The Man on the Washing Machine Page 11

  Nat’s enthusiasm was one of two things: either Ben was a fellow traveler and they were exchanging signals, or Nat was messing with the straight guy’s head. Either way, I could have wrung his neck. This didn’t seem the time to get his take on whether Turlough was gay or straight.

  I remembered the “Ms. Bogart” almost too late. “Er … Mr. Turlough. I wanted to let you know we had a prowler last night. Not dangerous, I don’t think,” I added. At least, not to anyone but me.

  “Ben. Thanks for letting me know. Did you report it to the cops?”

  “They said the usual kind of thing. He probably won’t bother us again.”

  “Good.” He looked about to say more, but caught Nat’s eye and changed his mind.

  Nat said ridiculously: “Enjoy yourselves, kids. Good night, Ben,” and wandered into the garden and home. His departure seemed to leave us with nothing to say to each other. I put Lucy down and self-consciously told her not to go too far.

  “Thanks again for telling me about the prowler. I’ll keep it in mind,” he said. “I’m heading back over to the group home.” He closed the door behind him and we went out into the garden together. He said a gruff “Good night” and strode off across the garden. I watched him leave, still unsure whether I thought him attractive. He walked with a slight hitch in his stride, looking more like a longshoreman than a social worker. I damped down the flicker of mild interest, but it still smoldered. I felt as if I were reawakening after a long sleep.

  I could hear the heavy bass of a rock record thumping out through a closed window somewhere behind me, and the hollow chinking noise of Professor D’Allessio’s hoe. He was a college professor in Italy before he came here to teach twenty-five years ago. His English is still a little faulty but apparently in some circles he’s famous for his books about an obscure Renaissance dramatist. Now he’s single-mindedly devoted to the Gardens. His snail killing took two forms; sometimes he crushes them with his hoe and sometimes he plucks them by hand to grind them up as an ingredient in his snail repellent formula. I tried not to know the details, but he told anyone who would listen all about it. I pulled my sweater around me and made my way along the damp path to the bench we’d bought with money one of our members gave us. It had his wife’s name on a little bronze plaque on the back.

  Lucy rustled her way around her usual haunts. She usually works her way around me in ever-increasing circles, coming back to check that I’m still here at short intervals. The white lights were still twinkling in the trees. They gave the garden a fairyland-at-night atmosphere it only has in the summer. I thought of going over to Nicole’s apartment to talk to her, but her apartment windows were dark. Then I thought of Charlie O’Brien, and hoped Nat was right about him being in Tijuana, although I’d have settled for the Hall of Justice downtown.

  Professor D’Allessio came around the corner of a shrub, his hoe resting over his shoulder, his step buoyant. He stopped when he saw me. His shock of white hair gleamed in the moonlight, and his walnut skin looked black.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  “Good evening, Professor,” I said, and because he lingered, added: “How’s the garden?”

  He jerked his head. “We need rain,” he said. He always says that.

  “Ah,” I said, and looked around for Lucy.

  “This soil, no good for growing,” he said morosely.

  Politely turning away, he spat. The city is built mostly on sand dunes. That, and the rotting remains of sunken ships. The first Spanish settlers thought San Francisco was uninhabitable due to the fog and blowing sands. Not exactly a gardener’s paradise.

  “I guess not. But you work wonders, Professor. It’s a gift you have.”

  He looked sour, but he was pleased, the old fraud. He sat down heavily next to me on the bench and we sat in silence for a few minutes. “Well, I think I’d better be getting in,” I said after another few minutes. “Have you seen Lucy?”

  “Open Garden tomorrow,” he said, as if I needed reminding. “People out here. At night even, interfering,” he said darkly. “When we need them to work, where are they?”

  “Ah,” I nodded. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about, but it was probably the opening salvo in another feud. Last year half the gardeners were at daggers drawn over whether to plant radicchio or fingerling potatoes in the vegetable patch.

  “I tell them, don’t you worry,” he said, “or maybe the young man is gonna tell them.”

