Reinventing Leona (25 page)

* * * * *

“Had . . . the . . . first . . . nickel . . . he . . . ever made.” Squeezing the phone between her ear and shoulder, Leona jotted Councilman Clark’s words. Pleased that years of taking notes during J.D.’s sermons had honed her dictation skills, Leona risked asking the respected local official a follow-up question. “Would you care to elaborate, sir?”

Councilman Clark cleared his throat. “Off the record?”

A burst of unexpected pleasure surged through Leona’s veins. This influential man considered her a reporter.
Me?
Leona Harper? A working professional?
Leona lifted her shoulders and summoned her most competent voice. “Absolutely, Councilman.”

“Tighter than a tick.”

The unprintable quote whirled in Leona’s mind. Maybe she had misunderstood. Forcing her gaping jaw to operate, she sputtered, “Could you repeat that for me?”

“Owen Pond was a stingy son of a—”

Leona dropped the phone. She scrambled to grab the line, then reeled in the dangling receiver. “I’m so sorry . . . Councilman Clark, did you say . . . hello?” The upstanding civic leader had hung up. Leona replaced the phone. Heavy-handed, she drew a black line through the last name on Goldie Pond’s lengthy list.

She laid her ballpoint pen on top of her notes, then rubbed her pounding temples. The comments had all been the same:

“Owen Pond grew up in the Depression. Managed his financial affairs like another Dust Bowl was imminent.”

“The man thought his hearse would pull a U-Haul trailer.”

“Penny-Pinching Pond.”

Looking over the scathing commentaries, the sinking feeling intensified in Leona’s stomach.
What am I going to do?
She’d contacted every source, worked every angle she could think of, even backtracked Owen’s education all the way to his high school shop teacher, and she still didn’t have a column’s worth of printable copy. Knee-deep in troubled thoughts, Leona snapped to attention at the tap on her shoulder.

“You going to lunch?” Modyne’s eyes covertly surfed Leona’s notes.

Leona flipped over her lined yellow tablet. “Already?”

“It’s noon.”

She checked her watch. “The time just flew by.”

“Always does when you’re having fun.”

Fun?
Listening to a bunch of old geezers bad-mouth one of their own sounded too much like church for Leona’s comfort. At least Owen Pond was spared hearing the disparaging comments. Leona’s ears, on the other hand, were permanently singed from the remarks of well-intentioned members rehashing her failings. But if these political dragons thought she would back down just because people had criticisms, they obviously had never chaired a Ladies Retreat Committee.

“I do need to run by and check on Mother.” Leona scooped up her notes and stuffed them into her large handbag. “Maybe I’ll eat at the rehab center.”

“You got one hour. Make the most of it.”

Leona scooted her chair away from the desk, then grabbed her coat. Some fresh air would help sort out Owen’s life and frame the ugly picture into some form of respectability, hopefully without aggravating Goldie with flowery, worn-out phrases. This experience had given Leona a much deeper appreciation for J.D. and all the funerals he performed when the record of the departed’s life left him without one decent thing to say.

Wait a minute.

Maybe J.D. still had some of those funeral sermons. Leona’s pulse raced as she basked in her stroke of brilliance. She could run by the office after visiting Mother, find out what Shirley wanted, and search her husband’s old files for some fresh ideas . . . eliminate several dirty birds with one stone, so to speak.

* * * * *

Following the smell of meat loaf, Leona tracked the location of the rehab dining room. Stopping outside the closed double doors, she looked through the vertical rectangular pane of glass. Across the bustling room, Roberta Worthington’s wheelchair was wedged between two other chariot-bound patients. While the frown on her mother’s face gave Leona pause, the old girl’s soured expression seemed to have very little effect upon the chatty army lined up on either side of the long brown Formica table.

“Look at you, out of bed and dressed,” Leona chirped as she breezed into the cafeteria. She gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ve heard the first time up is rough.”

“Hurts like—”

“I’m sure it does.” Leona spotted a chair against the wall and hurriedly retrieved it. “Did you call this morning, Mother?”

“Would it have done any good?”

Ignoring the jab, Leona placed the chair at an empty space between two wheelchairs opposite her mother. “I got a message to call the rehab center. Have you been causing trouble?”

“I want to go home.”

Before Leona could answer, the stubble-faced man on her mother’s right interrupted. “Hey, who’s the looker?”

