Blind Acorn Page 4

  Back in the kitchen, I began to search for a replacement for the milk; maybe some juice would do the trick. As I walked past the refrigerator, I saw Rona with rows of small white dishes lined up on the counter and a bin of mixed salad balanced between the counter and her hip. She scooped greens into the bowls at an impressive clip. “Rona,” I called over, “Hairnet. Apron.”

  She, of course, ignored me. “Come on, Rona,” I tried again after a minute. “You know the rules.”

  She slammed the salad on the counter, causing several of the little bowls to jump in the air. Styrofoam can do that. Turning toward me, she said, “Rules! Of course, can’t break the rules.” And she stormed off toward the supply closet.

  I bit my tongue. We’d had this conversation so many times. The one in which I tell her that, if we don’t follow the rules, we might not get any money to do what we do. And she tells me that people are more important than rules. And I counter with something about those two things not being mutually exclusive. And she ends the conversation with something about the trouble with the world being that bureaucrats run everything before angrily leaving the room. End of discussion.

  At least, I thought, she doesn’t have to explain to those people out there about the missing milk. And I went out to the dining room to do just that. Rona didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. But that was nothing new. When she left after lunch, the static seemed to leave the building.

  About 3 o’clock, I was feeling caught up with everything and decided to leave a little early. I had some errands to do and would feel good knowing they were done. So, I grabbed my purse before I could talk myself out of it and left.

  I went to the bank, then stopped by the printer to check on an order. Finally, I went to a big box store for some lightbulbs and a shower squeegee. I’d been putting this off because, once I get into one of those places, I tend to keep adding to my list until I can’t carry everything and succumb to a cart. Which I then fill. Talk about really senseless guilty pleasures, huh?

  Walking through the parking lot, I saw Rona getting into a car nearby. She didn’t see me, and I wanted to keep it that way. She was helping her little girl with her seatbelt. They were smiling at each other. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her smile before. It looked odd for its unfamiliarity. Then I noticed the white plastic bag on the front seat. It was the bag of food she’d taken out after lunch. See, that was her deal. She volunteered and ate lunch with everyone else, but she also got to take an extra meal home to her young daughter. Not strictly by the book (how’s that for breaking rules, Rona?) but that’s the way it was. Guess she didn’t have to cook much this way. She had her big meal at lunchtime and her daughter had hers at dinnertime.

  The trouble was, I was seeing that food still sitting out at room temperature (or worse, in the heat of the car) hours after it was packaged. Breaking nearly every rule of food safety and sanitation. It made me furious that Rona would risk making her child sick so that she didn’t have to cook. And it gave me a headache to know that I’d have to try to address it with her tomorrow. I drove away thinking that the woman was just so difficult.

  Thirteen

  Two weeks later, I found myself alone for the evening. In the past, I would have enjoyed being home alone and would have made sure that nothing interfered with that. But now I had an apartment to visit, so I did.

  Between us, Gina and I were still unable to properly adjust the thermostat, so it was too warm and stuffy when I arrived. I opened as many windows as I could (two were painted shut and defied all attempts at being opened) and a pleasant breeze meandered through as I tried to master the thermostat. Thinking that I’d, at last, gotten it under control, I went to the kitchen for water. I took my glass back to the living room and sat in the only chair. I inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly. It felt good and I did it a second time, looking around and trying to feel at home in this still-strange place.

  I began to compile a list of things I wanted to bring here from home and a second list of things I needed to buy. When it got complicated (the second list splitting into two, items for the apartment and items for the house), I decided to go home for the night. This was all still new, and I wanted to be home first so I wouldn’t be questioned about where I’d been.

  I closed the windows and checked the thermostat one final time before leaving. When I approached the bottom of the stairs, the door to the apartment below opened and an elderly woman stared out at me. When she said nothing, I stopped and introduced myself. She reluctantly put her fingers into my outstretched hand for a fraction of a second before withdrawing them. She still hadn’t smiled when she said, “I’m Nellie Harrop, and I’ve lived here for twenty-six years. We’ve never had any trouble.”

  I tried to match her sober expression and tone as I assured her, “Well, Ms. Harrop, it’s good to meet you. And I’m pleased to hear that there hasn’t been any trouble.”

  Her mouth seemed to draw a disapproving line, leaving her on one side and me on the other. “I certainly hope there won’t be any now, either.” She stared knowingly at me.

  Understanding that she worried that I could be the source of such trouble, I tried again to reassure her. “My roommate and I agree with you. We certainly hope there’s no trouble.”

  That seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded accordingly. Still no smile, but a little less hostile, she repeated, “Twenty-six years. Plan to stay longer.”

  Now I nodded. “I hope,” I said, “that we are not making too much noise? We don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  She continued to stare (has she even blinked? I thought). “No,” she said. “There’s been no disturbing.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “I hope you’ll let us know if we do become too loud.” I have no doubt about it, I thought.

  Nothing further to say, she began to close the door. A fat taffy-colored cat swept past her feet and into the hall before she could finish closing it. With a loud “Mrrreooow” it leaned into my leg and began to rub against me.