  His number-one assistant, Haruto, was always only “the young man.”

  “He’s no good, that one. He’s gonna make trouble for us, fighting all the time.” He was so adamant all of a sudden that his cheeks were quivering.

  “Haruto?” I looked at him in surprise.

  He waved an impatient hand at me. “Not him. Him. The other one. The earring one. He bring trouble.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was criticism or not; Professor D’Allessio thrives on trouble. He enjoys infighting and he’s Nat’s only serious competition in the gossip stakes. He also refuses to call anyone by name so that we’re all referred to by a series of more or less unflattering nicknames. I’d heard from others that I’m “the soap one.” For some reason Helga is “the princess.” Poor Nat is “the furry one.” I’m uncertain about the professor’s reasoning there. Nat professes to believe it’s because his body hair is so silky; I think his trademark cashmere sweaters are a more likely reason. Several men around here wear earrings and studs in various places, not to mention the women, but I’d never heard about “the earring one” before, so I was betting on newcomer Ben Turlough. That Professor D’Allessio had taken a dislike to the man didn’t surprise me—he hates newcomers and changes of any kind. I’d lived here for months before he deigned to nod to me in passing.

  “Who does he fight with? What do you mean?” I said.

  “Never mind who. Everyone, that’s who. Yelling and shouting last night.” He got up, muttering to himself.

  “Wait, Professor. Who was yelling and—Professor, who was he fighting with? What do you mean?”

  But the old man was shaking his head. He left me there staring after him into the darkness and hearing the swishing noise of his hoe swiping at random weeds as he made his way toward the other end of the garden and home.

  “What do you mean? What fight?” But all I heard was a faint swish off in the distance. A rectangle of light appeared as he opened his back door, then the door slammed behind him.

  Something in me snapped. “Silly old fool,” I muttered.

  “Mad about something?” a new voice said out of the gloom. Ben slumped down on the bench and inspected his outstretched legs.

  “I thought you’d gone over to the shelter,” I said, and wondered if I sounded as ungracious to him as I did to myself.

  “That was nearly an hour ago. I’m back,” he said mildly.

  “It was?” No wonder I was cold.

  “What were you and the old man arguing about?”

  “We weren’t arguing. He was telling me something and wandered off in the middle of it. God, old people can be crazy.”

  “Young people, too.”

  I looked at him sharply, but he looked noncommittal. “I guess,” I said. “He said you’d been in a fight with someone.”

  “Oh? Maybe he means when some character leaped out of the bushes at me last night and started ranting and raving about raccoons and dogs.”

  “Probably Haruto,” I said. “He gets pretty wound up before the Open Garden.”

  “Nice, peaceful place you all have here. I didn’t see the old man though.”

  “He creeps around at night, hunting snails. He says they can hear him coming unless he’s very quiet.”

  I heard someone else walking through the garden behind us, and a low growling sound that might have been Lucy arguing with a raccoon. We have a resident mother and kits who drive her nearly mad with frustration because they climb up onto the roof of our tiny toolshed where she can’t get at them. They get in the tra
sh cans at night, and drive the human beings mad, too—especially Haruto. We have a fine metal screen hiding under the surface of the koi pond to prevent them using it as a sushi bar. They’re another bone of contention between the residents who hate them and those who feel they’re a welcome touch of the natural world in the middle of the city. Like the coyote that showed up in Golden Gate Park recently. Everyone was sentimental about it until it ate a Pekingese, and then half the Richmond District was out for its blood.

  “Lucy!” I hissed. “Leave them alone!” I was more afraid for her than for the raccoons, who have the strength and attitude of teenage boys and the emotional stability to match. She slinked over to me, still protesting and rumbling somewhere in her chest. She plunked herself down at my feet with ill grace.

  “It’s pleasant out here,” Ben Turlough said. “Quiet.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm, or if he meant it. He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t leave either. I tried to think of something neutral to talk about.

  Nothing came to mind.

  “Your name is Theophania, someone told me,” he said suddenly. “Not Theo?”

