T Is for Trespass

by Sue Grafton

  Now Solana sat across the street and a few doors down from the address she’d been looking for. This was in response to an ad she’d seen over the weekend. She’d dismissed the possibility at first since there wasn’t a telephone number listed. As the week went on and no other jobs of interest appeared, she’d decided the house might be worth a quick look. The setting didn’t seem promising. The place had a neglected air, especially compared with the other houses on the block. The neighborhood was close to the beach and consisted almost entirely of single-family dwellings. Sandwiched here and there, between the small depressing houses, she could see a new duplex or fourplex in the Spanish-style architecture common to the area. Solana’s guess was that many of the residents were retired, which meant fixed incomes and little in the way of discretionary spending.

  To all appearances, she was of a similar economic status. Two months before, one of her brothers had given her a banged-up convertible he was eager to junk. The car she’d been driving had thrown a rod, and the mechanic told her the repair bill would be two thousand dollars, which was more than the car was worth. At the time, she had no cash to spare, and when her brother offered her the 1972 Chevrolet, she’d accepted—though not without a certain sense of humiliation. Clearly, he thought the junker was good enough for her. She’d had her eye on a better car and she’d even been tempted to take on the hefty payments, but good sense prevailed. Now she was grateful she’d settled for the secondhand Chevrolet, which resembled so many other cars parked along the street. A newer model would have sent the wrong message. No one was interested in hiring help who appeared to be more prosperous than they.

  So far she had no information about the patient beyond the brief clues in the ad. It was good he was eighty-nine years old and tottery enough to fall and hurt himself. His need for outside help suggested there weren’t any close relatives willing to pitch in. These days, people were self-centered—impatient about anything that interfered with their own comfort or convenience. From her perspective, this was good. From the patient’s, not so much. If he were surrounded by loving kids and grandkids, he’d be no use to her at all.

  What worried her was his ability to pay for the in-home care. She couldn’t bill through Medicare or Medicaid because she’d never survive official scrutiny, and the chances of his having adequate private insurance didn’t look good. So many of the elderly made no provision for long-term disability. They drifted into their twilight years as though by mistake, surprised to discover themselves with limited resources, unable to cover the monstrous medical bills that accrued in the wake of acute, chronic, or catastrophic illness. Did they think the necessary funds would fall from the sky? Who did they imagine would shoulder the burden for their lack of planning? Fortunately, the last patient she’d taken on had ample means, which Solana had put to good use. The job had ended on a sour note, but she’d learned a valuable lesson. The mistake she’d made there was one she wouldn’t make again.

  She debated the wisdom of inquiring about a job in such a modest neighborhood, but finally decided she could at least knock on the door and introduce herself. Since she’d driven in from Colgate, she might as well explore the possibility. She knew certain wealthy types took pride in maintaining a humble facade. This fellow might be one. Just two days before, she’d read an article in the paper about an elderly woman who’d died and left two million dollars to an animal shelter, of all things. Friends and neighbors had been stunned because the woman had lived like a pauper, and no one suspected she had so much money tucked away. Her prime concern was for her six ancient cats, which the estate attorney had ordered euthanized before the woman was even cold in her grave. This freed up thousands of dollars to pay the subsequent legal bills.

  Solana checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She was wearing her new glasses, a cheap pair she’d found that were a close match to the glasses on the Other’s driver’s license. With her hair dyed dark, the resemblance between them was passable. Her own face was thinner, but she wasn’t worried about that. Anyone comparing her face to the photo would simply think she’d lost weight. The dress she’d chosen for the occasion was a crisply ironed cotton that made a comforting rustling sound when she walked. It wasn’t a uniform per se, but it had the same simple lines and it smelled of spray starch. The only jewelry she wore was a watch with big numbers on the face and a sweeping second hand. A watch like that implied a quick and professional attention to vital signs. She took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked good. Her complexion was clear and she liked her hair in this new darker shade. She tucked her compact away, satisfied that she looked the part—faithful companion to the old. She got out of her car and locked it behind her, then crossed the street.

  The woman who answered the door was in her thirties and had a gaudy look about her—bright red lipstick, dark red hair. Her skin was pale, as though she seldom exerted herself and never went outdoors. She was definitely not a California type, especially with those eyebrows plucked to thin arches and darkened with pencil. She wore black boots and a narrow black wool skirt that hit her midcalf. Neither the shape nor the length was flattering, but Solana knew it was the current rage, as were the dark red nails. The woman probably thought she had an eye for high fashion, which wasn’t the case. She’d picked up the “look” from the latest magazines. Everything she wore would be dated and out of style before the new year rolled around. Solana smiled to herself. Anyone who had so little self-awareness would be easy to manipulate.

  She held the paper up, folded so that the ad was in view. “I believe you placed an ad in the paper.”

  “I did. Oh, how nice. I was beginning to think no one would ever respond. I’m Melanie Oberlin,” she said, and extended her hand. Solana might as well have been a fly-fisherman, casting out her line.

  “Solana Rojas,” she replied, and shook Melanie’s hand, making sure her grip was strong. The articles she’d read all said the same thing. Keep the handshake firm and look your prospective employer in the eye. These were tips Solana committed to memory.

