by Wall, Carol
The person in line ahead of me was an elderly man in a flannel shirt and zip-up vest. He seemed annoyed as he checked his watch. The cashier announced his total and he responded by handing her a clutch of dollar bills before digging in the lining of his vest for coins. Quickly, Giles Owita supplied some change from a pocket of his apron. He said something to the elderly man that I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was it seemed to loosen some knot of tension in the older man’s shoulders.
A teenage girl with smoke-colored eye shadow and a butterfly tattoo on her wrist had taken her place behind the man with the roses. She was quick to offer a coin to the cause herself. “Here,” she said to the guy with the roses. He put the quarters in my hand and I played my role in the chain by passing them along. The elderly man’s narrow face took on a smoother and more pleasant look. After that, it seemed to me that we were all connected—me and Giles Owita; a seemingly gruff old man; a young girl with purple hair and a silver nose ring; a man rushing off to some important event in his life; and even my typically cranky neighbor, who was now extending a hand into the air as if to say she needed assistance.
Oh, goodness. I hoped she wasn’t barking some sort of order at Giles Owita. She could be quite ill-tempered.
A moment passed before I realized—she was simply greeting someone.
Me.
Her neighbor. Remember, Carol?
I waved back.
“How are you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise that she was being so friendly. She closed the space between us with a few eager steps and I noticed the lovely auburn highlights in her hair. It tumbled freely, brushing her cheekbones.
“It’s hard to shop with a baby on your hip,” she said.
“Oh, honey. I know. I’ve been there. Three times over. But you look great, because all mothers of beautiful babies look great.”
I tickled her baby on his foot and he giggled. The neighbor mom seemed happy as she left. I placed my items on the counter, one by one. Giles Owita didn’t seem aware that I was studying him as the cashier, Marie, made stabs at chitchat. I answered her remarks about the weather and a flavor of coffee creamer I’d picked out. This close to him, I noticed once again the aura of calm that seemed to surround Giles Owita. It was something I felt, but couldn’t explain. Finally, I spoke my first words to him. “Don’t I recognize you?”
I swiped my debit card, and Giles Owita looked quizzically toward me, but not directly at me. He lowered his eyebrows, concentrating.
“You’re Giles Owita,” I said, as if he didn’t know.
“Yes. I’m Giles,” he said. “Have we met?”
Time seemed to slow as I extended my hand. I took note of every detail in the way he shook it, managing a mix of gentleness and firmness in his grip. Again, he didn’t look me in the eye.
Marie folded a stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth and studied us both intently. I watched as Giles Owita stacked my six-packs of cola and ginger ale in a paper bag. Another customer added herself to the line behind the girl with the purple hair.
“I’m Sarah Driscoll’s neighbor. Carol Wall,” I said. “You left me a note today. We missed each other, though. I’m sorry, and I . . .”
His face lit up with a smile. “How are you, Mrs. Wall?”
And that was when my good intentions fell by the wayside. Suddenly I’d forgotten about my pledge to just introduce myself like a normal person. While Giles Owita had managed to put everyone else on our grocery line at ease, his remarkable calm had the effect on me—in this moment at least—of rendering me awkward and unsure of myself, graceless in the face of such grace. “I’ll make this really quick,” I said. “The next time you come to my yard, I’d like to be there and give you a tour. There’s a list I’m working on, and I want to go over it with you. Maybe if you call me, we could set a time at your convenience.”
“All right.” He nodded. “We live out near the airport, but my travels often take me past your house. You have a lovely compound, Mrs. Wall.”
I searched the depths of my purse and with a quick, apologetic glance at those in line, I hastily retrieved Giles Owita’s letter, unfolded the page, and showed him the sentence that gave me pause the first time I’d read it.
“I have only this one concern,” I said, tapping the page with an index finger as he began to lift my bags of groceries into the waiting cart.
He leaned closer to look. Seeing his own note, inscribed with the distinctive, right-leaning script that flowed from his pen, he flashed his million-dollar smile. Instantly charmed, I began to feel a melting of resolve.
“Those azaleas at your compound will be beautiful,” Giles Owita said. “Soon, we are going to see their deep pink blooms.”
Oh, Good Lord.
“They only lack some helpful chemicals,” Giles Owita cheerfully informed me. “Which I can easily supply from my garden shed, as noted here.”
Far back in the line, someone said, “Let’s get a move on.”
I was embarrassed by this, and yet undeterred. “I have this quirk,” I said, my nerves on edge. “I’ve never liked azaleas. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”
Giles Owita looked regretful, but accepting. “What time would be best for me to visit you, Mrs. Wall?”
Thank God. He was going to cooperate with no more arguing, however polite. And I would no longer have to live with azaleas.
Before I could set the time for our meeting, the new store manager stepped in. I recognized him from the oversized poster in the entrance, one that rather unattractively showed every line and pore on his ruddy face. He was in his early forties, and his broad shoulders stretched his fitted button-down shirt.
“Why don’t you help this nice young lady out to her car?” he said to Giles Owita, all the while looking at anyone and everyone but Giles. “I’ll take your place here, buddy-boy.”
“Buddy-boy?” I found myself repeating with a frown. “You’re kidding—right?”
