by Dana Taylor
When I'd come back home six years ago, Mother was still living in the house. Then she married Mr. Peters, a long-time acquaintance from church whose wife had died of cancer. Mother pretty much hit the jackpot with Mr. Peters. She deeded me the house, gave me ten thousand dollars to modernize the store, and headed off in a Winnebago ten months of the year with Mr. Peters. My postcard collection was impressive.
I plowed every penny into Mt. Olympus. Owning a health food store is not exactly the road to riches. What with overhead, Mavis’ salary, and self-employment tax, it was pretty much a labor of love. My profit certainly didn't include thousands of dollars needed to fix the sagging floors, re-wire the electricity, or even put a new roof on the old house.
Anyway, I was into a full-blown mess, scrubbing the gunk under the sink, when a tap rattled my kitchen door. Peeking through the glass was that sweet little elf, Mrs. Brooks. I struggled to my feet and opened the door.
"Mrs. Brooks,” surprise crept into my greeting, “come in."
"Hello, dear. I just had to take a little stroll. And please call me Ruth.” She wandered into the ancient kitchen, taking in the cherry-and-apple wallpaper, the opened-paned cabinets, and the cozy red-vinyl breakfast nook. “Oh, my, I love your house. So homey. So comfortable. So different from that marble and glass monstrosity of Jason's!"
Uninvited, she explored the dining and living rooms, examining every little knick-knack and doodad before returning to the kitchen. Her childlike wonder at my hodgepodge decorating made me smile. She liked the ghastly crystal lamp with the wood nymphs from a customer. Hmm, maybe giving it away would be an acceptable way to dispose of it.
Taking off my rubber gloves I said, “You caught me in the middle of a mess, but can I offer you a glass of tea or cranberry juice?"
She took a seat in the breakfast nook. “Do you have a martini? That would really hit the spot."
"I'm sorry, I only have some wine."
"Oh, that will be fine, dear. Don't apologize. You can get some gin before my next visit.” She snuggled onto the red vinyl.
I poured her a glass of chardonnay as she said, “Just leave the bottle on the table, dear. That way you can keep working and not worry about waiting on me.” She relished her first sip. “Just go about your business and I'll keep you company."
I put on my gloves and kept after it as Mrs. Brooks, make that Ruth, began a monologue.
"Oh, yes I just love these old homes. Jason is a modernist, a minimalist. No clutter, no color. That house is like living in a black and white movie. Unless you go into Valerie's room. She painted it herself. Each wall a different color and then she took sponges all over it. Plus posters on top of that. It's chaos ... Of course what can you expect when she has no mother to care about her? No, that flibbity-gibbit Christina ran off with Jason's former partner, John. I wonder how long that was really going on before Jason found out. Lost his marriage and ruined the family law firm in one fell swoop ... what a mess. Of course, I do what I can to help, but Valerie doesn't listen to me..."
She continued verbal meanderings as I interjected, “Tsk, tsks” and finished mopping the floor. Stretching my tired back, I gazed over and noticed how far down the level of the chardonnay bottle had fallen. Then I took a good look at Ruth. A tear trailed down her flushed face. Her eyes sagged and, well, she was downright snockered.
Sloshing her wine and slurring her words, she said, “I don't have any friends here. They're all in the city. Well, a lot of them are dead. Jason sold my house and moved me out here without so much as a how-do-you-do. Just because of one little kitchen fire. I'd set some oil to heat up and then got caught up in my soap opera. I mean, it could happen to anyone!"
She started to cry in earnest. Orion hightailed it out of the room, a furry streak of orange lightning. I corked the chardonnay and put it in the fridge, but the damage was done.
"Ruth, how about a cup of coffee or a little fresh air?"
"He donated all my things to the Salvation Army for the tax write-off. I don't have any of my memories around me...” Sob, hiccup, sob.
I squeezed into the booth and put my arms around her saying, “Why that cold-hearted S.O.B."