  The woman said, “Please come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Solana stepped into the living room, taking in the whole of it without any visible evidence of curiosity or dismay. The house smelled sour. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige, shabby and stained, and the upholstered furniture was covered in a dark brown crepey fabric she knew would be gummy to the touch. The lamp shades were tinted a deep parchment color by the infusion of large quantities of cigarette smoke over a long period of time. She knew if she put her nose against the drapes, she’d inhale decades’ worth of secondhand tar and nicotine.

  “Shall we sit down?”

  Solana took a seat on the sofa.

  This was a place where a man had lived alone for many years, indifferent to his surroundings. A superficial order had been imposed, probably quite recently, but the rooms would have to be gutted to eliminate the many layers of grime. She knew, sight unseen, that the kitchen linoleum would be a dead gray and the aged refrigerator would be small and hunched. The interior light would be out and the shelves would be crusty with years of accumulated food spills.

  Melanie looked around, seeing the place through her visitor’s eyes. “I’ve been trying to tidy up since I got into town. The house belongs to my uncle Gus. He’s the one who fell and dislocated his shoulder.”

  Solana loved her apologetic tone because it signified anxiety and a desire to please. “And your aunt is where?”

  “She died in 1964. They had one son who was killed in World War Two and a daughter who died in a traffic accident.”

  “So much sadness,” Solana said. “I have an uncle in much the same situation. He’s eighty-six and living in isolation after the loss of his wife. I’ve spent many weekends with him, cleaning, running errands, and preparing food for the coming week. I think it’s the company he enjoys more than anything.”

  “Exactly,” Melanie said. “Uncle Gus seems grumpy, but I’ve noticed how his mood improves wi
th company. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Thank you, no. I had two cups this morning and that’s my limit.”

  “I wish I could say the same. I must go through ten cups a day. In the city, we think of it as the addiction of choice. Are you a native of California?”

  “Fourth generation,” Solana said, amused at the roundabout way the woman had come up with to ask if she was Mexican. She hadn’t actually said she was, but she knew Melanie Oberlin would imagine a once wealthy Spanish family. Solana said, “You yourself have an accent, no?”

  “Boston.”

  “I thought so. And this is ‘the city’ you referred to?”

  Melanie shook her head in the negative. “New York.”

  “How did you hear of your uncle’s unfortunate accident? Is there another family member here in town?”

  “I’m sorry to say there’s not. One of the neighbors called. I flew out expecting to stay a few days, but it’s been a week and a half.”

  “You came all the way from New York? That was very good of you.”

  “Well, I didn’t have much choice,” Melanie said. Her smile was self-deprecating, but it was clear she agreed.

  “Family loyalty is so very rare these days. Or that’s my observation. I hope you’ll forgive the generalization.”

  “No, no. You’re right. It’s a very sad commentary on the times,” she said.

  “It’s unfortunate there was no one else living close enough to help.”

  “I come from a very small family and everyone else is gone.”

  “I’m the youngest of nine. But no matter. You must be anxious to get home.”

  “‘Frantic’ is a better word. I’ve been dealing with a couple of home health care agencies, trying to get someone on board. So far, we haven’t been able to make anything work.”

  “It’s not always easy to find someone suitable. Your ad says you’re looking for a registered nurse.”

  “Exactly. With my uncle’s medical problems, he needs more than a home companion.”

  “To be truthful, I’m not an RN. I’m a licensed vocational nurse. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent my qualifications. I do work with an agency—Senior Health Care Management—but I’m more like an independent contractor than an employee.”

  “You’re an LVN? Well, that’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?”

  Solana shrugged. “There’s a difference in training and, of course, an RN earns far more than someone of my humble origins. In my own behalf, I will say that most of my experience has been with the elderly. I come from a culture where age and wisdom are accorded respect.”

  Solana went on in this vein, inventing as she went along, but she needn’t have bothered. Melanie believed every word she said. She wanted to believe so she could make her escape without feeling guilty or irresponsible. “Does your uncle need around-the-clock care?”

  “No, no. Not at all. The doctor’s concerned about his managing on his own during his recovery. Aside from the shoulder injury, he’s been in good health, so we might only need someone for a month or so. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Most of my jobs have been temporary,” she said. “What are the duties you had in mind?”

  “The usual, I guess. Bathing and grooming, light housekeeping, a little laundry, and maybe one meal a day. Something along those lines.”

  “What about grocery shopping and transportation to his doctor’s appointments? Won’t he need to be seen by his primary care physician?”

  Melanie sat back. “I hadn’t thought about that, but it’d be great if you’d be willing.”

  “Of course. There are usually other errands as well, at least in my experience. What about the hours?”

  “That’s up to you. Whatever you think would work best.”

  “And the pay?”

  “I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of nine dollars an hour. That’s the standard rate back East. I don’t know about out here.”

  Solana covered her surprise. She’d meant to ask for seven fifty, which was already a dollar more than she usually earned. She lifted her brows. “Nine,” she said, infusing the word with infinite regret.

