by Chris Fabry
He walked with his arms out like he was flying a plane through the crosswalk.
“I wonder if those dogs went to heaven. Do you think animals go to heaven?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know you don’t know because who can know something like that for sure? I’m asking you what you think.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“You can guess. Like a baseball game. Who’s going to win the World Series? You have to guess. That’s half the fun, don’t you think? And then finding out the answer and whether or not you was right.”
“Questions that don’t have an answer aren’t worth asking.”
“Really? So how do you know that?”
She didn’t answer.
“Okay then, what about people? Do people go to heaven when they die?”
She stopped and turned. “Can we talk about something else?”
He stared at her as if trying to read the words that hung in the air. “Sure, I’ll talk about whatever you want. How about that story with the fellow you get me mixed up with? What was his name again?”
“Gavroche.”
“Yeah, Gavroche. Is that a sad story?”
She walked a few more steps before she answered. “I’m not in the mood to talk tonight, Du’Relle.”
“Something bad happen at the old folks’ home? Did somebody die? No wonder you don’t want to talk about heaven.”
“My friend Dr. Crenshaw was taken to the hospital.”
“He’s like your best friend there, isn’t he?”
She nodded.
“That’s too bad. Sometimes old people get sick and hang on and on, like my grandmamma—she was in her eighties and had the ’beaties, and they’d take her to the hospital in an ambulance and then she’d come home and go back. That was when we lived in North Carolina, before we moved here. She had to have her foot cut off and then she up and died.”
The Laundromat was ahead in a strip mall flanked by a secondhand furniture store and a Walgreens. The light from the Laundromat bathed the parking lot, and moths flew in formation, covering the windows. Every time the door opened, a swarm flew inside.
“You’re going to miss that old man, aren’t you, Miss Treha?”
She stopped. His eyes were as big as saucers. Pleading for something she couldn’t give. Something she didn’t have herself.
“He’s not gone yet.”
“Right. Well, I can talk to you about stuff if you want.”
Only he didn’t say stuff; he said another word. “Don’t use that kind of language.”
“Sorry, Miss Treha; I didn’t mean to cuss. I just thought maybe I could give you some of the riddles like he did. I remember you told me about him playing games with you and s—” He stopped himself. “And stuff like that.”
They walked across the parking lot.
“I got one. The letters is S-G-U-R-D.”
“You can’t just spell it backward; it has to be mixed up. Spelling it backward makes it too easy.”
Treha grabbed her book and turned the bag upside down into the first empty washing machine. She liked to be at the front, where she could see everything, especially this time of night. Three women folded clothes at tables around the room. A disheveled man with a Diamondbacks hat and red shorts read a newspaper next to the Coke machine by the restrooms.
The boy watched her dump the clothes. “Aren’t you going to put any soap in? It won’t get clean unless you use soap. That’s what my mama says.”
“I can’t—the soap hurts.”
“That’s the first time I ever heard of soap hurting a person. What does it do to you?”
“Rashes. Bumps on the skin. And it itches.”
She put the quarters in the slots and water sprayed. Just as she started to close the lid, she saw a piece of paper sticking out of a pocket and remembered Dr. Crenshaw’s letter. She grabbed the wet envelope and put it on the table to dry, then found a plastic chair and sat with her book.
“What’s that?”
“A letter I forgot to mail.”
Du’Relle ambled back to the vending machines and explored the circumference of the room before returning and pulling himself up on the table. He swung his legs, black matchsticks. He wore no socks, just dirty tennis shoes with the emblem of some animal whose ears and face had worn off long ago. There was a hole at the end of the right shoe, where his big toe stuck through. The shoelaces were a broken, distant memory.
“People say when you get older, you’re supposed to get closer to God, you know? Because you have less time to live, I guess. I don’t think you get close to God just because you get old. That’s like saying everybody who’s a kid has fun all the time. That ain’t true. They’s plenty of old people meaner than snakes. And they’s teenagers who want to know about God. Those folks that come by and take me to church in they little bus—that fellow who drives it ain’t much older than you and he does it. So thinking about God doesn’t have anything to do with your age, that’s what I think.”
“I didn’t know you went to church.”
“Yeah, every Sunday the little bus comes. Mama works Sundays, so I go by myself. And then Wednesday nights they have this thing where you memorize Bible verses and play games and . . . stuff. The people are nice and they usually have cookies . . .”
He stopped midsentence and glanced behind him. Treha followed his gaze out the window and saw three hooded figures.
“Huh-oh, this don’t look good.” Du’Relle jumped down from the table. “We should get out of here and come back when your clothes are done.”
She patted the plastic chair beside her. “Sit.”
“Miss Treha, you don’t understand. These guys are—”
She focused on him like a laser and clenched her teeth. “Sit.”
The boys entered the Laundromat and something else came with them. A presence? A feeling? Treha stared at her book, cross-legged in the chair, and Du’Relle stared at the floor.
