by Judy Duarte
“No need. I’m a coffee drinker anyway. And I’ve had my fill of it this morning.”
They sat for a while, watching Analisa play with a little red-haired girl, a child who wasn’t one of the regulars.
“Analisa makes friends easily,” Walter said.
“Yes, she does.” Hilda took a sip of tea. “Since she’s an only child and would spend every spare minute in her bedroom, coloring and playing by herself, I like to get her outdoors as often as I can. Besides, she really enjoys the park.”
“How about you?” Walter asked. “What do you enjoy doing? On your day off, I mean.”
Hilda shrugged. “I visit the library. Sometimes I go to the museum.”
“I take it you live around here,” he said.
“I have a small apartment a couple of blocks away.” She took another sip of tea.
“My place is nearby, too. It’s completely paid for now—thank goodness. I feel sorry for retired folks who have a mortgage or rent to pay on a fixed income. Of course, you’re employed, so it’s probably not a problem for you.”
“Working at my age wasn’t part of the plan. I made a foolish mistake, and now I have to face the consequences.” Hilda took another drink of tea. “I used to own a home and had a nest egg, too.”
“What happened?”
“I made a bad investment. I’m afraid it was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever done in my life. And now I’m stuck living in a rundown apartment complex, where the other tenants are young and loud.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, the hardest part is realizing that it’s true what they say: ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’”
He wanted to quiz her more, but hated it when others pried into his business. So instead, he nudged her with his arm. “Don’t beat yourself up for the mistakes you made in the past. At least, that’s the advice I was given. And believe me, I’ve made my share, which I’m sure were a lot worse than yours.”
Hilda slid a doubtful glance his way.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the market and didn’t realize I’d forgotten my dentures at home?”
“That must have been embarrassing.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Walter chuckled. “They were handing out free samples that day, and I’d skipped lunch. I was starving, so I stopped by a display of trail mix. I threw back one of those little paper cups full of nuts and clumps of oats and all kinds of hard, crunchy things. Once I chomped down on it, I remembered my teeth were still on the nightstand.”
“That must have been a real hoot.” Hilda slid him a grin. “I would have liked to have seen it.”
“We may as well laugh about our follies, huh?” Walter nudged her arm again, as if they’d been friends for years and had grown used to giggling over their antics and mishaps. “It’s easier that way.”
“Well, I’m afraid my foolishness had a lasting consequence.”
“You seem to be making the best of it.”
“Am I? I find myself moping around about it, when I used to be a happy person. And I tend to snap and snarl at others.”
“You gotta look on the bright side,” Walter said. “That’s what my friend Carl used to always tell me.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Hilda drank the last of her tea, then refilled her cup. “The trouble is, I should have known better. After all, I’ve always prided myself in having a good head on my shoulders. Of course, that’s no longer the case.”
“What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer for the longest time, and when he’d just about decided she wasn’t going to, she said, “I’ve been pretty forgetful lately, and I have reason to believe my mind isn’t…well, it isn’t what it used to be.”
“Tell me about it.” Walter half-snorted, half-sniggered. “The Golden Years aren’t what they’re cracked up to be, are they?”
“You’ve got that right. My arthritis is acting up like old fury again today, and you’d think I’d be able to remember to take my medicine.” Hilda ran her index finger along the rim of her plastic cup as if it was an expensive goblet and she was hearing the validating sound of crystal ringing. “You know, I haven’t shared this with anyone, and I’m not sure why I am now. But I’m really growing concerned about my forgetfulness.”
“I have that problem, too. Remember the teeth? And I never can find the darn television remote control, which is a real shame since I’m the only one living in the house.”
“A certain amount of that is part of the aging process, I suppose, but my mother and her sister both developed dementia. Or maybe it was Alzheimer’s. Who knew for sure back then?”
Walter reached out and placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. But that doesn’t mean you’ll get the same thing.”
She smiled, although he suspected it was forced. “I can’t stand the thought of becoming like Mama and Aunt Rose, and it scares the liver out of me. What if Sam—Mr. Dawson—decides I’m too old to be a nanny? Too negligent, too scattered these days?”
Walter caressed the top of her hand, hoping his touch could warm the chill of her fear. “Don’t fret about it. I’m sure he realizes a little memory loss is to be expected at our age.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Her gaze snagged his. “But I truly hope you’ll keep what I said to yourself.”
“You’ll find I’m good at keeping secrets.”
She turned her attention back to the playground, and Walter glanced down at his liver-spotted hand, where it covered Hilda’s. He slowly removed it, letting it plop back into his lap. He didn’t usually reach out to people like that, so the boldness of his touch surprised him. But he’d sensed the fear of senility was more real for her than for most old folks, and his heart had gone out to her.
They both went back to watching the children play, yet he suspected Hilda’s mind was miles away—stewing about her forgetfulness, most likely. There wasn’t much a person could do about growing older, though.
“You know,” he said, unwilling to give up the intimacy they’d been tiptoeing through, “my mind isn’t what it used to be, either. But I don’t stress too much about losing my memory, probably because there are some things better forgotten.”
