by Wall, Carol
PRAYER FOR MY CHILDREN, AGES 16, 13, AND 10
[Written with Trembling Hand, on the Eve of the Biopsy that Followed a “Suspicious” Mammogram]
May nothing bad ever happen to them, Dear Lord
May they look to the top of the hill
and see me walking toward them, through the meadow
May they never fear abandonment of any kind
May I be well
May I be there
For I’m their Mother.
Amen.
2.
Of Particular Beauty Are the Azaleas
Heavy drops of rain stung my face and peppered my hair as I hurried down the sidewalk toward my front door. I flipped up the hood of my khaki raincoat and lowered my head against the onslaught, which now included pellets of hail. In my rush to get inside, I almost missed the folded piece of paper dangling from the antiquated letter slot that sat low and to the right of our front door.
The paper trembled in the wind like something delicate, alive. I grasped it, guessing it to be some sort of flyer. Maybe an ad for pizza, or perhaps a two-for-one deal at the new Chinese buffet in the strip mall where we bought our groceries. With little thought, I slipped it under my thumb, holding it against the book I was carrying. Inside, I unfolded the mystery page enough to see the general features of a handwritten letter. Dampness had obscured some lines of writing at the top, where the date should have been, but the rest was dry.
Rhudy put his paws high up on my legs and stretched mightily, as if sleeping in his favorite chair for hours had been exhausting. He trotted into the kitchen and sat by the refrigerator for his treat, but I made him wait. Curious now, I went to the dining room table and smoothed the letter open.
It was written in pen and began with a proper salutation, “Dear Mrs. Wall.” The handwriting was distinctive, with narrow letters listing to the right, as if a breeze were trying to blow them off the page. The signature at the bottom, “Giles Owita,” was composed of letters slightly larger than the text of the letter itself. He had written his phone number below his signature.
Dear Mrs. Wall,
Mrs. Driscoll has given me your message. Thank you very much. I took the liberty of stopping by your compound today, even though your vehicle was not in the driveway. Your little beagle peered out at me with happy barks of warning from his window by the door. You are fortunate to have his services. You have a very beautiful yard, with many well-established specimens. Certain plants will benefit from pruning. We might even say they are over-flourishing. Of particular beauty are the azaleas. We will prune them just as soon as they have bloomed, being careful to complete the process before they have set their buds for next year. In the meantime, we can apply certain chemicals, which I am only too happy to furnish, as some remain from another project I undertook across town. We will discuss the further plan when next we meet, but for now, I am delighted to accept the job at your compound. I must go on to another assignment for the evening, but will look forward to meeting you soon.
Erokamano,
(This means “thank you,” in Luo, my mother tongue)
Giles Owita
I stared out the window.
Erokamano.
Could I possibly remember this?
I would like to, just to make him feel at home.
The wind pushed holly branches thick with thorny leaves against the panes of the window. They made a stubborn screeching sound. Heavy drops of hail pecked the glass and caused the glossy leaves to tremble. I sighed, because this particular holly plant, the favorite of a former owner of the house from the 1950s (I’d been told), had been overgrown for years. Holly is a bush that’s more like a tree and grows with a vengeance, especially when cut to the root, a procedure Dick and I had attempted only once, because of the nasty thorns. How would this Giles Owita react to being asked to do a thankless task like that? Would he be up to it? Or even know where to begin? I recalled his look of quiet dignity as he stood by the mulch pile in Sarah’s driveway. He would certainly try to prune the holly, I concluded. He looked conscientious, and would do his best to please.
I wasn’t sure why this note from a stranger had so captured my fancy. Maybe it was my English teacher gene. The letter was longer than it needed to be, and there was a kind of poetry to it. I was enchanted that he’d thought to write at all, that he hadn’t settled for a quick phone conversation, the way most people would have. Then I wondered, Why did he take the trouble to pen a note, instead of calling me? Sarah had told me he was from Kenya originally, and clearly English was his second language. Perhaps he had a heavy accent that made him feel awkward in spoken conversation. If only he knew I once taught English as a second language, maybe he wouldn’t be so nervous. It had been quite a few years since I taught the ESL classes, but how well I remembered the struggles and triumphs of my earnest students from other regions of our whirling planet.