“It’s what I call my son, and he’s an honor student!” the manager proclaimed.
I looked around me, as if to say, Can you believe this? The others waiting in line seemed to disapprove as well, but they didn’t speak up. Our moment of togetherness and connection had evaporated. They fidgeted and frowned as if they agreed with me but didn’t want to make a scene.
If Giles Owita shared my anger, he didn’t show it. I was amazed to see the way he pulled his shoulders back to stand more proudly.
“Look, if you want to blame someone for the delay . . .” I said to the manager.
But he pointedly directed his attention toward the next customer in the line. Giles Owita stepped away from the station. He retied his Foodland apron for a neater fit. His movements were measured and unhurried. Meanwhile, I fumbled and stewed. I grasped my receipt and turned away from Marie without offering the customary pleasantries. I felt my cheeks grow red. I slapped the folded letter back into my purse, along with my receipt. Being called “buddy-boy” was probably the least of the insults that a person of color had to endure in a place like Roanoke, and yet Giles Owita seemed at peace. His hands gripped my grocery cart. “Are you ready to go, Mrs. Wall?”
Outside, the rain had stopped. We stepped off the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have spoken with you at a later time.”
“It is okay. You shouldn’t worry.”
I stole a glance at him. To my ears, his pronunciation of “okay” sounded more like “okee,” which lent a hopeful, lilting tone each time he spoke the word. His steps were quick. It was a challenge for me to keep up. I hoped he didn’t notice how I struggled, taking double steps to help match his pace.
“It’s just that I wanted to schedule a time for the yard,” I said. “So I could be there to show you around.”
If I’d been truly honest, I might have added: And so I could be there to make sure you ripped out those az
aleas.
“For the record,” I continued, “what happened back there with your boss wasn’t right. We’re not all rednecks here in Roanoke. I promise. I hope you’ll give us another chance to be more welcoming.”
He nodded, unperturbed, and said nothing. I shuddered to imagine what he thought of us. “How long have you lived here?”
“In Roanoke? About two years. My wife is a nurse at Valley Hospital. We moved here for the job, which also led to a job for me, in the hospital kitchen. When I was laid off several weeks ago, imagine my good fortune in finding two excellent part-time positions. This one opened up at Foodland, and then, as you know, I have been able to assist at the Garden Shoppe. From there, I’ve begun to pick up landscaping jobs, like yours. Many, many people have been welcoming to us, these past two years. We like it very much in Roanoke.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” I said. It seemed that Giles Owita was trying to console me, as if it were me who had been insulted, and not him.
“There are many interruptions at the checkout counter,” he continued. “This man they have put in charge of the store lacks patience. Something like this happens almost every day. Yesterday, he chased a very small boy—I believe he was Pakistani—who had opened a box of Pop-Tarts. The mother was screaming in protest. She had a cart spilling over with groceries, and had been too busy spending money in this man’s store to notice her child’s very minor misbehavior. I’m afraid that she tossed a few items at the manager. First, there was a bottle of ketchup. Next, some rolls of paper towels. Yet not one of us stepped in to help that man. Not even when the lady pushed her cart at him several times, like a bull charging. The manager was unhurt, but she succeeded in making a very big point. In the end, he retreated to his office, where he was instantly busy with some papers on his desk. We were amused to see him through the glass. He did not once look up at us. We took much joy in this, and felt it justified.”
I laughed out loud, which clearly pleased Giles Owita.
“Would next Saturday afternoon be okay?” he said.
“Next Saturday?”
“For the tour of your compound.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” I thought out loud for a moment. “That’s the day after my parents are moving to a new assisted living facility. They have lived in the same house for more than fifty years. This is a difficult move for them, and I want to help them get adjusted. How about three o’clock?”
“Three o’clock will be fine,” he said.
So, this much was settled. We had a time, a place, and some notion of the tasks at hand. Above us, clouds shifted and mingled as they made their way toward the perimeter of a brisk Southern night. The silver moon, three-quarters full, floated above us. Lights from passing cars shone on the rain-slick surface of the parking lot. The reflections made me think of comets stretching their elongated tails.
“When you stop by,” I said, “do you think you could help me select something else to put in place of the azaleas?”
His eyes lit up.
“All right. I’ll think on this.”
I suddenly remembered something. “Oh, wait. Your fee? You didn’t say.”
“Ten dollars per hour.”
We reached my van, and I turned to him. “So little? Are you sure? It really does not seem enough.”
“It’s my standard rate.”
So many odd jobs, worked for minimum wage. It occurred to me that Giles Owita must not have any credentials beyond a green card, and I found myself wondering how he managed to obtain one of those. Yet Sarah said he was the hardest worker they’d ever had at the Garden Shoppe. Dick would be so pleased I’d hired him, I told myself. I opened the hatch and then stood aside to watch Giles Owita tuck the bags inside, one by one.
“You say you live near the airport?” I asked, hoping to somehow find out more about him.
“Yes. My wife and I, and our two sons. We’re on Overland Street, on the north part of town.”
