Mourning Gloria Page 8

“Oh, gosh,” she said, and touched my penciled-in eyebrow with her finger. “I’m so sorry, China. What an awful thing to have seen!”

  “A damn sight worse for the woman inside the trailer,” I said grimly, and started the car. “If I’d shown up three or four minutes earlier, I might’ve been able to get her out.” I bit my lip, trying not to hear the echo of the frantic cry for help. “Even two minutes—that might’ve done it.”

  Ruby said the same thing Sheila had said. “You can’t blame yourself, China. You did what you could, as soon as you got there. Have they found out who she is?”

  I swung away from the curb. “If they have, I haven’t heard.”

  To tell the truth, I really didn’t want to know. The whole episode had begun to seem ugly and repulsive, too much like the sordid episodes of my former career. I didn’t lead that kind of life anymore. I shoved last night’s events into the back corner of my mind.

  “You started to say something about Doris,” I said. “What happened? Did she run away from home again?”

  Unfortunately, something is always happening to Ruby’s mother—or to be more precise, Ruby’s mother is always making something happen. Doris lives in a senior care facility called Castle Oaks, about ten minutes from Ruby’s house. In the past, we have made fun of her situation—among ourselves, of course, not in front of Doris. As Ruby and I would put it, her mom was one taco shy of a combination plate. Carrying on the food metaphor, Amy would say, “Gramma has been out to lunch for the past few months.” Kate would add, “The poor old thing is a couple of eggs short of a dozen.”

  We’ve laughed at these lame little jokes, but sadly, for there is really nothing funny about Alzheimer’s. It’s a tragedy, nothing less, for the person who is afflicted and for family and friends. Still, what else can we do but chuckle at this business of being human and growing older and losing our grip on the dailiness of life? And everybody who knows Doris admits that, even in her worst moments, she can be very funny indeed.

  “No, she didn’t run away from home,” Ruby said ruefully. “She got in a fight. She beat up on another old lady.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” I exclaimed, and my lawyer mode clicked in. “Assault and battery? Is anybody going to press charges? Is—”

  “No, of course not,” Ruby said. She was trying to smile, but not doing a very good job of it. “Things like that happen in the Alzheimer’s wing all the time. They just patch people up and get on with it.”

  “But still . . .” I glanced at her. “What was the fight about?”

  “They were in the cafeteria, having lunch, and the other old lady snatched up Mom’s carton of milk and poured it into the fish tank. She was feeding the fish, she said. So Mom plopped a wad of mashed potatoes down the back of her dress. The old lady slugged her with a pork chop. Mom knocked her down and sat on her.” Ruby was smiling, but her eyes were filled with tears and I could hear the sob in her throat. It was funny, but it wasn’t. “I don’t think the episode lasted more than a minute,” she added, “but it got everybody’s attention. The nurses said that the old folks were all gathered in a circle, shouting for their favorites.”

  “Anything for a little excitement,” I muttered. “Were you called in to referee or did you have to clean the fish tank? I don’t imagine that the fish are very happy, swimming around in milky water.”

  Ruby wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I was called in to bring Mom a pair of spare glasses. In the melee, hers got stepped on and smashed.”

  “Gosh, that’s too bad,” I said. “I hope the other old lady didn’t get hurt.” Doris is strong in her dotage. She went AWOL from Castle Oaks a few months ago, and it took a couple of burly cops to escort her back home.

  Ruby giggled through her tears. “She lost her upper plate. When Mom jumped her, it popped out and got broken. But she told the nurses that she was glad to have an excuse for a new one, because the old one never fit just right.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “You and I should be so lively when we get to their age.”

  “I just hope I get there with all my marbles,” Ruby replied.

  “Yeah. Me, too. I want to be able to laugh at myself.” I glanced down at the tote bag on the floor. “What’s in the bag?”

