| tend to the place, and there’s no rent.” “What do you mean by tending to the place?” “General upkeep, nothing heavy. Momma says you’ve been a good yard boy this summer, just keep doing what you’ve been doing. We’re having the mail forwarded, so that won’t be a problem. Anything major comes up, call me. It’s a sweet deal, Rudy.” It is indeed. “I’ll take it,” I say. “Good. Momma really likes you, you know, says you’re a fine young man who can be trusted. Even though you are a lawyer. Ha, ha, ha.” “What about her car?” “I’m driving it to Florida tomorrow.” He hands me a large envelope. “Here are the keys to the house, phone numbers for the insurance agent, alarm company, stuff like that. Plus my address and phone number.” “Where is she staying?” “With us, near Tampa. We have a nice little house with a guest room. She’ll be well taken care of. A couple of my kids are nearby, so she’ll have lots of company.” I can see them now, falling all over themselves to be of service to Granny. They’ll be happy to smother her for a while, they’re just hoping she doesn’t live too long. They can’t wait for her to die so they’ll all be rich. It’s very hard to suppress a grin. “That’s good,” I say. “She’s been a lonely old woman.” “She really likes you, Rudy. You’ve been good to her.” His voice is soft and sincere, and I’m |
a detached garage in the backyard. The concrete is heavily lined with flowers and shrubs and vines and decorative saplings. The rear lawn is heavily shaded with trees as old as she. There’s a brick patio with flower boxes filled with vividly colored bouquets. She actually hugs me as I present this small gift. She rips off her gardening gloves, drops them in the flowers and leads me to the rear of the house. She has just the spot for the geranium. She’ll plant it tomorrow. Would I like coffee? “Just water,” I say. The taste of her diluted instant brew is still fresh in my memory. She makes me sit in an ornamental chair on the deck as she wipes mud and dirt on her apron. “Ice water?” she asks, plainly thrilled with the prospect of serving me something to drink. “Sure,” I say, and she skips through the door into the kitchen. The backyard has an odd symmetry to its overgrowth. It runs for at least fifty yards before yielding to a thick hedgerow. I can see a roof beyond, through the trees. There are lively little pockets of organized growth, small beds of assorted flowers that she or someone obviously spends time with. There’s a fountain on a brick platform along the fence, but there’s no water circulating. There’s an old hammock hanging between two trees, its shredded cord and canvas twisting in the breeze. The grass is free of weeds but needs clipping. The garage catches |