I jotted the Luo word for “thank you” in the margin of my notepad I routinely kept by my side (as a teacher I’ve found they’re a necessity), in case I had occasion to express my thanks to Giles Owita. Sitting at the oval table, I began to daydream—one of my very favorite activities. The wind died down. The rain continued, but was gentler as its tiny droplets tapped the leaves. The antique brick of my neighbor’s house created a pleasing backdrop for the holly.
The man who wrote my note seemed cheerful (the word “happy” appeared twice, and in the next-to-last sentence, he was “delighted,” he said). He did, in fact, seem like the kind of person who might take up a thorny project without complaint. I thought how our neighbors deserved to be rewarded with some pleasant views through their dining room windows, for a change. All that my yard needed was the right person to come along and rid it of imperfections. In an irrational leap of fancy I thought that if that green space outside my window could be made beautiful, then maybe I could return to having hopes for a life where anything associated with me would effortlessly flourish, bloom, delight, and favorably impress.
There was just one teensy problem—a fly in the ointment of my fantasy. There was a line in Giles Owita’s letter that gave me pause.
Of particular beauty are the azaleas.
I read it again, and then looked up, envisioning a scene in which I explained to Giles Owita—in my softest, gentlest tone of voice—that I detested azaleas and wanted all three bushes removed. Also put there by the former owner, the azalea bushes lined up on the downward slope at the left side of our house, and I’d always hated them. I found their competing hues suggestive of miniature golf courses where windmills sliced through beds of multicolored tulips. Or theme parks with gaudy clumps of plantings—the kind of rip-off places where my children used to complain of motion sickness and beg for tacky souvenirs.
I wondered how Giles Owita would react to such an essential disagreement over the aesthetic appeal of azaleas. I told myself that I couldn’t possibly be the first person to dislike something he loved. In any case, my mind was made up. Giles Owita might balk, but something told me that his better nature and impeccable manners would lead him to comply. Not to mention, it was my yard and he would be working for me. That was something I wouldn’t say aloud, because I wouldn’t have to. We’d both be well aware of our relative positions in the matter.
Still, I hated to be disagreeable. So I thought of a compromise. To help the pill go down easier, I’d let Giles Owita help me select what to plant in place of the azaleas. That would smooth any ruffled feathers. I could even visit him at his job at the Garden Shoppe, where I could make a big show of loudly touting his skills, his strength in tugging things out of the ground, his knowledge of fertilizers, and so on. I’d praise Giles Owita in a way that would impress Sarah and her boss, Melanie.
Rhudy gave a little whisper-bark. It was a reminder about his promised treat, and probably not the first one he’d given me while I was busy planning. Giles Owita’s note described our littl
e beagle with such warmth and humor. That part of the letter made me feel as if I’d somehow known Giles Owita before, though of course, that wasn’t possible.
My eyes passed over the sentence: You are fortunate to have his services. I glanced at Rhudy. Funny, but I’d never framed it for myself this way—that being a dog was Rhudy’s job. After Phil, our youngest, had been diagnosed with his thyroid problem and found himself exhausted and lonely, he begged us for a dog, something we swore we’d never have. But we couldn’t say no to Phil, not after everything he’d been through. I still remembered that year’s Saint Francis Mass at the Catholic school where I taught. The younger children all brought their pets to the altar for a blessing from the priest. There were puppies on red or purple nylon leashes, cats peering over children’s shoulders, parrots carried in cages, and even beloved goldfish circling in bowls. The year we brought Rhudy into our lives, Phil was one of those children walking up to the altar. Rhudy easily fit in the palms of Phil’s little hands. When he lifted his puppy toward the priest, I remembered the words of Genesis, in which God declares that everything He made is “Good.” Rhudy was certainly one of God’s blessed creatures, and a deep gratitude grew in our hearts as, day by day, the lively puppy joined Phil for his frequent naps. Eventually, Phil’s health was restored. Giles Owita was certainly right about Rhudy—we were fortunate to have his services.