  “My famous Hot Lips Cookies.” Ruby sighed. “Unfortunately, the only thing local about them is the habanero powder. I got it from one of the vendors at the market, who grows the habaneros on her deck. The rest . . .” She shrugged. “It’s pretty difficult to bake if you have to restrict yourself to what’s grown locally.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Flour and sugar are a problem. Wheat and sugar cane are grown and processed in Texas, but the packages don’t tell you where the stuff comes from.”

  “Oil and shortening, too,” Ruby added thoughtfully. “And baking powder and baking soda. And salt—don’t forget salt. It’s a terrific idea, eating locally, and I’m all for growing lettuce and tomatoes and planting peach trees instead of crepe myrtles. But I don’t know anybody around here who has a salt lick. Do you?”

  “I read that the Indians used to get salt from seep springs over in Llano County, which is less than a hundred miles away,” I replied. “And there are salt mines on the Gulf Coast.”

  “Well, maybe.” Ruby shook her head. “But I’d hate to try and find my own salt. I can’t even begin to imagine what would happen if we couldn’t go shopping for what we need.”

  We were silent for a moment, contemplating our utter dependence on the grocery chains. At last I changed the subject again.

  “So how was the Long Shot last night? Did you and Hark have a good time?”

  Ruby gave a little shrug. “It was okay. Hark isn’t much of a dancer.” She brightened. “I danced with a cowboy who was, though. I mean, really.”

  “Hey.” I frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to dance with the one that brung you?”

  Ruby was defensive. “Well, I would’ve. In fact, I wanted to, but Hark got involved in a game of pool. You know how he is when he gets a cue in his hand. He totally forgot about me.” She sighed lustily. “I have to tell you, China—Jackson is a real cowboy.”

  “Jackson? A cowboy named Jackson?”

  Ruby nodded. “He’s the foreman at a big ranch in Llano County. Thousands of acres.”

  Hark doesn’t look much like a pool shark, but looks are deceiving. And he’s definitely much better at the table than he is on the dance floor. Still, he and Ruby were out on a date and he should have danced with her instead of playing pool. It was not the better part of wisdom to leave her to the tender mercies of the local cowboys, who are great dancers but play fast and loose with hearts.

  “Hark should have been paying attention to you,” I said sternly.

  “You bet. Anyway, Jackson invited me to the rodeo on Friday night. He’s riding bulls.” Another giggle. “He’s an outrageous flirt, China. And really cute.”

  I sighed. Ruby is capable of losing her heart on a moment’s notice, and I fervently wished she would lose it to Hark. In my book, he’s one of the good guys. He’s been there for her when her current love affair has failed, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated carelessly.

  But even good guys occasionally have their bad points. For some, it’s rodeo and bull-riding and outrageous flirting. For Hark, it’s pool.

  To get to Mistletoe Creek Farm, you drive south from Pecan Springs to Comanche Road, which traces a twenty-mile loop off State Route 39. This area used to be farming and grazing country, but sprawling real estate developments and exclusive gated communities have gobbled much of it up, like angry locusts consuming the land. Without irrigation, farming has always been a chancy business here. If a creek or a stream crosses your property, you’re lucky. If not, you have to irrigate with water pumped up from the aquifer, hundreds of feet below—and both the Trinity and the Edwards aquifers, which supply this part of the Hill Country, are seriously threatened by overpumping.

  Donna is lucky. Her small farm straddles both s
ides of Mistletoe Creek, a shallow, fast-moving stream that flows into the Pecan River west of New Braunfels. When the fields don’t get enough rain, she irrigates with water from the creek, so that her vegetables did fairly well, even during last summer’s long dry spell. Her market farm is really taking off, energized by the community-supported agriculture movement that’s gathering steam among folks like Stuart and Margie Laughton and the other members of the Local Food Society. And Donna herself is putting not only muscle power but imagination and mental energy into the farm. She’s developed a website, a biweekly eletter, and offers subscriptions for the weekly delivery of seasonal vegetables. (If you want to subscribe, it’s too late for this year—all the places are filled. But go ahead and put your name on her waiting list, and maybe you’ll make it for next year.) She also has a booth at the Farmers’ Market, where she sells what doesn’t go to subscribers.

