Meadowlark

by Sheila Simonson

  Possibly she saw my skepticism, for she added, "Mind you, I'm not griping. Mama had been helping us buy Meadowlark Farm, and I'd already got the Organic rating for our meat and produce. I'm proud of that. When I inherited my father's estate, though, I could think about using the farm as an educational center for People who Care about the Earth."

  Anyone who speaks in capitals makes me uneasy. Bianca Fiedler was making me uneasy, partly because I'd begun to like her. "You've built a convention center?"

  She dimpled. "Not exactly. It's more like a small hotel. Papa's influence. He's retired now but he helped with the design. We have room for twelve to fifteen students in residence plus adjunct classes through the college. Maybe your husband told you about them."

  He hadn't. It was finals week and I'd barely had a chance to explain Bianca's offer. Jay had driven my parents to the airport in Portland the day before and got home late.

  Bianca looked a little disappointed when I shook my head no. "Shoalwater Community College didn't even have an ag program, would you believe it? This is one of the most rural counties in the state. So I underwrote a certificate in Sustainable Agriculture and set up six internships at the farm. The graduates can transfer to WSU or the Evergreen State College for their bachelor's degrees. The program's working pretty well. Three of our former interns have already entered graduate school, so I thought it was time to set up a series of workshops. This one's the first, and I didn't realize the work it would entail. I do need help, Lark."

  What could I say? I read her brochure. It sounded as if she knew what writers would want. The first expert would give a talk followed by open discussion, writing sessions, and another solid day of workshopping the results. The second would deal with a different topic and follow the same pattern. Part of the early morning was to be devoted to a short excursion--to Shoalwater Bay, up the Coho River, over to the port. Evening would be social, though it was clear Bianca intended to propagandize a bit. The two speakers had already sent her extensive bibliographies.

  She said her staff could handle meals and housekeeping. She was doing all the registration and speaker arrangements. She wanted me on the spot to see that everything went smoothly because she intended to be out with her tractor spreading lime and compost. It was that time of year. Also the sheep would probably start lambing--they tended to do that whenever you scheduled something important in springtime, she said. I took her word for it.

  The set-up seemed workable. The fee wasn't splendid for six days' labor but neither were my credentials.

  I said, "It's a shame you couldn't get Tom Lindquist."

  She had the grace to blush, but she made a quick recovery. "Was he at the signing? I've never met him in person."

  "Yes."

  "He sounds like an interesting man, and I love his books, but I think you may be able to deal with the organizational side of things better than he could."

  "Tom's an old hand at workshops."

  She smiled. "Like your mother?"

  "Ma invented workshops. I don't think it's hereditary, though."

  Bianca laughed. Then she pleaded some more, and I waffled. I had meant to strip the floor in my dining room and redo the room, floor to ceiling, during my vacation. The truth was, though, that my six weeks off didn't coincide with any of Jay's academic holidays, and the joys of remodeling are overrated. In the end I caved in and agreed to run Bianca Fiedler's workshop.

  That evening I confessed what I'd done over dinner.

  "Sucker." Jay lifted a forkful of canneloni and chewed with evident pleasure. I was learning to cook.

  "Tom's exact word."

  "Tom is a shaman."

  I toyed with my pasta. "If you have serious objections, Jay, I'll call Bianca and tell her no. It's not too late."

  He set his fork on the plate. "Do you want to do this?"

  I cut a bite of canneloni. Stuffed with spinach and ricotta it was. "I don't know. It sounds interesting. She's invited Eric Spielman and Francis Hrubek." I shot him a glance. He was frowning but the frown was thoughtful. "I'll make them autograph all their books for the store."

  "Shrewd move." The scowl lightened. "Is the workshop a tax scam? The classes and internships are kosher. I asked the Dean."

  That was quick. I'd told him Tom's reaction Sunday evening.

  "Bianca may get a write-off, probably does, but she's genuinely interested in educating farmers and writers."

  He sighed and took a sip of wine. "Okay, but watch out for Keith McDonald. He stepped down as department head because of 'student complaints'."

  "Sexual harassment?"

