you sitting across the table from me, appreciating every ounce of my effort.” Well, in a way, it made sense to him. He never left the house, not even to garden, without a clean pair of socks and underwear on, because it made him stand up a little straighter and feel a little more like the gentleman his mama always said he was.
As he hung up, he eyed the girl sitting with her legs crossed, as prim as a schoolteacher, flipping through one of the TV Guides from his coffee table. She’d taken off her green hooded cape and laid it over the arm of the sofa. Her hair reminded him of drying tobacco leaves, and her skin seemed almost translucent, so that if he looked closely, he might be able to make out the striations of the muscles beneath her flesh. When she raised her eyes to meet his, however, he caught a glimpse of the shadows lurking there, of the veil covering the truth behind them. On second thought, there was nothing see-through about this creature sitting in his house, and he still wasn’t so sure about keeping company with the likes of her. Or her ghosts.
“So, Miss Willow, is it time to celebrate?”
She leapt up and crossed to the table, pulling the cloth back to reveal the contents of the basket she’d brought.
A golden-crusted pie, the edges rippled and thick, oozing with deep red syrup from the leaf-shaped slits in the top shell. This was no store-bought bakery item; this was the real deal, and so fresh it was still hot enough to warm his hands over.
“What have you gone and made there?”
“Have you ever had elderberry apple pie, Joe? I hope not, because this is one of my specialties, and I want it to be a first for you.” The shadows slipped away, unable to hold their ground in her excitement.
“I’ve had apple pie. And I’ve had elderberry pie when I was just a boy. But I don’t believe I’ve ever had the two combined. So I suppose it’s your lucky night, Miss Willow.”
“Ha! I think it’s your lucky night.” Willow released her laugh, startling him all over again, and making him chuckle in response. Why could he not wrap his head around her? She seemed part timid child, part wild woman, and he couldn’t find a comfortable place to situate himself between the extremes. She pulled a knife and a pie-server from the basket and waved them in his direction. “Find us some plates and forks, Joe. I’m serving it up.”
He eyed her with hooded lids. “There’s no poison in that, or any other such drug, is there? You come over here talkin’ about dead men, and now you’re tryin’ to feed me pie. I don’t really know you very well, Miss Willow. What if you’re tryin’ to kidnap me? Or rob me? Or put me into an everlastin’ sleep? Don’t you read your fairytales?”
She laughed again and promised she’d
take the first bite.
“I still have my doubts about you,” he said. It sounded like a joke, but he meant every word. “For all I know, you’re one of those black widows. Except you’re not black, and I don’t believe you’re yet a widow.”
The light in her eyes flickered, her smile faltered, and her shoulders drooped slowly, like he’d just poked a tiny hole in her. She blinked a few times, then began methodically cutting the pie, releasing a fresh burst of aromatic steam into the air. Joe, realizing he’d inadvertently slipped into dangerous territory, decided that since he was there already, he might as well find out what he was up against.
“So, am I correct in assumin’ you’re not a widow?” He kept his voice low, soothing, like a man would speak to a frightened animal.
Willow stilled, her hand holding the server poised in mid-scoop. Then she lifted eyes filled with emptiness to his. “You are correct, Joe. I am not a widow.” But all around her the air breathed with tangled emotions and subtle contradictions.
Chapter 4
Well, well, well, Miss Willow. I can play the game of stubborn as well as the next guy. “Then are you married?”
“Joe,” she lifted a generous slice of pie from the dish. “If you don’t bring me your plate, I’ll have to put this directly into your hand, and although it might taste just as delicious that way, I guarantee it will be a whole lot messier.” The look she gave him was kind, but set, assuring him the conversation about her marital status was over. Joe crossed to the cupboard and brought down two plates, then studied her as she dished them up.
“I have ice cream,” he finally spoke. It was the closest to an apology he was willing to give. Here this little thing wanted to come over here and impose on his private life, but when it came time for turnabout, she wasn’t up for letting him in the front door. He pulled the carton of vanilla from his freezer and dropped a scoop on each plate. “So are you plannin’ on givin’ a speech for John before we eat?”
Elderberry Croft: The Complete Collection Page 7