“Like what?”
“The bad memories.” The ones he used to drink to forget. But now that he was on the wagon, it was a constant struggle to keep them at bay.
“What are you trying to forget?” she asked.
“If I spilled my guts, it would stir them all up again.”
“What could be that bad?” she asked.
“Killing someone.”
“You killed someone?” She didn’t get up from the chair, but he watched her draw away from him just the same.
“During the war. In Korea.” At times the nightmares of bloody battles woke him still. Walter reached over and patted the top of her hand again, enjoying the contact more than he dared admit. “But let’s not get into that.”
“All right then.” She nudged him with her arm in a way that seemed a bit…playful, he supposed, although flirty had come to mind.
There were more memories he’d like to forget. And even though he’d broached the subject and it might make him feel better to unload them, he was leery about going on and on about his shortcomings when it came to being a husband and stepfather. Especially when this chat had him thinking that maybe—if he didn’t blow it—he and Hilda could become friends. And if that were the case, she didn’t need to hear him list his faults.
They sat quietly a bit longer, enjoying the fresh air and the rustle of leaves overhead.
Walter watched little Analisa run up to Hilda and hand her a baby doll. “Mrs. Richards, will you please hold Lucita for me?”
“Yes…” Hilda paused for a long moment, then slowly took the doll, “…honey.”
As the child skipped back to the playground, Walter said, “She sure is a cute little tyke.”
Hilda nodded. “I know. But it’s unsettling when that
happens.”
“When what happens?”
“When I can’t remember her name.”
Chapter 8
Maria stood at the kitchen sink, washing breakfast dishes and humming the tune of a song she’d learned in Spanish as a child. Some women didn’t like household chores, but she wasn’t one of them.
She loved everything about her home, a three-story Victorian that was one of eight still remaining on Sugar Plum Lane, a quiet street in the heart of Old Town Fairbrook.
The kitchen, with its pale yellow walls and Formica countertops, had been remodeled about twenty years ago and was ready for another renovation. But Maria wouldn’t change much—even if she had the money to do so. She wanted it to remain just as she remembered it.
When Tía Sofía had been alive, the warm, cozy interior often bore the hearty aroma of a pot simmering on the stove or something fresh from the oven—cinnamon rolls, pumpkin bread, pan dulce. So in keeping with the tradition and hoping to pass on the same pleasant memories to her children, Maria cooked and baked, too. Earlier today she’d made oatmeal cookies. And later this afternoon, she would prepare albóndigas soup, a family favorite.
As she rinsed the cast-iron skillet in which she’d scrambled eggs and chorizo for breakfast, she faced the kitchen window, which was adorned by a white eyelet valance on top and small potted plants and ferns along the sill.
She peered into the backyard, which was looking more and more like a jungle these days. Her aunt, who’d had a green thumb and loved flowers, had created a garden showcase over the years and would be heartsick to see it now, although Maria suspected she’d understand.
A couple of months ago, while trying to start the lawnmower, Maria had jerked numerous times on the rope to turn over the engine until a pain ripped through her abdomen, causing her to drop to her knees. She’d known enough to stop what she was doing, go into the house and take it easy, but she’d bled some and experienced strong contractions that continued well into the evening.
She hadn’t called the doctor, though.
When she’d first learned that she was expecting her third child, she’d considered having an abortion, but hadn’t been able to go through with it. At the time, she’d no longer had her tía to fall back on, so when it appeared she might lose the baby after all, she’d decided to let nature take its course.
Deep in her womb, the little one kicked, as if letting his mother know he wasn’t too happy about the manner in which he’d been conceived, either. And that he thought it was horribly unfair of her to blame him for any of it.
It was enough to make her conscience cringe.
A light rap-rap-rap sounded at the back porch door, and Maria wiped her hands on a yellow-checkered dish towel before answering.
Eleanor Rucker, looking older and more frail than ever, stood on the stoop, her curly gray hair uncombed, her shoulders slumped.
“Good morning, Ellie. Come on in.” Maria held open the door and waited as the elderly woman shuffled into the house.
Ellie had been a dear friend and neighbor of Sofía’s for years, but at eighty-four, her health was failing. Her grandson had been encouraging her to put her house on the market and move in with him, so, like Maria, she stood to lose her home, too.
Maria certainly could understand Ellie’s reluctance to give up her independence. Still, at her age and with her medical problems, she really ought to be closer to family—an option Maria no longer had.
Ellie, bless her heart, realized that and sympathized. Recently, she’d offered to babysit so Maria could continue to work. But the poor woman had arthritis in her back and a heart condition. So, while touched by the suggestion, Maria thanked her, yet declined. She wasn’t comfortable leaving Ellie with two active kids, one of whom was a toddler.
The elderly woman scanned the small kitchen. “Where are Danny and Sara?”
“Watching a cartoon movie on television.”
Maria pulled out a chair for her neighbor. “The coffee’s decaffeinated, and it’s still fresh. Let me pour you a cup.”
