Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

“I know and I’m sorry. We could maybe make it, you know, like nine fifty. Would that work for you?”

Solana considered. “Perhaps I could manage, assuming you’re talking about a straight eight-hour shift, five days a week. If weekends are necessary, my rate would go up to ten an hour.”

“That’s fine. If it comes down to it, I can contribute a few dollars to help offset the expense. The important thing is that he has the help he needs.”

“Naturally, the patient’s needs are paramount.”

“When would you be able to start? I mean, assuming you’re interested.”

Solana paused. “This is Friday and I do have a few things to take care of. Could we say early next week?”

“Would Monday be at all possible?”

Solana shifted with apparent uneasiness. “Ah. I might be able to rearrange my schedule, but much would depend on you.”

“Me?”

“You have an application you want me to complete?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ve covered the basics, and if something else comes up, we can discuss at the time.”

“I appreciate your confidence, but you should have the information for your files. It’s better for both of us if we put our cards on the table, so to speak.”

“That’s very conscientious. Actually, I do have some forms. Hang on a second.”

She got up and crossed the room to a side table where her handbag was sitting. She took out a folded set of papers. “You need a pen?”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll complete the application at home and bring it over first thing tomorrow morning. That will give you the weekend to verify my references. By Wednesday, you should have everything you need.”

Melanie furrowed her brow. “Couldn’t you go ahead and start work on Monday? I can always make calls from New York when I get home.”

“I suppose I could. It’s really a matter of your peace of mind.”

“I’m not worried about that. I’m sure everything’s in order. I feel better just having you here.”

“Your decision.”

“Good. Why don’t I introduce you to Uncle Gus and I can show you around.”

“I’d like that.”

As they moved into the hall, she could see Melanie’s anxiety surface again. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. Uncle Gus hasn’t done much to keep it up. Typical bachelor living. He doesn’t seem to notice all the dust and disrepair.”

“He could be depressed. Elderly gentlemen in particular seem to lose their zest for life. I see it in their lack of personal hygiene, indifference to their surroundings, and limited social contacts. Sometimes there are personality changes as well.”

“I hadn’t thought about that. I should warn you he can be difficult. I mean, really, he’s a sweetheart, but sometimes he gets impatient.”

“Short-tempered, in other words.”

“Right.”

Solana smiled. “I’ve seen it before. Believe me, the shouting and tantrums roll right over me. I don’t take any of it personally.”

“That’s a relief.”

Solana was introduced to Gus Vronsky, in whom she took an avid interest, though she said very little to him. There was no point working to ingratiate herself. Melanie Oberlin was doing the hiring and she’d soon be gone. Whatever the old man was like, foul-mouthed or disagreeable, Solana would have him to herself. There’d be plenty of time for the two of them to sort themselves out.

That Friday afternoon, she sat at the round Formica table that served as her desk in the dining area of her small apartment. Her kitchen was cramped, with scarcely enough counter space to prepare a meal. She had an apartment-sized refrigerator, a four-burner stove that looked as inadequate as a toy, a sink, and cheap wall-mounted cabinets. She paid bills from this table, which was usually covered with paperwork and therefore useless for eating purposes. She and her son ate sitting in front of the television set, resting their plates on the coffee table.

She had the Vronsky job application in front of her. Close by she had the copy of the application she’d taken from the Other’s personnel file. Fifteen feet away, the television thundered, but Solana scarcely noticed. The living room was actually the long part of the L-shaped combination living-dining room with no discernible difference between the two. Tiny, her Tonto, was sprawled in his recliner, his feet elevated, his eyes fixed on the set. He was hard of hearing, and he usually had the volume turned up to levels that made her wince and encouraged her close neighbors to pound on the walls. After he dropped out of school, the only work he could find was as a bagger at a nearby supermarket. That didn’t last long. He thought the job was beneath him and he quit six months later. He was then hired by a landscape company to mow lawns and clip hedges. He complained about the heat and swore he was allergic to grass and tree pollens. Often he went to work late or he called in sick. When he did show up, if he wasn’t properly supervised, he’d leave when it suited him. He quit or was fired, depending on who was telling the tale. After that he made a few attempts to find work, but the job interviews came to nothing. Because of his difficulties making himself understood, he was often frustrated, lashing out at random. Eventually he stopped making any effort at all.

In some ways, she found it easier to have him at home. He’d never had a driver’s license so when he was employed it was up to her to take him into work and pick him up afterward. With the shifts she worked at the convalescent home, this presented a problem.

At the moment, he had a beer balanced on the arm of the chair and an open bag of potato chips resting against his thigh like a faithful hound. He munched while he watched his favorite program, a game show with lots of sound effects and lights. He liked to call out the answers to questions in that strange voice of his. He didn’t seem embarrassed that all his answers were wrong. What difference did it make? He enjoyed participating. In the mornings he watched soap operas, and later in the afternoon, he watched cartoon shows or old movies.

Solana studied the Other’s employment history with a familiar feeling of envy, mixed with a certain degree of pride since she was now claiming the résumé as her own. The letters of reference talked about how reliable and responsible she was, and Solana felt the attributes exactly described the sort of person she was. The only problem she could see was an eighteen-month gap, during which the Other was out on medical leave. She knew the details because the subject had been much discussed at work. The Other had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d subsequently undergone a lumpectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiation.

Solana had no intention of incorporating that information in the application. She was superstitious about disease and didn’t want anyone to think she’d suffered from something so embarrassing. Breast cancer? My god. She didn’t need the pity or the fawning concern. In addition, she worried about a prospective employer voicing curiosity. If she included the talk of cancer, someone might inquire about her symptoms, or the nature of the drugs they’d used, or what the doctors had told her about her chances of recurrence. She’d never had cancer in her life. No one in her immediate family had ever had cancer, either. In her mind, having cancer was as shameful as being an alcoholic. Also, she was worried that if she wrote it down, the disease might actually manifest itself.

But how could she explain that interval when the real Solana-the Other-had been off work? She decided she’d substitute a position she herself had held right around that time. She’d worked as a companion for an old lady named Henrietta Sparrow. The woman was now dead so no one could call her to ask for a letter of reference. Henrietta was beyond complaining now (as she had at the time) that she was mistreated. All of that had gone to the grave with her.