  "I don't think he's ever done anything that would provoke a successful harassment suit, but he's pushing the limits. Secretaries avoid him, and the women in the English department are pretty frank. They don't like him."

  Somehow I wasn't surprised, and I began to understand Bianca's lack of enthusiasm for the father of her three children.

  Jay polished off his canneloni. "Maybe I'm just jealous."

  "I trust not," I said austerely.

  The next day Bianca called me at the store. I had a customer so I put her on hold while I showed the woman where my children's books were.

  When I came back on the line Bianca thanked me again for agreeing to supervise the workshop then said, "Are those apartments above your store vacant?"

  "One is." A long-time tenant occupied the other. The old gentleman, a widower, had been mayor of Kayport for many years. He said he like living in the center of his town. I liked him. So he stayed.

  "One of my managers, Hugo Groth, is looking for a place starting January first." She cleared her throat. "Hugo's a little odd. He rides a bicycle and dresses like the Salvation Army, but he's solvent, believe me, and quiet. Lives alone." She hesitated again. "He's one of our old friends from the commune. I like him." Be kind, she was saying.

  What was I letting myself in for? I told her to send him in around closing time, and I'd take him up to look at the apartment.

  "What was his name again?" I got out a pen.

  "Hugo Groth. He's a master gardener. Grows all my field veggies."

  I sighed. "Okay. Look, I have to go." The customer was moving purposefully toward me with three very expensive picture books in hand.

  "Thanks, Lark." Bianca hung up.

  Hugo Groth. I stared at the name for a moment. Then I complimented my customer on her choices and rang up the sale.

  Chapter 2

  Hugo Groth was a small man. I didn't expect that. I was closing when I saw him ride up through a zesty December rain on his sturdy mountain bike. I watched him lock the bike to a parking meter. My last customer had left at six-thirty--so much for the Christmas rush--and it was five of eight. The wind drove the rain through the dark in gray curtains. Spooky.

  Groth peered in the window, checked his watch, and huddled under the overhang. I set the book I was shelving in place and strode to the door. "Mr. Groth?"

  He looked up at me like Jack at the giant. I am six feet tall, and he was probably five-five. "Yes?"

  "I'm Lark Dodge. Please come in."

  "I'll drip on your carpet." He had a deep voice for a small man, deep and calm.

  "It's been dripped on all day." I backed away from the open door so he could enter. "Come in."

  He stood in the doorway a moment, blinking at me and letting his eyes adjust to the light. When he removed the hood of his rainjacket I saw that his hair was receding and pulled back in a stringy pony tail. I thought he was in his mid-forties. His eyes were light gray and rather beautiful, wide-set and thickly lashed, but he suffered from an active case of what looked like cystic acne. The boils distorted otherwise regular features. His mouth was thin, his nose indeterminate. He was short, skinny, and ugly.

  The silence got to me. "Ms. Fiedler said you were interested in renting my apartment. Why don't you come into the back room and take off your rain gear? Would you like a cup of hot coffee? You must be cold."

  "I don't drink coffee." His voice was de
ep and calm, unchallenging.

  My irritation eased. "Herb tea?"

  He nodded.

  I gave up the effort at conversation, set the CLOSED sign out, and led him to the back room. I fixed him a mug of Celestial Seasonings Sleepytime while he got out of the rainsuit. It was GORE-TEX, not exactly Salvation Army fabric, but he was wearing faded jeans, a ratty plaid shirt, also faded, and a boring gray sweat shirt beneath the jacket. His sneakers looked third hand. They were wet.

  He hung the raingear on my coat rack and accepted the mug with a nod, warming his hands before he sipped. The hands looked hard-used, as if he didn't bother with gloves much.

  He looked around my office and the piles of boxed books, taking everything in.

  Nervous, I made a final entry on my computer and used the mouse to back out of the system. The screen blanked.

  "I like books."

  The comment was so unexpected I jumped. "I have to check the display room and turn the lights off. Would you like to see the store?"

  He nodded.

  I gave him a tour. His silence made me want to babble. I told myself I didn't have to and kept my remarks brief.