In the kitchen, I tossed Rhudy a treat. He deftly snagged it in midair.
Giles Owita.
Just the name was intriguing.
Compound.
It sounded elegant, exotic.
Giles Owita seemed inclined to elevate and honor everyone and everything. I told myself that I would call him tomorrow and thank him for leaving such a lovely note.
Erokamano. (I remembered.)
3.
A Rose Between Two Thorns
I became single-mindedly focused on my mission to transform our yard. I had barely finished mulling over Giles Owita’s letter before I decided to compile a list of my own to prepare for his visit the following week. I grabbed my grocery pad and set my pen against the narrow page:
1. Please remove azaleas.
2. That holly on the driveway side . . . trim a little? (& watch for thorns)
3. Help with our grass!
I scribbled away, adding more projects and ideas, some with question marks. What to plant in place of the azaleas? More boxwoods? No, we had too many of those already.
The phone rang and it was Dick. I knew I should have been listening attentively to details about his business trip that had taken him out of town until midweek. Instead, as he explained the dilemmas of his clients, a well-heeled couple with a second home at the beach, my mind drifted. Maybe rhododendrons to replace the azaleas? Sarah told me that sometimes even our local supermarket, Foodland, sold rhododendrons. We needed groceries anyway, so I decided to drive over and take a look.
The temperature had dipped into the upper forties and a steady drizzle kept my windshield wipers busy. The wheels of my van made sounds like paper crinkling on the rain-slick pavement. As I stepped out of the van in the Foodland parking lot, my red umbrella bloomed like a giant flower above my head. I raced against the slant of droplets falling at an angle. My eye took in some random potted plants, but I didn’t see rhododendrons. Oh, well. We still needed groceries.
I yanked a cart from the stack. In the produce section, fluorescent lights made a buzzing sound. I inspected a Red Delicious apple, idly turning it over in my hand before changing my mind and letting it roll from my fingertips, back into the bin. Farther down the row, I paused again, examining a head of organic lettuce. It was small, but supple and richly green. I slid it into a plastic bag and put it in my cart.
I lifted my eyes to the aisle markers overhead, pondering where to turn next, when I noticed a familiar-looking figure working at a distance.
Was it . . . Giles Owita?
No. Absolutely not. He couldn’t work at Foodland, bagging groceries. He worked at the Garden Shoppe. And he worked in people’s yards. How could he have the time to work here as well?
Yet the face was unmistakable. And he gave off a distinctive energy, as if he idled at a higher speed than everybody else. I’d found the author of my charming, hand-delivered note, but he wasn’t sitting at a desk waxing poetic or even tending flowers in a garden. Instead, engaged in conversation with a customer, he lowered celery hearts into a paper bag with care, as if it were the most delightful and important job in the world.
I noticed a carousel rack holding gift cards just a few feet away from the line where Giles Owita was bagging groceries. I pretended to be engrossed in browsing and was careful to keep the rack between me and the register. There could be no sane argument for why I felt the need to spy on him, and yet for some reason I was compelled. Giles Owita looked to be about my age, around fifty. He wore khaki pants, a white knit shirt, and his navy Foodland apron tied at the waist. He leaned over the counter, snagging groceries from the rolling belt, comfortable even when he stood off-balance. He seemed to like making things easier for others. As I watched, he grasped a can of soup that rolled beyond the cashier. He deftly scooped up a receipt that slipped from a customer’s grasp to the polished floor. His hands performed repetitive tasks, but he never seemed bored or resentful. He seemed like a man who’d already found the peace that everyone on God’s green earth was searching for.