  “Theophania’s a bit of a mouthful,” I said awkwardly and wondered if I’d told him he didn’t have to keep calling me Miss Bogart.

  “Pretty, though,” he said. “Unusual.”

  He sounded curious, which was vaguely alarming. I chose “Bogart” from the actor’s role in an old noir film about San Francisco; I probably should have given up my first name, too. “So—er, how did you get to Ben from Bramwell?”

  “It’s a family name. When I was a kid, everyone called me Bram. Then in seventh grade everyone found out that Bram Stoker wrote Dracula. My life wasn’t worth living.”

  The lights in the trees suddenly blinked out all over the garden, and the darkness became almost absolute. I could see the faint sheen of his eyes, a couple of feet from mine.

  He cleared his throat. “I was in AcmeTax to see about having them do our books,” he said finally.

  “Ah, er, um,” I said intelligently, and lapsed into an embarrassed silence. If he’d recognized me there, why didn’t he say something at the time? And how did he find his way there? “Did—er, did someone recommend them?”

  “Must have. Can’t remember who,” he said after a minute for thought.

  Interesting. He sounded … evasive. I tried to think of a way to ask him why he wasn’t more concerned about my “prowler.” Isn’t that exactly the kind of news the director of a women’s shelter dreads? Before I’d thought of anything that didn’t sound like an MI5 interrogation, he stood up.

  “I hope you’ll ask your residents and their kids to come to the Open Garden tomorrow,” I said politely as we parted at the door to the studio.

  “I didn’t know they were invited.”

  “It’s open to all Gardens residents and there’s no admission charge for them. The kids might meet some children their own ages.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell them.” He smiled. It transformed his face and I found myself smiling back.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As I left my back door the next morning, the garden sloped gently up and away from me, looking like an illustration in a children’s book. The rose beds tucking into the herb garden, the raised vegetable beds, and the lawn with its koi pond, all were divided and enclosed by the sinuous curves of the paths like the lead seams in a stained glass window. Five or six kids were already swarming over the jungle gym.

  I took my donation—three dozen flower-shaped soaps—over to the sale table. It also held some straw sun visors from the hat shop; little glass vases from Donna Marie’s Best Buds; and a selection of potted plants, courtesy of Professor D’Allessio’s squad of garden helpers. Mrs. Jupp, who used to sell slicing and dicing machines at carnivals, was, as always, in charge of the sale table. The hardware store had donated a set of garden hand tools for the raffle and I had given them one of our kimonos with a rose embroidered on the pocket. We were also selling cold sodas from Mr. Choy’s store, and hot chocolate, cookies, and croissants from Helga’s—all the usual suspects, in fact. This was only my second Open Garden, but from what I can tell it’s the sameness of the event that draws people. Chaos and confusion may reign in the rest of the world, but here in the Gardens, they know what to expect.

  The driveway gate is usually padlocked, but it was made welcoming with hanging baskets of blooms today. Sabina was sitting on a folding chair at the entrance, gathering five-dollar entry fees and crocheting something large and yellow in between arrivals. Watching her made me realize why knitting had made Dickens’s Madame Defarge so sinister; there’s something single-minded and inexorable about knitters and crocheters. Sabina looked up and waved with her hand tangled in yellow yarn. I waved back.

  I walked around the toolshed into the vegetable garden and found Professor D’Allessio, hand shading his eyes, scrutinizing the garden. He was holding his hoe like a bishop’s crosier, handle down, swan-neck blade level with his shoulders. With his silver hair and sun-weathered skin, he looked like an implacable Old Testament prophet. He rubbed a grimy hand through his hair as if to clean his fingers. “Where’s the earring one?” he said abruptly.

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” I said, and kept moving. Whatever his argument with Ben, they were on their own. “Maybe he’s over at the shelter. He’ll probably be out later.”

  The professor looked irritated and fell into step beside me. “The earring one,” he said testily. “He no suppose to fool around in garden. I tell him. To hell with him. Earring or no earring.”