  He lingered over the small gardening section, but what seemed to interest him most was the reading nook I'd made out of the side window that overlooked the garbage cans.

  Like all the windows in the Robinson building, the side window had a wide sill, wide enough to sit on. I'd blanked the panes with rice paper and put a pad on the narrow ledge. A small person--I had children in mind--could curl up there and read. There was a larger sitting area with easy chairs and a rug by a franklin stove, but he just gave that a glance. The window seat seemed to fascinate him. He stood by it a good minute and even touched the pad.

  At last I dimmed the lights and led him to the back, grabbing my keys.

  "You don't have much on gardening." His tone wasn't accusatory. He was making an observation.

  I bit back a defensive reply. "I don't know enough to know what to order." I unlocked the interior door that led to the hallway. The original shopkeeper must have lived over the shop. "Why don't you give me a list of titles? I'll order them."

  "All right."

  My other tenant was watching TV. I could hear the sound in the hall, but when I switched the light on in the apartment and closed the door behind us the noise went away. There was no street noise either. The building was solid.

  I decided to let him look without a tour guide. The place had high ceilings and big rooms, and the carpets and fixtures were plain but new. I'd had my crew repaint the walls. The apartment reminded me of the flat I'd had over the Calfirst Bank when I first moved west.

  I stood by the windows that overlooked Main Street and watched the wind and rain whip at the city's gaudy Christmas decorations. There wasn't much traffic at that hour. I could see straight down the street to the boat harbor. Lights danced in the rain and the wind rattled the windowpanes.

  I couldn't hear Groth. He moved quietly, but lights in the other rooms flashed on and off. The refrigerator door closed. Eventually he came to stand beside me. We looked at the street.

  He touched the wide sill of one of the three sash windows. "I could sit here."

  "Yes."

  "And see the river."

  "Yes. In daylight. Except when it's foggy." I told him the rent and the rules. "Do you smoke?"

  "Sometimes I smoke dope, but outdoors."

  I looked at him. He didn't smile, and his tone was calm and unapologetic. Good thing Jay isn't here, I thought. Jay was inclined to the letter of the law. "Well, er, I asked because I'd prefer not to rent to a smoker. Mr. Williams next door smokes, but he's lived here for years and he's pushing eighty, so I didn't feel right asking him not to. Cigarette smoke clings to the paint and drapes." I was babbling. I drew a breath. "Do you want to rent it, Mr. Groth?"

  "You should call me Hugo." He peered through the blown rain at a passing car. "Yes. I like it. Can I move in on the twentieth?"

  "Of December?"

  He nodded. "I live at the farm. It gets crowded during the holidays."

  "Uh, I don't see why you can't." I was feeling pressured again. Shouldn't I check him out or something? Maybe he had lousy credit or a long string of pot busts. I thought back to my conversation with Bianca. She liked him. But did I like Bianca?

  He pulled a check book from the breast pocket of his shirt. "Got a pen?"

  "Downstairs."

  We traipsed down, and I showed him the street entrance. "I don't have the keys here tonight. I'll bring them tomorrow, and you can pick them up here when you're ready to move in."

  "Okay." He wrote out his check for first and last month's rent plus damage deposit, shook my hand, and wriggled into his damp rain-gear. I watched him unlock his bike and head off into the storm. Did he have to ride all the way back to Meadowlark Farm? I thought about racing out and offering him a ride home, but he was already out of sight.

  I went back for my handbag and coat, locked up, and drove home, feeling edgy. At no point during the brief meeting had Hugo Groth smiled, or said please or thank you. He hadn't praised the store layout or the apartment or explained himself. Bianca had said he was odd. He was very odd. I hoped I hadn't rented the apartment to a serial killer.

  I went about the business of selling books and getting ready for Christmas. When my brother-in-law came home from Portland, I put him to work in the store and got some of my own shopping done. Christmas, complete with long-distance phone calls to Jay's mother and my parents, came and went. Some time in all that, Hugo Groth moved in above the store, but he was so quiet I half-forgot him.

  One night around closing time he came into the store. I was trying to hustle three impatient customers through the ringing up process, so I gave him a smile and went on verifying credit cards.