  “Friend of yours?” I asked with a smile as I bent to scratch the cat’s head.

  “That’s Mr. Purrsalot. He hasn’t been here as long as I have, but he doesn’t cause any trouble.” She scooped the cat up and turned back to her apartment. I could swear I saw her smile at him.

  Properly warned, I headed home.

  Fourteen

  Summer came early and brought some of its hottest temperatures. The basement was naturally cooler than outdoors, but not by much. Everyone in the room moved sluggishly. Even conversation was subdued, the only noise coming from the many fans that tried but couldn’t really touch the heat. I wished we’d been able to change today’s menu, offer something cold, perhaps. But it was going to be hot vegetable soup and roasted chicken with gravy and mashed potatoes. I lamented to myself the inflexibility of my program. But I understood —this wasn’t a fine-dining restaurant, after all. We couldn’t afford waste or extra food items and so there was usually little of either. No options for last minute menu changes.

  As it got closer to noon, people began to drift into the hall for lunch. They moved slowly, and I watched for signs of struggling breath. This heavy, humid air sometimes triggered difficulties. If I noticed anyone needing help, I’d bring them into my office where the air conditioner kept the air cooler and drier. If the forecast was correct, this would be a long, watchful summer for me.

  But our clientele seemed to have their own mechanisms for coping and there appeared to be no problems. I turned to go back into my office and get caught up on some paperwork when I heard Rona’s voice call loudly, “You’re gonna trip on that lace.” She pointed to the floor at the feet of Mr. Murano, one of our oldest participants. He seemed not to notice that she was speaking to him; in fact, he was unaware that she was speaking. That anyone was speaking. Mr. Murano could barely hear, even when he stood right in front of the speaker. I thought this was probably why he seldom seemed to parti
cipate in the conversations at the table around him.

  Rona shook her head (she always looks so angry, I thought). She called more loudly, yelling really, “Look at your feet! You’re going to fall!” When he still didn’t respond, she shook her head again, looking disgusted. I held my hand in the air to let Rona know that I was on it. It’s too hot for her to get worked up today, although she’ll surely try.

  I walked over to Mr. Murano and gently took his arm. I knew that if I merely pointed the untied lace out to him, he’d not be able to tie it in the middle of the room. He’d have to walk to a chair, risking tripping. Others were already watching, and I didn’t want to make it uncomfortable for him.

  Mr. Murano didn’t even question me as I guided him into a chair just inside my office doorway. I looked down at his thin, gray hair and wondered what made someone so easily led. He had to be in his mid-nineties; had he always been so complaint? I smiled at him and pulled another chair close. I sat and leaned over to tie his shoe. When he realized what I was doing, he said, “Oh.” That was all.

  I nudged the office door closed with my foot, thinking that maybe he could use a few minutes in the cooler air. “How have you been, Mr. Murano?” I asked slowly, making sure that he was looking at me when I spoke.

  “I’m okay,” he said. He glanced toward the door, and I could see that he’d noticed me closing it. “Something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” I hurried to say. “No. I just thought maybe you could use a few minutes of air conditioning. Pretty hot out there, right?” I fanned my own glistening face with my hands to demonstrate how hot I was.

  “Oh. Yes, yes, I guess it is hot, isn’t it? I don’t mind the heat, though. Don’t mind it at all. I’ll take all the heat you got to give.” He grinned a little and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Really?” I asked. “You may be the only one here today who doesn’t mind it.”

  “Not since the war,” he said. “In the war, I was so cold. Never been that cold before. Didn’t think I’d ever be warm again. Sometimes I still don’t think I’ll ever be warm enough.”

  “Ah. I didn’t realize that you’d been in the military. Where did you serve?”

  “Wherever they sent me.”

  Well, there’s that compliant guy I was wondering about earlier, I thought. I nodded to him, thinking that he’d finished.

  “They sent me to Europe. I was in France that winter and, boy, it was so cold. I remember,” his eyes were focused on something only he could see, “one night when we slept outside, and I thought I laid my head on a rock. It was covered with snow, and I brushed it off, thinking it was a good choice. In the morning light I saw that I’d been sleeping on the helmet, and frozen head, of a German soldier who hadn’t been as lucky as I was. We didn’t call it lucky then, though.” He chuckled.

  With a sharp intake of breath, I said, “I’m so sorry! That’s awful! And you must have been very young!”

  “Aw, we were all young,” he smiled. “We just went where they told us and did our jobs. That’s what war is like. You do your job.”

  “I suppose,” I said with some uncertainty. “But that’s a terrible way to spend some of your youth.”

  “I wish,” he said, “that I could say I saw the world with the military. But all I really saw were some barracks and some of the French countryside. And the Germans had already been through there so there wasn’t much left. Those boys sure knew how to take the pretty out of a place.”

  I sighed and shook my head, not knowing what to say. His whole life, I thought, he’s been living with these memories.