The three were loud, laughing and snickering. The leader was the shortest of the three, squat and built like a bowling ball with his pants sagging. Her peripheral vision caught his glance and then the man looked at the other women. Then came cursing and more laughter as they walked toward the restroom. The man with the newspaper held it higher, blocking his view.
The three entered the restroom, but one exited again, skinny, with cornrows in his hair and his hands under his armpits. Waiting his turn like a hanging bag of bones, with the shifting eyes and feet that showed a child with a full bladder. Scared and trying to act tough and hardened when he simply had to go to the bathroom.
Bowling Ball exited along with the other, who kept his hoodie pulled tight. Cornrows quickly disappeared into the bathroom.
Bowling Ball walked to the front and stopped near Treha. “Hey, little lady. I’ve seen you before. You live around here?”
Treha didn’t speak, didn’t look up.
“That can’t be your kid; he doesn’t look a thing like you. You babysitting?”
“Looks like she’s not gonna answer you, dawg,” Hoodie said.
“Aw, she’s just a scared white girl. Judging us by appearance. Ain’t that right, big girl?”
The Laundromat was eerily silent except for the sludge-sludge of water in washers and the tick and rattle of dryers.
Bowling Ball grabbed the book from Treha. She didn’t react, just kept her head down.
Du’Relle jumped. “Give it back!”
Treha calmly, evenly took Du’Relle by the arm and guided him back to the seat. “Sit.”
“You leave her book alone, creep!” Du’Relle said, spit flying, fire in his eyes. Thin muscles tensing.
“Calm down, little man,” Bowling Ball said. “All I’m looking for is a little respect.”
Hoodie cursed. “She’s as fat as you are, dawg. What you been eating, girl? Everything?”
“And why you move your head like that?” Bowling Ball said. He looked at Hoodie. “You see that? It�
�s like watching a tennis match, back and forth, back and forth.”
Cornrows came out of the bathroom and slowed as he approached. “What’s going on?”
Bowling Ball looked at the book cover, then back at Treha. “You a college girl? Or you just trying to act smart?”
She didn’t move, except for the regular motion. “You don’t get respect by imposing your will. Respect is earned.”
The three moved back an imperceptible distance, visibly shocked at the voice, at the resolve.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew who you were talking to,” Cornrows whined.
Bowling Ball edged closer and made a gun with his hand, thumb up, index and middle fingers together, and put them against her temple. “I can put a cap in your skull right now and walk away and never think twice. You understand me?”
“Hey!” the man in the red shorts yelled. He stood, the paper dangling by his side. “Get on out of here. Give her the book and get out.”
The women kept folding, heads down.
Bowling Ball cocked his head sideways like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took a step toward the man. “You telling me what to do?” He pulled the sweatshirt up, revealing the butt of a gun.
“We’re asking you nicely. Just leave. Let us do our laundry. Let her read her book.”
“Man, these people need to be taught a lesson,” Hoodie said.
Treha closed her eyes. Something stirred inside, the old feelings, the old increase in heart rate she had managed to keep reined in. She spoke again, and the words were the release. “You act like you don’t care that your pants are dragging on the ground, but you do care. You want to look tough.” She glanced above them and their eyes followed. “When the police watch the surveillance video from the camera, they’ll see that you’ve violated your parole. And they’ll come looking for you.”
Bowling Ball leaned close, his voice like gravel. “You have no idea what I can do to you.” He slammed the book into her chest. “Take your eyes back, Jane.”
He glanced at the table and saw the wet letter. Treha lunged for it as he grabbed it. The letter tore in half as she ripped it from his hands.
“Fat and stupid,” Bowling Ball muttered.
The others laughed as they walked out of the laundry and into the night.
It was nearly eleven when Treha and Du’Relle walked home, the clothes still damp and stuffed into the mesh bag. Du’Relle trained the flashlight in a circle, hitting the pavement as well as the buildings.
“How you know about guys like that?”
“I read a lot.”
“How’d you know the big guy had been to prison?”
“I didn’t. I guessed. If he hasn’t been to prison, he’s heard stories and doesn’t want to go, in spite of his bravado.”
“His what?”
“Bravado. It means false courage. He was sure of himself because he had a gun.”
“You like to take chances, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. But I don’t like bullies. Especially when the person being bullied is me.”
“Well, next time let me handle it.”
They walked through the moonlight and the jiggling high-intensity flashlight. Du’Relle was quiet, deep in thought. Finally he spoke.
“Why did he call you Jane and say that about your eyes?”
“He saw the title of my book. He thought it said eyes on the front, but it doesn’t.”
“What’s it called?”
“Jane Eyre. It’s a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
“A woman named Jane Eyre.”
He shrugged. “She go to the Laundromat a lot?”
Treha sighed. “It’s about a girl who is orphaned and falls in love with a man who is married, and she won’t compromise.”
He rolled the words around and she saw his lips moving, saying, “Compromise.”
“What’s that mean?” he said.
“Compromise is when you know something is wrong but you do it anyway. And you make yourself think it’s okay.”