Something else struck me as I watched him work. He seemed more comfortable, more at ease than when I’d seen him working in Sarah’s yard. Was it because he knew that I was watching him then? I wondered again what he’d thought of the white neighbor lady hitting the brakes. Did he feel threatened when I slowed so abruptly, just enough to stare at him, but not to raise a hand in greeting? Was my creeping vehicle suggestive of neighborly disapproval?
I should have stopped the van, gotten out, and introduced myself. Then, we might have exchanged the brief “hello” that changed everything between two people. How could I have gotten such a simple thing so wrong? Oh, Lord, I prayed. It’s me again—Carol. Please help me to be the kind of person my parents raised. I’d always prided myself on being hypersensitive to racial insult and misunderstanding. I so hoped that I hadn’t been guilty of making Giles Owita uncomfortable. My parents would have been utterly disgusted with me if I had—that was not what a “quality person” did, my mother would have said. A quality person knew that we were all the same under the skin.
When I was five years old, in the summer of 1956, my parents, younger sister, and I traveled to Mississippi to visit our cousins who lived in Pascagoula, on the Gulf Coast. It was the first time in my life that I had been faced with segregated bathrooms and water fountains, and at the age of five I had no idea what I was seeing. The farther south we traveled from our home in southwest Virginia, the more we noticed the strange signs. How well I remembered my mother looking down at the sidewalk when I asked what the signs on the two identical water fountains meant. The silence was heavy as we stood before those fountains, all of us hot and thirsty in the days before air-conditioning. There was no way for me to know what could cause my mother’s lovely eyes with their long lashes to look so sad. There was something she didn’t want to tell me. It was an odd sensation, because in normal circumstances, she was always eager to explain the world to us. I couldn’t read yet, but it was perfectly obvious that the letters on the placards (“Colored” and “White”) were there for a reason. I don’t recall the words my mother spoke, but I do recall the weary regret in her voice and the way she held our hands protectively as we stole a drink, or so it seemed, from one of the fountains. She, on the other hand, couldn’t bring herself to take a sip.
My parents were of one mind about this. Daddy ran a small hotel, and he had caused a stir in our hometown of Radford by renting a room to a “Negro.” My mother, an only child who grew up during the Depression, had decided that the home she built with Daddy woul
d, first of all, be rich in wisdom and in loving kindness. No one would ever be excluded from her universe or ours. We were as good as anyone, we were taught, but better than no one. Daddy would sometimes quote from FDR’s fourth inaugural speech, about being “citizens of the world,” and added, in a warning tone, that a child of his would be that, and not “an ignoramus or a country bumpkin who looks down on other people.”
Examining my conscience, still hiding behind the greeting cards, I made a decision. With my eyes on Giles Owita, I rolled my cart to take a place in his line. I would do now what I hadn’t done before. I would introduce myself the proper way.
Several people were ahead of me in line, and closer in now, I heard their conversations. Giles Owita glanced up in my direction, but if he recognized me, he didn’t show it. He continued being cheerful as he lifted groceries from the conveyor belt, somehow managing to train his attention on people instead of the things rolling by him. His eyes were dark, I noticed, but somehow bright as well. His goodwill seemed infectious. He spoke a few words here and there, such as: “Let me reach that for you,” or “Our grass is thirsty for this rain. Eh?” He had a lovely, lyrical accent, and I noted how other shoppers actually seemed reluctant to turn away from him to take their groceries home.
I realized that one of them, a younger woman with a baby, was a neighbor of ours whom I hadn’t recognized at first. She always seemed to me to wear a permanently sour expression. But today she exchanged pleasantries with Giles Owita as she pushed the curls of her dark brown hair away from her pretty face. Her baby’s fingers reached to touch her lips. She kissed the baby’s cheek and he rocked in her arms with delight.
I turned in time to see a young man approach the line, carrying a cone of green tissue paper containing roses mingled with baby’s breath. He was newly married, I decided. Or recently engaged. Maybe his wife had just had a baby. Yes, that was it, I thought. It rang true. He cradled the ruby-red blooms like a child. He took his place in line, behind me. His cheeks were flushed and his hair stuck up a bit at the crown.