“Hooker?” The gray-haired lady on her mother’s left scowled. “Looks like a horse who’s been rode hard and put up wet. I hate to say it, but she ain’t gonna be a big moneymaker.”

The woman’s candor tickled Leona, but her mother snapped, “You’re bad-mouthing my daughter, you old fool.”

Surprise silenced Leona’s levity. Had her mother just jumped to her defense? Did her mother desire a truce in their rocky relationship? Oh, what she wouldn’t give not to have to share the doctor’s report. Leona took a deep breath. “You probably won’t go straight home, Mother.”

The square-jawed woman leaned forward in her wheelchair, pounding the table with her index finger. “What do you mean?”

“The doctor won’t let you go home until you can function on your own.”

“Won’t happen here.”

“Rehab is designed to get you started. But after you finish here, you’re still going to need help for a bit. I thought you could come stay with me.”

“In that hovel?” Her mother stiffened ramrod-straight, crossing her hands in her lap. “Certainly not. I want my own personal therapist in the privacy of my
own
home.”

Feeling as misunderstood as the Wicked Witch of the West, Leona rested her elbows on the table, propped her chin with clasped hands, and prayed she wouldn’t melt from the cold water Mother had tossed on her offer. “Who are your new friends, Mother?”

“Don’t ask—”

“Hi. My name is Eleanor.” The paper-thin artifact beside Mother flashed a toothless grin.

“Eleanor.” Leona smiled at the small wisp of a woman. “Nice to meet you. Have you—”

“Hi. My name is Eleanor.”

“Here we go again.” Mother glowered. “Just got the wacko quiet, then you had to go and be all preacher’s-wife friendly and pull her string.”

“Hi. My name is Eleanor.”

Mother rolled her eyes and snorted. “See what I mean.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know. Surely she’ll wear out eventually.” Leona noticed the woman next to her struggling with a milk carton. She reached over and popped the waxy cardboard seal, then stuck a straw through the triangle-shaped opening. “So, Mother, who’s the gentleman who thinks I’m so cute?”

Mother shrugged. How could she blatantly ignore the man’s intent rearranging of the food on his plate?

“Come on, Mother. What’s his name?”

Eyeing the man warily, Mother cupped her mouth and whispered, “Bob.”

Hearing his name, Bob lit up like someone flipped his power switch. “So who’s the looker?” He winked at Leona.

“I’m Leona Harper, Bertie’s daughter.” Leona offered her hand around the plastic daisy stuck in a glass bud vase, but Bob had returned to positioning the half-eaten hunk of meat loaf and depleted mound of mashed potatoes as if presentation were everything.

“I’ve got a lovely plate of food for sale.” Bob held up his melamine dinnerware. “Who’ll give me five dollars? Five dollars? Do I hear four?”

“Bob was an auctioneer.” The lady with the milk carton took a tiny sip on the bent straw. “Won’t quit until somebody buys it.”

“Who’ll give me three? Did I hear three?”

“Hi. My name is Eleanor.” Gumming mashed potatoes, the old woman leaned in close to Mother. “Hi. My name is—”

Mother put her hands over her ears. “Leave me alone, you decrepit bag of bones.”

“Two? Anybody two? How about you, lovely lady?” Bob set the plate on the table and shoved it in Leona’s direction. “One fifty, and I’ll throw in a helping of corn.”

“Sold!” Leona shouted. “I’m starving.” Smiling, she reached inside her purse and retrieved the money and slid it across the table. Forgetting her own troubles for a moment felt good, almost normal. Focusing on a person who took joy in selling his lunch allowed a sliver of light to penetrate the dark shroud that had fallen over her heart.

Mother slapped a veined hand over the currency. “Have you lost your mind? Don’t pay him.”

“Security. We’ve got a shady lady.” Bob pushed his chair back from the table. “Security.”

“Hush, you idiot.” Mother snatched her fork and aimed the tines toward Bob’s face.

“Mother, can’t you see the man has a problem?”

“You bet he does . . . and it’s me.” She stabbed the untouched potatoes on her plate, then flicked the stiff mound right between Bob’s frantic eyes.

“Food fight.” Eleanor made boxer fists and jabbed the air.

Leona’s mother took her glass of iced tea and dumped it in Eleanor’s lap. “Shut up.”

“Mother! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Get me out of this place, Leona, or I promise I’ll tear these dingy walls down one cinder block at a time.”