  “He said it wasn’t him, professor. I asked him.” Damn. Why can’t I stay out of these things?

  “Ah? The liar. I saw.” The old man shook an admonishing finger at me.

  “The garden looks great,” I said hastily.

  He expelled a breath and closed his mouth tight like a goldfish then inhaled deeply and looked around his domain. “Not bad. I gotta go,” he said. “You tell that earring one—” He didn’t finish whatever it was he intended to say. He growled and flapped a hand at me instead. I was dismissed.

  A cluster of visitors milled around at the entrance to the garden, chatting and looking around brightly. I could tell the women were first-timers; they were wearing heels and hats, prepared for something like the Pacific Heights Decorator Showcase. Next year, they’d show up in sweats and sneakers, like everyone else. I was wearing my usual—jeans and a cotton T-shirt with a wool jacket I could discard if the day warmed up. The jacket was new. And then, because he was next in line, I watched with a sigh as my grandfather paid his entrance fee. He was wearing a fine tweed suit, Harrow School Old Boys tie, and highly polished brown lace-up oxfords. I gave him a cheerful wave and headed in his direction. He nodded at me and strode over to meet me halfway.

  “Theophania,” he said briskly, and bent slightly to allow me to kiss his cheek.

  “Hello, Grandfather,” I replied dutifully, schoolgirl manners coming to my rescue as usual. “You know you don’t have to pay. You can be my guest.”

  “It’s chilly today,” he observed, following a pause in which my opening gambit was ignored. He looked around the garden like a grandee on vacation.

  “Yes sir, it is,” I agreed. We were in danger of sinking into complete silence after that sparkling exchange. “It’s supposed to warm up later,” I added.

  “Ah-hum.” He cleared his throat and gave me a pitying look.

  “Would you like some hot cocoa?” I said a little desperately.

  “Thank you. I don’t care for chocolate drinks.” The rebuke was mild, but unmistakable. Were there any other chocolate drinks? He probably knew about some obscure concoction enjoyed by the Aztecs.

  “I see you’ve brought your shooting stick,” I said, as if I’d just noticed it. The old-fashioned perch-seat disguised as a walking cane had made its appearance at every open-air event for as long as I could remember. I gave myself a mental shake.

  “No point in standing, whe
n I can sit,” he said austerely.

  “No. I can see that,” I said, and felt helpless. I’m not sure why he wanted to come. There must have been some attraction besides my unworthy self. I tried to imagine him having a guilty passion for one of my elderly neighbors and failed. As I struggled to think of something else to say, Mrs. Jupp over at the sale table caught my eye and waved me over.

  I went over to find out what she wanted.

  “The old gentleman”—she nodded at the table where the bonsai demonstration would take place—“says someone stole his favorite machete this week. He wanted us all to keep an eye out for it.”

  Since I couldn’t imagine anyone waving a stolen machete around in broad daylight, I thought our chances of catching the culprit were probably slim. But I nodded anyway and stopped to say hi to Helga, who was putting out mugs for the hot chocolate. She was wearing her white jeans with a white sweater and a green camisole, which were both stretched to the limit. As she dipped to pick up a couple of mugs she provided an eye-popping display of what Nat would call boobage.

  I hastily bent to help her empty the cardboard carton and arranged some of the mugs on the table. “Someone else would have done this for us today; you don’t need to be out here with everything you’ve had on your mind,” I said.

  She bit her lip. “It helps to keep busy,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them with her sleeve, half crying and half laughing. “I guess I was still Daddy’s little girl. I always felt he stood between me and the world, you know?”

  She looked lost, and she obviously wasn’t sleeping if the dark shadows under her eyes were any clue. “I lost my dad, too,” I said abruptly. “I know it’s hard. But you’re doing great.”

  “I don’t know why people share things like that,” she said, straightening the rows of mugs, not looking at me. “It doesn’t help. You have friends; you have your grandfather; maybe other family, too. And that Ben guy is all over you. I don’t have any of that. My father was all I had.”