  He chuckled again. “There was a time,” he said with a smile, “when I captured a dozen of those guys single-handedly.” Seeing my surprise, he continued, “I did. I was sent to deliver a message a few miles from my unit. On foot. It was a decent day and uneventful until I came on an old house. It had been damaged, I guess by the war being fought in its backyard. Anyway, the stone walls were still standing on three sides and most of the roof was intact. It felt wrong to me. Too quiet. I watched it for a while —I didn’t want to get ambushed, you know? I watched until I saw something move by a window. So, I knew someone was there. Didn’t know if it was the homeowner, or squatters, or Germans. I was pretty sure they hadn’t seen me. I couldn’t just leave, though. If it was the enemy, I had an obligation. So, I made a plan.” He smiled at the memory.

  Caught up now in his story, I asked, “What did you do? Did you go back for reinforcements?”

  He laughed softly. “Weren’t any reinforcements to get, really. No, I did it myself. I made a lot of noise in the brush, wanting them to think that there were more of us than just me. Then I fired a shot in the air and aimed toward that window and called out to them. ‘Who’s in there?’ I demanded. ‘We have you surrounded so you better come out now! Schnell!’ For a minute, nothing happened. I yelled back into the brush, ‘We’re going to have to go in and take them.’ Then I made a lot more noise, threw some rocks a distance so they’d think we were spread out. I was getting kind of scared, you know? What if it didn’t work? But then, a door opened, and someone called out. I didn’t understand what he said but he stepped forward with his hands in the air. So, I thought I captured a German. Next thing I know, when I don’t shoot the first guy, another guy comes out with his hands in the air. This one says, ‘Don’t shoot. We will surrender.’ So, I ask him, ‘How many? How many of you are there?’ And he says, ‘twelve.’ Now I think I don’t know what I’ll do with twelve of them.”

  I smiled now. “Well,” I said, “you’re here so I guess you figured something out, huh?”

  “I did,” he said, and I could hear the pride in his voice. “I called back into the brush and stepped back like I was listening. I pretended to be taking orders. I turned back to the two men and said, ‘alright, tell the others to come out.’ And they did. They lined up in front of the house, hands in the air. I told them to toss all of their weapons on the ground. Then I picked out the one that looked the youngest and most scared, and I told the one that spoke some English to tell him to collect all the weapons and to put them in a wooden wagon I’d seen behind the house. We all waited while he did it. I started to get nervous that they’d notice that I was alone so as soon as he finished, I had them line up and tie themselves together in pairs. And I hooked them up like a team of horses and had them pull the wagon full of weapons. It took me a little longer than it was supposed to take to deliver that message, but I delivered a dozen prisoners of war with it. Then I walked back to my unit.”

  “I am truly dumbfounded!” I exclaimed. “That is a remarkable story!”

  “I guess,” Mr. Murano shrugged. “Haven’t ever told it to anyone before. I mean, not since the war. You just didn’t talk about those things. Just did your job.” He stood.

  “Oh, of course,” I said noticing him looking out the partially open door. “They’re beginning to serve. Let’s get your lunch.” We walked through the room together and I had to control myself from taking his arm again. Not that I thought he needed assistance; I was just proud to know this remarkable man. Why, I thought, can’t I also just do my job and be content that I’ve done so?

  Fifteen

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Dylan said when he came home from work on Wednesday. His summer job meant spending his daytime hours in the warehouse of a supermarket chain. He usually came home dusty and worn out from the heat, smelling of cardboard boxes. A shower and food would generally revive him sufficiently and he’d be out with his friends before we knew it.

  This day, though, he came home with grease smeared on his leg and a torn shirt. And dripping wet hair. He tossed a Styrofoam coffee cup in the trash and grabbed a drink from the refrigerator. “What happened to you?” I asked, foolishly expecting an answer.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. But I couldn’t let it go
, either. “Everything okay at work?”

  Wordlessly, he gave me that look. The look that asked are you blind and stupid, woman? It was just as well that he didn’t say anything, I suppose.

  But I still couldn’t let it go. What if he’d had a fight with someone and they’d want revenge (because, of course, he’d won)? What if he’d been hurt by some machine on the job? And why was his head wet? “Well, I just want to be sure that you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” was all he said.

  “You don’t look fine,” I countered, continuing to dig at an obvious wound.

  “I’m fine,” he repeated.

  “Okay. Fine. We’re all fine. Go take a shower, although you look like you may have already done that.” I left the room and he went off in the other direction. I heard the shower running a few minutes later.

  He didn’t come down until I called him for dinner. He sat and ate, but not with his usual gusto for food. I watched him intently, not sure how to raise the subject again. Finally, I said obliquely to Mitch, “I think Dylan had a tough day.” I thought Mitch would question him and maybe get more information than I could, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything.

  “He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, though,” I thought I’d clarify.

  They both kept eating. I glanced at Lucy. She grinned and gave her head a little shake. I wondered if she knew something about this. But my instinct told me not to involve her.

  I sighed and said loudly to myself, “I guess I’m the only one who cares about this, so let’s change the subject. What else should we all talk about?”

  “Mom,” Dylan said as he rose to leave the room, “if there was something you needed to know, I’d tell you.” He headed upstairs and his door closed seconds later.