  Melanie leaned forward. “I wish I could offer more, but he’ll be paying out of his own pocket and that’s as much as he can afford.”

  “I see. Of course, in California, when you’re looking for skilled nursing care, that would be considered low.”

  “I know and I’m sorry. We could maybe make it, you know, like nine fifty. Would that work for you?”

  Solana considered. “Perhaps I could manage, assuming you’re talking about a straight eight-hour shift, five days a week. If weekends are necessary, my rate would go up to ten an hour.”

  “That’s fine. If it comes down to it, I can contribute a few dollars to help offset the expense. The important thing is that he has the help he needs.”

  “Naturally, the patient’s needs are paramount.”

  “When would you be able to start? I mean, assuming you’re interested.”

  Solana paused. “This is Friday and I do have a few things to take care of. Could we say early next week?”

  “Would Monday be at all possible?”

  Solana shifted with apparent uneasiness. “Ah. I might be able to rearrange my schedule, but much would depend on you.”

  “Me?”

  “You have an application you want me to complete?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ve covered the basics, and if something else comes up, we can discuss at the time.”

  “I appreciate your confidence, but you should have the information for your files. It’s better for both of us if we put our cards on the table, so to speak.”

  “That’s very conscientious. Actually, I do have some forms. Hang on a second.”

  She got up and crossed the room to a side table where her handbag was sitting. She took out a folded set of papers. “You need a pen?”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll complete the application at home and bring it over first thing tomorrow morning. That will give you the weekend to verify my references. By Wednesday, you should have everything you need.”

  Melanie furrowed her brow. “Couldn’t you go ahead and start work on Monday? I can always make calls from New York when I get home.”

  “I suppose I could. It’s really a matter of your peace of mind.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m sure everything’s in order. I feel better just having you here.”

  “Your decision.”

  “Good. Why don’t I introduce you to Uncle Gus and I can show you around.”

  “I’d like that.”

  As they moved into the hall, she could see Melanie’s anxiety surface again. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. Uncle Gus hasn’t done much to keep it up. Typical bachelor living. He doesn’t seem to notice all the dust and disrepair.”

  “He could be depressed. Elderly gentlemen in particular seem to lose their zest for life. I see it in their lack of personal hygiene, indifference to their surroundings, and limited social contacts. Sometimes there are personality changes as well.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I should warn you he can be difficult. I mean, really, he’s a sweetheart, but sometimes he gets impatient.”

  “Short-tempered, in other words.”

  “Right.”

  Solana smiled. “I’ve seen it before. Believe me, the shouting and tantrums roll right over me. I don’t take any of it personally.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Solana was introduced to Gus Vronsky, in whom she took an avid interest, though she said very little to him. There was no point working to ingratiate herself. Melanie Oberlin was doing the hiring and she’d soon be gone. Whatever the old man was like, foul-mouthed or disagreeable, Solana would have him to herself. There’d be plenty of time for the two of them to sort themselves out.

  That Friday afternoon, she sat at the round Formica table that served as her desk in t
he dining area of her small apartment. Her kitchen was cramped, with scarcely enough counter space to prepare a meal. She had an apartment-sized refrigerator, a four-burner stove that looked as inadequate as a toy, a sink, and cheap wall-mounted cabinets. She paid bills from this table, which was usually covered with paperwork and therefore useless for eating purposes. She and her son ate sitting in front of the television set, resting their plates on the coffee table.

  She had the Vronsky job application in front of her. Close by she had the copy of the application she’d taken from the Other’s personnel file. Fifteen feet away, the television thundered, but Solana scarcely noticed. The living room was actually the long part of the L-shaped combination living-dining room with no discernible difference between the two. Tiny, her Tonto, was sprawled in his recliner, his feet elevated, his eyes fixed on the set. He was hard of hearing, and he usually had the volume turned up to levels that made her wince and encouraged her close neighbors to pound on the walls. After he dropped out of school, the only work he could find was as a bagger at a nearby supermarket. That didn’t last long. He thought the job was beneath him and he quit six months later. He was then hired by a landscape company to mow lawns and clip hedges. He complained about the heat and swore he was allergic to grass and tree pollens. Often he went to work late or he called in sick. When he did show up, if he wasn’t properly supervised, he’d leave when it suited him. He quit or was fired, depending on who was telling the tale. After that he made a few attempts to find work, but the job interviews came to nothing. Because of his difficulties making himself understood, he was often frustrated, lashing out at random. Eventually he stopped making any effort at all.

  In some ways, she found it easier to have him at home. He’d never had a driver’s license so when he was employed it was up to her to take him into work and pick him up afterward. With the shifts she worked at the convalescent home, this presented a problem.

  At the moment, he had a beer balanced on the arm of the chair and an open bag of potato chips resting against his thigh like a faithful hound. He munched while he watched his favorite program, a game show with lots of sound effects and lights. He liked to call out the answers to questions in that strange voice of his. He didn’t seem embarrassed that all his answers were wrong. What difference did it make? He enjoyed participating. In the mornings he watched soap operas, and later in the afternoon, he watched cartoon shows or old movies.