Du’Relle nodded. “So you like that book?”
“It’s my favorite.”
They walked farther. When they came within sight of the apartment, Du’Relle said, “How can you read if your eyes move like that?”
“You can do whatever you want if you want to badly enough.”
“Is that why you don’t go to college? Because you didn’t want to go bad enough?”
They crossed the street.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Let me ask you a few.”
“Okay.”
“When is your father coming home?”
Du’Relle hesitated and the flashlight went off. The string from the bag cut off Treha’s circulation, so she shifted the clothes to the other shoulder.
“Mama doesn’t talk about it. I think they’re having problems.”
“You think they’re getting a divorce?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not. He’s all the way over in ’ghanistan and they talk on the computer sometimes.”
He moved into the shadows as they came to the stairs and the fractured concrete that led to her apartment. Du’Relle leaned against the railing as if his tour of duty was complete.
“You were brave back there,” he said. “Standing up to those guys. You didn’t look scared.”
“That’s because I wasn’t.”
“How could you not be scared? I was ready to pee my pants.”
A car pulled into the parking lot, one headlight out and the other so cloudy the light was a muted brown. The engine knocked and pinged and sputtered after Du’Relle’s mother turned off the ignition.
“Good night,” Treha said. “Thank you for walking with me.”
“Good night, Miss Treha,” the boy said. He flipped on the flashlight and ran to the car, arms swinging. When he reached it, he opened the door and hung on to it until his mother climbed out.
Inside, Treha stared through the plastic window blinds that were always slightly askew. There were voices in the night, the sounds of late-night television programs and laughter. They passed through the walls and vents and down corridors. Passing sirens and car alarms.
She watched and listened, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter. She would never have opened it. It was a crime to open other people’s mail. It pained her to think she had let Dr. Crenshaw down and hadn’t mailed it like she said.
She turned on the light and pulled the ripped page from the envelope.
Piecing the thick paper together, she studied the man’s “doctor’s scrawl,” as he called it. The words were tiny and slanted upward on the unlined page. Some were smudged by the water and others were almost illegible because of the shake of the man’s hand, but after a few moments she relaxed and followed the scribbling.
Dear Calvin,
It has been many years, but I know you’ll remember me and our working relationship. I now live in Tucson, at a retirement home where they do everything but think for me. Unfortunately, thinking is all I do these days. I can’t seem to find release from the deeds of my past. I don’t say this as an accusation or to cast aspersion. I’m sure you have a perspective on the situation now that we can both look back on it.
The lawsuit has added to my thinking on this, of course. I’ve read about the legal action and the progress in the case against the company. I believe my information might help the plaintiffs. I know it would damage Phutura.
My intent is not to blame or stir up trouble. I’m simply wondering if you have similar misgivings. I’ve come to the point in my life where I can see more clearly. I suppose age will do that. It would be easier to forget, move on, and put all that behind. But the truth has a way of hanging on to you. I’ve experienced a change deep in my soul. I’m no longer concerned about ramifications. I want to make things right.
There is one other reason for contacting you—a young lady I’ve
found. You will remember the test case that was abandoned. This girl is remarkable but impaired. I believe we are culpable. I will explain further if you call me. Perhaps we could talk. My contact information is at the bottom of this letter.
I hope this reaches you and that you are well.
Sincerely,
James Crenshaw, MD
Treha let her eyes rest, as much as they could, on the sentence that said, a young lady I’ve found. Could he be talking about her? Was she the “impaired” person he described?
She studied the letter as if it were a word puzzle. Did he know something about her life that she didn’t? If so, how? And if he died or was in a coma, how would she ever get the information from him? He was leaving a riddle, a life jumble, and she couldn’t decipher it.
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 12
Wide shot of Miriam Howard’s office.
Miriam rummaging through books, putting them in boxes.
Close-up of nursing textbooks.
Close-up of Miriam’s hands.
Some people talk about hating going to work. I feel sorry for those people because I’ve never felt that way, at least not here. I get to speak into the lives of some amazing people, courageous men and women who choose this as their final address.
The people who come here are like family. It’s a very spiritual place. A caring place. I brought my own mother here when she couldn’t take care of herself, although it was an arduous process to get her to consider it. She put up a real fight after my father died, but it was the last fall she had that helped her see: She wasn’t safe. She couldn’t do it anymore.
So she came here and made friends, much to her surprise. And she thrived and was a real part of the community in those last few years.
Wide shot of Miriam pulling into the parking lot, getting out, walking to the front door.
There’s a flutter in your heart when you know you’re going to see someone you love. And each morning as I drove up, I could see her through the window of the front room. Just sitting there waiting, reading the morning paper. I would pour us both a cup of coffee and we’d sit together and talk about the news and whatever was on her mind. Most of the time it was memories she had of my father or some concern she had about her finances. How she was going to pay the bill for the lights we kept on in the hall. She’d ask me that every day: when was she going to get the bill for those lights we kept on all day?
