Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

“Let’s put it this way. I don’t know you at all, but I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. It’s clean and the care is excellent, but your uncle wants to be in his own home.”

“Well, that won’t work. You said he’s not able to care for himself with his shoulder like it is.”

“That’s my point. You’ll have to hire someone to look after him.”

“Couldn’t you do that? You’d have a better idea how to go about it. I’m out of state.”

“Melanie, it’s your job, not mine. I barely know the man.”

“Maybe you could pitch in for a couple of days. Until I find someone else.”

“Me?” I held the phone away from me and stared at the mouthpiece. Surely she didn’t think she could drag me into it. I’m the least nursey person I know and I have people who’d back me up on the claim. On the rare occasions when I’ve been pressed into service, I’ve bumbled my way through, but I never liked it much. My aunt Gin took a dim view of pain and suffering, which she felt were trumped up purely to get attention. She couldn’t tolerate medical complaints and she thought all so-called serious illnesses were bogus, right up to the moment she was diagnosed with the very cancer she died of. I’m not quite as coldhearted but I’m not far behind. I had a sudden vision of hypodermic syringes and I thought I was on the verge of blacking out, when I realized Melanie was still wheedling.

“What about the neighbor who found him and called 9-1-1?”

“That was me.”

“Oh. I thought there was an old guy who lived next door.”

“You’re talking about Henry Pitts. He’s my landlord.”

“That’s right. I remember now. He’s retired. My uncle’s mentioned him before. Wouldn’t he have time to look in on Gus?”

“I don’t think you get it. He doesn’t need someone ‘looking in on him.’ I’m talking about professional nursing care.”

“Why don’t you contact social services? There has to be an agency to handle things like this.”

“You’re his niece.”

“His great-niece. Maybe even great-great,” she said.

“Uh-hun.”

I let a silence fall into which she did not leap with joy, offering to fly out.

She said, “Hello?”

“I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m just waiting to hear what you’re going to do.”

“Fine. I’ll be out, but I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

She hung up resoundingly to illustrate her point.

After dinner Friday night, I went with Henry to a Christmas-tree lot on Milagro to help him choose a tree-a decision he takes very seriously. Christmas was still two weeks away, but Henry’s like a little kid when it comes to the holidays. The lot itself was small, but he felt the trees were fresher and the selection better than at the other lots he’d tried. In the six-foot height he preferred, he had several choices: a balsam fir, a Fraser fir, a blue spruce, a Nordman, the Norway, or the noble spruce. He and the man who owned the lot got into a long discussion about the merits of each. The blue spruce, the noble, and the Norway had poor needle retention, and the Nordmans had spindly tips. He finally settled on a dark green balsam fir with a classic shape, soft needles, and the fragrance of a pine forest (or Pine-Sol, depending on your frame of reference). The tree branches were secured with heavy twine, and we hauled it to his station wagon, where we tied it across the top with an elaborate configuration of rope and bungee cords.

We drove home along Cabana Boulevard, the darkened ocean to our left. Offshore the oil rigs twinkled like a regatta with the capacity for spills. It was close to eight by then and the restaurants and motels across from the beach were ablaze with lights. The glimpse we caught of State Street in passing showed a steady march of seasonal decorations as far as the eye could see.

Henry parked in his driveway and we eased the tree out of its restraints. With him toting the trunk end and me struggling along at the midpoint, we wrestled the evergreen around to the street, up his short walk, and in the front door. Henry had rearranged the furniture to clear a place for the tree in one corner of the living room. Once we’d stabilized it in its stand, he tightened the T-bolts and added water to the reservoir below. He’d already pulled six boxes marked X-MAS from his attic and stacked them nearby. Five were filled with carefully wrapped ornaments, and the sixth box contained a formidable tangle of Christmas-tree lights.

“When are you doing the lights and ornaments?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Charlotte has an open house from two until five and she’ll stop by when she’s done. You’re welcome to join us. I’m making eggnog to get us in the proper spirit.”

“I don’t want to horn in on your date.”

“Don’t be silly. William and Rosie are coming, too.”

“Have they met her?”

“William has and he gave her a thumbs-up. I’m curious about Rosie’s reaction. She’s a tough one.”

“Why the opinion poll? You either like her or you don’t.”

“I don’t know. Something about the woman bothers me.”

“As in what?”

“You don’t find her a bit single-minded?”

“I’ve only talked to her once and I got the impression she was good at what she does.”

“It feels more complicated. She’s smart and attractive, I’ll give you that, but all she talks about is sell, sell, sell. We took a walk after supper the other night and she calculated the value of every house on the block. She was ready to go door-to-door, drumming up sales, but I put my foot down. These are my neighbors. Most are retired and their homes are paid off. So she talks someone into selling, then what? They end up with a pile of cash but no place to live and no way to buy another home because the market’s so high.”

“What was her response?”

“She was good about it and backed off, but I could see the wheels going round and round.”

“She’s a go-getter. No doubt about that. In fact, I was worried she’d talk you into selling this place.”

Henry gestured his dismissal. “No danger there. I love my house and I’d never give it up. She’s still lobbying to get me into rental properties, but that doesn’t interest me. I have one tenant already so why do I need more?”

“Okay, so maybe she’s ambitious. That doesn’t constitute a character flaw. You get hung up in all the fretting and you’ll spoil what you have now. If it doesn’t work out, then so be it.”

“Very philosophical,” he said. “I’ll remember you said that and quote it back to you one day.”

“No doubt.”

At 9:30 I went back to my place and let myself in. I flipped off the porch light and hung up my jacket. I was ready to settle down with a glass of wine and a good book when I heard a knock at my door. At that hour, chances were good it was someone trying to sell me something, or passing out poorly printed pamphlets predicting the End of the World. I was surprised anyone would brave the walk to my door since the streetlights don’t penetrate Henry’s backyard and patio.

I turned on the outside light and peered through the porthole in my front door. The woman standing on my porch wasn’t anyone I knew. She was in her midthirties with a pale square face, thinly plucked eyebrows, bright red lipstick, and a thick bunch of auburn hair that she’d caught in a knot on the top of her head. She wore a black business suit, but I didn’t see a clipboard or a sample case so maybe I was safe. When she saw me looking out at her she smiled and waved.

I put the chain on and then opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Hi. Are you Kinsey?”

“I am.”

“My name is Melanie Oberlin. Gus Vronsky’s niece. Am I disturbing you?”