She wept and moaned against my shoulder, gasping and sniffing until she drifted to sleep. Feeling her dead weight against me, I eased her down into a semblance of a comfortable position.
Searching the living room for a small pillow to tuck under her head, I muttered to myself, “Well, this is just fine. I could let her sleep it off, but Brooks would probably accuse me of kidnapping."
I needed to find him. Foolishly, I called information for a new listing. Oh, right. How stupid can you get-a guy like that would never have a listed number.
Tapping my foot, I said, “I guess I'll just have to storm his gate."
Just as I slipped into flip-flops and headed down the porch steps, I heard an airplane making its descent. That was another thing. Now my house was under a landing pattern. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a toy plane going over the rise. I think they call them biplanes-the kind Pearl White flew in the silent movies. He'd been out playing. I took off at a run, across a field, down the rise over the creek and onto his property. Brooks stood by his parked plane talking to a guy who looked like a mechanic. Goggles dangled around his neck and he wore slacks and a sports shirt. He patted the plane's wing affectionately, smiling at his mechanic. The pleasant expression on his face made him look almost human.
Trotting in his direction, I hollered, “Mr. Brooks! I need to talk to you.” I gasped for breath.
He nodded to his mechanic and headed in my direction with a kind of John Wayne thing going in his walk. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious of my ratty clothes and wild hair.
I stopped about three feet in front of him, panting, pushing curls out of my face. He gave me an amused grin. “Good evening, Ms. Jones. Is this a social call?"
"It's your Mother...” gasp, pant, gasp.
His expression changed instantly to concern. “Oh, God, what now?"
"She's all right. She's at my house. Asleep, sort of. She came over for a visit and I was cleaning the kitchen and she asked for a glass of wine and..."
Without waiting for further explanation, he struck out for my property. I ran beside him to keep up.
He shot me a disgruntled look. “How much did you let her have?"
"I only poured her one glass. But she evidently poured herself several more."
"She's an elderly, frail woman taking a medicine cabinet full of drugs. Do you know what alcohol does to her?"
"Well, I do now. She caught me unawares and then she started crying and telling me how you gave away all her things. She was just so unhappy. How could you sell everything out from under her like that?"
He stopped in his tracks and towered over me. “Not that it's any of your business, but did she mention the fire?"
I backed up a little. “Well, yes, she did mention a small kitchen fire."
He reared back his head and laughed. “Yeah, it started in the kitchen and spread to three more rooms before they got it out. What didn't burn was either smoke or water damaged. Did she mention that?"
Chagrin crept over me. “Actually, no. I guess she doesn't have a clear grasp of the facts."
He started moving again. “My mother doesn't have a clear grasp of reality, especially when she's sauced."
We ran the rest of the way home and I kept my mouth shut. He headed up my porch steps, yanked open the screen door, and then turned to me in disgust. “I'd think someone who supposedly helps the public stay healthy would know better than to tank up a seventy-five year old woman."
I crossed my arms in a defensive stance. “I did not tank her up. She arrived uninvited and requested alcohol. I was trying to be a polite hostess."
He stood over her, hand fisted on his hips, shaking his head sadly. “I hate the thought of having to put her in a nursing home someday."
Okay, he got me with that one. I melted and sighed. “If you'll carry her to
my truck, I'll take you both home."
He nodded. “Yes, I guess that's the most practical course of action.” He reached down for her. “Come on, Mama, time to go home."
I held the passenger door open while he lifted her inside. He managed to prop her into a sitting position in the middle, her head lolling on the seat. He turned to me and held out his hand, palm up.
"What?” I asked.
"The keys,” he said with that little lift to his chin.
"The man always drives, right?"
"I like to drive."
I rolled my eyes and plunked the keys in his hand. He took my elbow, helped me into ole Lizzie, and firmly closed the door.
"A man who opens and closes doors. I must be in a time warp,” I muttered.
The five minutes to his front gate passed silently, except for Ruth's mumblings, “Two olives, please..."