“Overland. Right. I know that area. It’s close to the expressway and not far from where I teach.” What neither of us said was that Overland was across town from where I lived. Roanoke is a historically segregated community, like much of the South, and had been recently listed as among the nation’s most segregated areas. Overland was somewhat of an anomaly. It was a neighborhood filled with modest homes and was an integrated community. I think the expressway and construction of another major road was responsible for this progress. I never was sure who had managed that feat of civil (and social) engineering, or if that was even one of the goals of the construction.
He nodded.
“Sarah may have told you I’m a high school English teacher,” I said, still trying to make conversation.
“No. We do not talk much at work.”
“Dick and I also have two sons. With a daughter in between. We used to call her our rose between two thorns. I know it’s silly, but . . .”
“Silly? I don’t think so.”
The end of his sentence dovetailed with the increasingly loud roar of a jet passing overhead. We paused to watch it as it crossed, left to right, through the sky above us. It seemed almost to float as it approached Wildwood Mountain. Giles Owita was especially intent in tracking its progress, craning his neck at an awkward angle. Yet there was something cautionary in the way he soberly searched the sky, and I refrained from saying anything more. The set of his jaw was firm, as if holding back deep emotion. Questions flooded my mind. How old were his sons? Had they been born in Kenya? What brought the family to the States? But most of all, I wanted to ask him why he seemed so sad right now, as he watched the jet that streaked the sky.
As if he read my thoughts, he said, “We, too, have a daughter. She is in Kenya, and waits to be brought over. There are complications with her visa. She is our firstborn child. You see, my wife and I . . .”
I waited for more detail. He hesitated. This time, I pressed ahead. “What is your daughter’s name?”
“Her name is Lok. Her favorite flower is the rose. You have given me a thought, Mrs. Wall. She, too, must be our rose among the many thorns of life. Yes. That’s it. My wife will like it.” Giles Owita looked wistful.
“I’m glad you like my metaphor,” I said. “And I just have this feeling Lok will be here soon.”
At that moment it seemed to me that he slammed the hatch a bit too hard, like a period to mark the end of our conversation. I circled the van and climbed into the driver’s seat. Behind me, other people’s cars slashed by and Giles Owita stood ready to advise me on backing out.
I rolled down the window.
“Wabironenore,” he said as I passed by.
“Wabir-o-ne-nore,” I carefully repeated. “It means goodbye?”
“It does,” Giles Owita said. “But also, we will see each other later.”
4.
A Promising Blade of Grass
It hadn’t been easy to convince my parents to move out of our family home and into an assisted living facility nearby. Mama had finally given in, though. She was having some sort of problem that increasingly affected her gait, and she also realized that she could no longer safely handle my father’s worsening Alzheimer’s on her own.
I knew what my parents’ move would mean for me. As the daughter who was geographically the closest, I’d be the one to shoulder most of the burden of overseeing their move and settling them in. I’d be the one shopping for them and making sure they were well taken care of. In truth, though, taking care of my parents wasn’t new to me. I’d always felt my parents needed me. Even as a little girl, I’d felt responsible for their happiness.
I had a sister—an older sister—named Barbara. She was born “mongoloid,” as they called Down syndrome babies in those days, and today doctors might have been able to fix the defective valve in her heart. Back then, it wasn’t possible, and when she was just two years old she died. I was only seven months o
ld at the time, so I had no memories of her. All I had were the pictures of her that I’d seen around the house.
The cause of Barbara’s death was always kept vague (at least to me and my younger sister, Judy). We were only told that she had a heart problem. I think most children know when something is being hidden from them—something so big—and I was perhaps even more sensitive than most. There seemed to be a shadow of mystery around my sister and her death, especially where my mother was concerned. Daddy didn’t mind talking about Barbara, and often when we were alone he’d bring her up. Daddy always called her “our little angel.” But Mama was a different story, and the unspoken rule around our house was that Barbara could never be brought up in front of Mama, nor could Mama know that Daddy talked about her to us when she wasn’t around.
Maybe that was why I was always described as such a grown-up child. I had sharply attuned antennae for sadness of any kind, especially anything that touched Mama. She was a wonderful mother in so many ways, but I learned early on that once riled, her anger could be a powerful thing. As an adult, I realized that this was a side effect of her enormous sadness and guilt over Barbara, and her disappointment at not having been able to have a house full of children. After my younger sister was born, she was told she could have no more, and I think that loss, combined with her grief over Barbara, limited her happiness forever after. But of course I knew none of this as a child. Back then, I just knew that it was my job to help Daddy keep Mama calm and reasonably content.
My radar for anything involving Barbara, and Barbara’s effect on Mama, was bizarrely acute. I remember once when I was five or six years old, I overheard a phone conversation Mama was having with one of her distant relatives. Mama and she must not have spoken in a while because they were swapping vital statistics. I remember Mama saying, “Yes, Carol is six and Judy is four. And our Barbara died in 1952.” I knew all of this, but then came the part I did not understand at all. Mama said, “Well, you know she was a mongoloid.” I had no idea what that word meant, but something told me that it had to be something really bad. And from then on it became my project to find out more. This wasn’t just nosiness, it felt to me like a vital responsibility. Because how could I protect my mother if I didn’t know what I was protecting her from?