“No. You have to stay here. Complete your therapy.” Leona yanked a cloth napkin free of the silverware it bundled. “Here, Eleanor. I’m so sorry.”

“Nurse! Nurse!” Mother pounded her fork. “Nurse!”

Leona pressed her hands to the table and leaned across. “Mother, stop.”

The receptionist ran into the dining room carrying a pitcher of tea. “What’s going on?”

Blood flushed Leona’s cheeks.
Not Penny.
How could she ever sign in again after this humiliation?

The aide rotated her head slowly, eagle-eyeing the cafeteria like a teacher who had stepped out of the classroom, but was confident her return would stop the chaos.

“Nurse.” Mother banged the table. “Can I get some service here?”

Penny’s reckoning stare landed directly on Leona’s mother. “Did you say
please
?”

Mother’s unpenciled brow twitched. “Either get me out of here—” she pointed her fork in Leona’s direction—“or get
her
out of here . . . puh-
leez
.”

“Mother, you can’t leave until you’re better.”

“Then I guess
you’ll
be the one leaving.” Leona’s mother plucked a handful of meatloaf off her plate and threw it.

Ketchup and hamburger dripped from the lapel of Leona’s new suit. “Mother. What on earth—”

“Roberta Worthington.” Cotton stepped beside Leona. “That is enough.”

Leona wanted to throw her arms around the janitor’s thick neck and never let go. “Cotton. How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.” He pointed at the napkin tucked into the blouse of the lady licking ketchup off her milk carton. “May I?”

Her eyes were wide over the top of her straw. “Ain’t doing me any good.”

“Thank you, madam.” Cotton handed Leona the cloth, the brush of his touch comforting. “Clean yourself up and get back to your job, Leona. I’ve got it from here.”

Mother straightened her back. “Oh, do you?”

“I do.” Cotton squared his shoulders and marched around the table. “And you’ll watch your mouth in the presence of a lady.” He wrapped his large hands around Mother’s wheelchair handles and spun her around on the back wheels. “Leona, Shirley needs you to drop by the church before you head back to the paper.”

Leona nodded, numbly blotting the red glob spreading across her heart.
Mother’s aim has certainly improved since this morning.
Watching Cotton push the ramrod-straight rabble-rouser down the hall, Leona wished there was a cliff at the end of the corridor. Then it hit her . . . Father had never, not once, silenced Mother with two words.

* * * * *

Leona knocked on the varnished doorframe of the church office. “Hey, Shirley.”

The secretary’s head popped up from the bulletins she was folding. Salt-and-pepper tendrils framed her startled face. “You scared me to death.” Color draining from her normally rosy cheeks, she clutched her sagging chest. Leona was afraid her stealthy entrance had reduced Shirley’s chances of outliving the next pastor by at least a year.

“Sorry. I used my office key to let myself in the side door. I tried making noise on my way through the building, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

Shirley waved off Leona’s explanation. “I’ve been a little spooked here by myself now that J.D. is . . .” Her voice trailed as she yanked a tissue from the box beside the office phone and dabbed at her reddened eyes.

A twinge of compassion shot through Leona. Why hadn’t it dawned on her that she wasn’t the only one feeling the void J.D.’s death had left? Nobody had the pastor’s back like his secretary, and without a boss to guard, what would the faithful woman do?

Shirley blew her nose, then sniffed. “Why do you smell like a meat loaf sandwich?”

“Don’t ask.” Covering the stain like a grade-school kid saying the pledge of allegiance, Leona massaged the ache in her heart. Standing in the very spot where J.D. greeted his secretary every morning was harder than she had expected. “Modyne said you stopped by the paper. You didn’t need to drive downtown for me.”

“I needed to talk to you.” Shirley lowered her voice. “In person.”

“About what?”

The secretary’s darting gaze surveyed the office like she was James Bond and the place was bugged. “Howard asked me to get in touch with you.”

On the one hand, Shirley’s tendency to make everything a matter of national security irritated Leona, but on the other, she appreciated the woman’s tight-lipped nature. Gossip never got a leg up on the keeper of all church secrets. “What did our fearless leader want?”

“He wants to know when you can get J.D.’s office packed up.”

The muscles in Leona’s neck raised the tiny hairs that refused to stay tethered in her bun. “You mean, can I have my husband moved out by Sunday?”