“Don’t bother. I can’t stay. My grandson is picking me up shortly. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later this morning, but to tell you the truth, I think it’s a setup.”
Maria took a seat beside the older woman. “What do you mean?”
“The doctor and my grandson are probably in cahoots. I figure they plan to team up on me and tell me again that it’s time to sell my house and move in with my grandson and his wife.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Ellie let out a bone-weary sigh. “Resigned to it, I suppose. I had a scare last night. Woke up and didn’t know where I was. As I fumbled around in the dark, I tripped on the cat and fell.”
Maria reached across the table and caressed her neighbor’s arm. “Are you all right?”
“I got a bruise on my backside and a knot on my head.” Ellie lifted a clump of curls, revealing a black-and-blue lump. “It could have been worse, though. At least I didn’t break a hip.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Maybe you should get a nightlight.”
“Maybe so.” Ellie clucked her tongue and slowly shook her head. “Poor Pretty Boy. I nearly scared him out of all nine lives. He leapt to the top of the hutch and hasn’t come down yet.”
Ellie was known on the street as the cat lady, but the only one she had left was a frisky young tabby who was too hyper for his own good.
“And speaking of Pretty Boy,” Ellie said. “My grandson’s wife is allergic to animal dander, so when the time comes, I’ll need to find a home for him. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take him?”
A pesky feline that seemed to have a flying squirrel in his pedigree? Maria could hardly take care of the responsibilities she already had, but she didn’t have the heart to tell Ellie no. “Sure. If you need to move, I’ll keep your cat.”
Ellie’s eyes glistened, and as the tears spilled over, she swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I appreciate that.”
“Aw, Ellie. I’m so sorry.” Maria wished there was something else she could say, something more she could do.
“I know, but that’s life.” The woman slumped in her seat. “You know what they say, ‘There’s a time to be born and a time to die.’”
Maria placed her hand on her womb, felt her baby stir. Reality and resignation settled over her, as it had for her neighbor. It was just a matter of time and life as Maria knew it would be changing, too.
Ellie reached into the pocket of her housecoat and withdrew a business card. “I asked for two of these last Sunday. This one’s for you.”
The small white card, which had blue and gold lettering, also bore the smiling face of William “Billy” Radcliff, a Realtor.
“That fellow attends my church,” Ellie said. “I don’t know him personally, but the woman who gave it to me assured me he was fair and honest.”
Maria wanted to hand the card back, to tell Ellie, Thanks, but I won’t need it.
Instead, she took it.
“How are you feeling?” the older woman asked. “Your time must be getting near.”
“I’m doing all right, I suppose. The doctor said I might go into labor early, but even so, the baby should be fine.”
Another wave of anxiety slid over Maria, shoving the budding resignation aside. She couldn’t help wishing she weren’t pregnant and wondering what she’d done to deserve being backed into a corner like this.
“It must be tough having kids and no husband to support you.”
It was. But even if her ex was still in town and not locked up in a prison up north, he wouldn’t have been much help.
That boy is trouble, her tía used to say. He’ll find a way to break your heart.
And he had.
“I wish there was something I could do to help you,” Ellie said.
Maria reached across the table, took the older woman’s hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be okay.”
“I’m sure y
ou will.” Ellie slowly got to her feet. “I won’t keep you, dear. I just wanted to make sure Pretty Boy had a home. And to give you that Realtor’s card.”
Maria watched Ellie walk away through a blur of tears. She’d been trying so hard to hang on, but it was too late. As if on cue, the baby shifted in her womb, reminding her that it would all be over soon.
A time to be born…
…and a time to die.
Maria suspected Ellie had been quoting the Old Testament, but a golden oldie by The Byrds began to repeat in her mind—“Turn, turn, turn…”
She studied the card she’d been given, then forced herself to pick up the telephone and make the call she’d been dreading. Several minutes later, she had made an appointment on Wednesday morning to meet with Billy Radcliff and show him the house.
It had been the right thing to do, the only thing to do, yet as she scanned the small, cozy kitchen, she began to weep, first softly, then with gut-wrenching sobs.
Under her breath, she cursed her ex-husband for ruining her life, for dashing her dreams.
Tía Sofía had seemed to think that God would work it all out somehow, but if He’d truly had a part in all of this, Maria couldn’t see any evidence of it.
“Mama?” Danny asked from the doorway.
Her back was to him, so she reached into the napkin holder on the dinette table, grabbed a handful to use as tissues, and quickly wiped her eyes. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
Maria blinked back her tears the best she could, then turned and forced a smile. “Yes, mijo.”
“What’s the matter? You’re crying.” The boy made his way to where she sat at the dinette table and placed his hand on her knee. The worry in his gaze nearly turned her heart on end. She didn’t want him to see her like this—broken and feeling sorry for herself.
“These are happy tears,” she lied. “I was counting all my blessings.”
And she really should have been.
She wrapped him in her arms and kissed his cheek. “Why don’t we celebrate our good fortune at the park today?”