He punched in the numbers of his security code and the black iron gate swung open. The ride from the entrance to his house was impressive. The landscaper had left as many of the original trees as possible, filled in empty spots with evergreens, built burmed plantings and a pond with running waterfalls. The house was adorned with two different colors of stone for contrast and dramatic effect. Gleaming glass, elegant lighting, triple garage. There certainly wasn't any duct tape holding Mr. Brooks’ plumbing together.
I helped him deliver his mother to her room as best I could, rushing ahead to open doors, following his terse instructions. He carried her to the bed and I removed her shoes, generally seeing to her comfort. About that time Valerie made her appearance in the doorway.
"What's wrong with Grandma?"
Brooks was still wrestling with the relative in question. “She's fine. Go to your room."
Valerie came in closer. “Has she had a stroke? Should I call 911?"
"I told you she's fine. Go to your room!"
Frustration plain on her face, she yelped, “Bite me!” and fled from sight. A door slammed and a stereo blared on full blast.
Jason winced at the onslaught of rock music and muttered, “That's just we needed."
Now this should have been my cue to leave, but sometimes my co-dependent nature gets the better of me. “I'll go ask her to turn it down."
He gazed at me over the unconscious old lady he was trying to change into a nightgown. I blinked at his expression of vulnerability. Mr. Brooks was not made of stone after all.
"Thanks,” he said. “Maybe she'll listen to you."
Opening her door without an invitation, I saw Val's room was everything Ruth had described and more. Outrageously colored walls plastered with posters and personal pictures, notes and postcards, clothes strewn everywhere and the princess herself lay cast in the middle of an unmade bed, pounding her pillow. I walked over to the CD player and pushed down the volume. She sat up quickly and stared me down.
"Ever heard of tintinitis?” I asked.
"No,” she scowled, “and what are you doing here?"
"Your Grandma paid me a little visit and overindulged in some spirits.” I dumped a few clothes on the floor and sat in a stuffed chair.
Val crashed on her pillows. “She got drunk again. I should have known. I thought he'd locked up the stuff real good this time. He makes me so mad!"
"So I gathered."
Grabbing one helpless stuffed animal after another-and she had quite a collection-she pitched them against the closet door.
"I hate my life.” Bam.
"This place sucks.” Whack.
Assorted cuss words. Thud. Bang. Plop.
My calm lack of response knocked the wind out of her sails. “Finished? That was good. You've learned to only throw unbreakables."
She sighed and settled down in her mound of pillows. “It's like so totally boring here. I don't have any friends."
"You probably don't go to the local public school, do you?"
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Even though Dad wanted to get away from Oklahoma City after the bombing and then the divorce, he still sends me to private school there. So, all my friends are twenty miles away."
"Ever heard of the telephone, e-mail-that sort of thing?"
"I want to see my friends, hang out with them at the mall, walk over to their house-like I did before the divorce.” She hugged a teddy bear. “Everything's changed and it's all my fault."
"How could it be your fault? Seems to me you didn't have much choice in the matter."
She fidgeted and jiggled her toes. Her face was a study in conflict, smudged eyes looking hard and bitter. Her pain reached out grabbed me.
"I'm the one who told him. I saw Mom and John in the kitchen. He was kissing her and I told Dad. Then they got the divorce. I shouldn't have told."
Holy moly.
"Life's a bitch sometimes, isn't it?” I said.
She looked up at me with surprise. “Aren't you going to tell me that it wasn't my fault, that I was just a kid and they were the adults?"
"Sounds to me like your counselor has pretty much covered that. Your Dad does have you in counseling, doesn't he?"
"Well, yeah. But she's a dweeb.” She tilted her head at me. “Your hair is a mess."
I laughed. “It's been a long day.” I looked around the room and spied her vanity that was loaded with every hair appliance and gel known to woman. “You want to fix my hair?"
She shot out of bed. “Really?"