  He disappeared into the shelves. When I could set the CLOSED sign up at last, I remembered him and walked to the gardening shelf. He wasn't there, but I caught a glimpse of movement on the other side of the store. He was sitting in the window seat reading a paperback. "Hello, Hugo."

  He looked up, blinking as if I had startled him.

  "Do you want me to ring that up? I'm closing."

  "Oh. No, it's just Wendell Berry. I have this one." He stood up and shut the book. "I brought the list."

  List? My turn to blink.

  He looked mildly disappointed. "The list of horticulture books you wanted." He handed me a sheaf of neatly stapled papers.

  I glanced through it. A printout ten pages long. With full information on the titles including ISBN numbers and publishers. "That's very thoughtful." Also impossible. I had shelf room for perhaps ten more books in that section.

  He stood up. "Those are the best. I coded them. The starred ones would be good for beginners and amateurs. You don't want too many in a store this size."

  At least he was tracking. I saw only a few asterisks. I relaxed a little, and I hope my voice warmed. "Thanks. I'll do an order tomorrow."

  He strolled to the personal essay shelf and put Berry in his place.

  "Is the apartment working out for you?"

  "Yes. I've been taking my bike upstairs and leaving it at the landing. Mr. Williams said he didn't mind."

  "Good." I hoped the bicycle wasn't a hazard, but the landing at the top of the stairs was large and well-lit.

  "Can I leave through your side door?"

  "Sure. I'll get the key."

  He followed me as I tidied things and dimmed the lights. I set the list of books on my desk. "Have you read all these?"

  "Except for the last six. Those I got off the Internet forum. They sounded good."

  I flipped to the last page. Small presses, two university presses. I got my keys and purse, and took my coat from the rack. "Well, thanks again. The list will be a useful reference. Customers are always asking for recommendations."

  He ducked out with a flip of his hand, and I locked up and went home. I ordered the five books he had starred by regular mail and had two
of the ones he hadn't read sent by Federal Express. When they arrived I left him a note.

  He came down around seven looking freshly scrubbed. The acne glowed purple-red. For once I wasn't in the throes of a sale, though another customer was browsing, so I greeted Hugo and pulled the two books, one a cheap paperback, almost a pamphlet, and the other a beautiful hardcover dealing with the horticultural philosophy of a famous Zen master. The photography in that one was dazzling, but it was pretty expensive.

  I handed them to him. "Here. I know you didn't order the books, so don't feel you have to buy them."

  He had the dazed look of a child with a birthday surprise. He took the books off to the window seat without a word.

  The other customer bought a Stephen King and left. I pottered around, dusting, dealt with another customer who came in to pick up a cookbook, and began to think about closing up. It was almost New Year's and dark. I was thinking of closing earlier in January. I drifted, tidying books, wondering what Jay had in mind for dinner. It was his turn to cook.

  "Lark?" Hugo stood by the cash register holding the two books.

  I came over. It was the first time he'd said my name.

  "I want both of them."

  "Great." I started to ring up.

  "Check okay?"

  I smiled. "Yours are."

  He nodded, serious, and wrote out a check. "How'd you get them so soon?"

  "Federal Express."

  His pen hovered. "That's expensive. Shouldn't I pay for shipping?"

  I said, "I owe you. Your list is going to be very useful this spring."

  "Okay." He flushed. "Do you mind if I drop in once in a while? I don't want to be a nuisance, but I like to browse."

  My heart sank, but I said, "Feel free, Hugo, and if I can get you anything else let me know. I guessed on those two." I told him about the starred books I'd ordered, and he seemed interested. Finally he left via the front door.

  I was half afraid he would haunt me, hanging out every night, because he was clearly a solitary man, but it was a week before he came in again. And he did browse, taking his finds to the window seat for a good long look. He bought a paperback and ordered another of the books from his list. When he came in a couple of days later and just browsed and left, I decided he wasn't going to be a pest. I half wished he'd talk a little. It was January by then, the weather was wet and turbulent, and business was slow. I could have used a little companionship. However, Hugo was not a talker. He never smiled and he never thanked me, but he was slowly becoming a presence in my life.