I sat down at her vanity and succumbed to her ministrations. Val was in her element, brushing out the tangles, lifting tresses, looking for inspiration.
"You have good hair,” she said, “lots of body. My hair is too fine."
I studied my reflection in the mirror for a moment. My mother always said I had nice, even features. Auburn hair, hazel eyes. I looked good in greens and browns. And straight teeth are always a plus. But then there's that crooked smile. As a teenager I spent hours trying to even out that smile before a school picture, but it never helped.
Val and I chatted on about school, guys, and favorite movies. We both confessed to loving Disney animated flicks. At one point Brooks ducked his head in to check on us. We booted him out of the girls’ only zone. His relief at avoiding another confrontation was palpable. Manly footsteps thudded down the hallway.
Then things got personal.
"So, Perse, how come you're not married?"
"Well, I came close once, but no cigar."
She was intrigued. “What happened? Did he dump you for another girl?"
I winced as she yanked my hair. “No, thank you very much. Scott was killed in a car accident our senior year in college."
She stopped twisting my hair and stared at me in the mirror. “That's terrible. But, like, you seem so normal. Like I'd expect you to be real sad."
"Oh, I've had my moments, but I had to keep going. I was only twenty-four when Scott died. I was lucky that I had a spiritual foundation. I drew closer to God, spent a lot of time in prayer and meditation and that got me through. Chocolate helped, too."
She looked at me in wonder. “That is so brave, so awesome."
I chuckled at her. “Not really. Say, I know a way you can make some friends around here."
Her eyes narrowed; her voice dripped with suspicion. “How?"
"Join a local church youth group. You ever hear the phrase ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans'? In this little town everyone goes to church on Wednesday night."
She took a bobby pin out of her mouth. “We only go to church on Easter and Christmas. Grandma used to go to the Methodist church by her house. Dad and I went to a Lutheran Church last Easter. It was boring.” She soaked my hair ends with gel.
"Maybe you'd like my church. It's a pretty lively place. The youth group has a lot of fun. I go every Wednesday night and fill in where I'm needed. Sometimes I clean the kitchen after dinner; sometimes they need an extra pair of hands in the nursery. I can hear the music from the youth building really rocking. Bet you'd like it."
"Could Grandma come too?"
"Sure, she
could go to the senior Bible study. Of course, they don't serve martinis."
We giggled and continued playing beauty shop.
By the time I left her bedroom, I had a whole new look. My hair was pulled back, fanned out into stiff gelled spikes, my face a gothic mask with black lipstick, pale powder and kohl lined eyes. I was ready for Halloween.
I strongly considered sneaking out the front door, but something in me didn't want Brooks thinking he intimidated me. (Although he did.) I tip-toed down the polished wooden staircase, through the airy entranceway toward the sound of his resonant voice. He stood in his kitchen at the center island with his back to me, talking on his cell phone and tossing a salad together.
The kitchen was a study in black, white, and stainless steel, gleaming and sterile. Operations could be performed in such a room. No cozy vines embraced the walls. Two, small decorator-chosen pictures hung on a stark background. So many things seemed to be missing. Where were the photos of Val hanging by crooked magnets on the refrigerator? The glass dining table screamed for a bowl of fruit. A colorful wallpaper would add a nice touch. A woman's touch, that's what the room needed.
He growled into the phone. “I want those interrogatories on my desk tomorrow morning. Our discovery cut-off is in thirty-two days."
Hearing me shuffle behind him, Brooks glanced over his shoulder, whirled around, and exploded into laughter. He rested his elbows on the counter, shook his head, and shrug his shoulders in genuine amusement.
Speaking into the cell phone again he said, “I gotta go, Paul. Just finish it up and call it a night. ‘Bye.” He clicked off. “You look like a cross between a vampire and a porcupine."
I sauntered to the counter. “I have so much mascara on, my eyelids stick together every time I blink.” I batted my eyes.
He leaned across the counter toward me. A flair of smile lines around his gray-blue eyes made my stomach dance.