  At this point, the farm has five acres in vegetables. That may not sound like much, but Donna practices organic, low-impact farming. Five acres are about all she can handle, along with the additional acres of olive trees and Christmas trees, not to mention the bees and the chickens and the goats (Nubians—she says they give the best milk) and the computer work that goes into managing the subscriptions and turning out the eletters. She has some help from subscribers who trade hours of labor for vegetables and from a few dedicated volunteers like Jessica. But when push comes to shove, Donna is the one who does most of the work. She might not welcome her sister back with open arms, but she (and Aunt Velda, too, I imagine) will likely be glad for whatever help they can get from Terry.

  Ruby and I passed the Mistletoe Creek Farm sign at the corner of Comanche Road and turned down the narrow, bumpy lane, potholed from the recent rains. On the left, along the little creek, were the olive trees, green and lush. They were several years old now, and just beginning to bear well. On the right were the Christmas trees, twenty acres of pines, in various stages of growth. Ahead of us, at the end of the lane, stood the small house where Donna and Aunt Velda live. Behind the house was a substantial chicken coop (the sign on the door reads: Quiet, Hens at Work), and a red barn that houses the farm office, as well as the milking stations for Donna’s goats. We were meeting on the deck in back of the house, under the shade of a large pecan tree. I pulled up in the graveled parking area, where a dozen cars were already parked.

  As we got out of the car, Margie Laughton—a soft-faced, brown-haired woman in her early forties—hurried toward us, almost skipping. I’ve recently seen Margie wearing a forlorn expression when she thinks nobody’s looking, and I’ve wondered if it was because of the problems she and Stu have been having. But just now, she was wreathed in smiles. She was carrying a copy of their new book, Small Farms.

  “See?” she crowed, holding it up. “Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t you just love the front cover? Look—it’s a photo of Donna’s farm!” She turned the book over. “And on the back, there’s a photo of Stu and me, with baskets of fresh veggies.”

  “It’s gorgeous, Margie!” Ruby replied, and enveloped her in a hug so huge that Margie was almost pulled off her feet. “We’re so proud of you!”

  “And believe it or not, our publicist says that she’s setting up an interview on All Things Considered,” Margie said, righting herself breathlessly.

  “Wow,” Ruby breathed, awed. “You and Stu—on All Things Considered ! The national publicity will be great for you!”

  “I want a dozen copies of the book for the shop,” I said. “Where do I order it?”

  “I’ll get you the information—and of course, we’ll be glad to do a book signing.” Margie pulled us along. “Come on. Everybody else is here already. Let’s eat.”

  The table was full, with homemade pizza with local-veggie toppings and Margie’s sauce; a variety of greens from Donna’s salad garden; and a half-dozen desserts. One person had brought cantaloupes from the Rio Grande valley, somebody had donated a dish of home-canned Hill Country peaches from the previous season, and another had come up with figs from the tree in her backyard. But the rest of the desserts were about as local as my carrot cupcakes and Ruby’s cookies, so I didn’t feel too guilty.

  I was loading my plate when I felt a tug at my elbow. I turned to see Jessica Nelson, cute and perky in cutoffs and a green Mistletoe Farm tee. She leaned close and lowered her voice.

  “I understand that you were the one who turned in the alarm on the trailer fire on Limekiln Road last night, China. It must’ve happened while you were on your way home from Amy and Kate’s, huh?”

  “News travels fast.” I helped myself to two slices of pizza. “How did you hear about that?”

  “Mr. Hibler got the word early this morning and called to tell me. I drove out and got a few pictures for the paper.”

  “Yeah. Well, I was the one who turned it in, all right. But if I’d only got there a few minutes earlier, the victim might still be alive.”

  “I seriously doubt it,” Jessica said. “I talked to the sheriff just before I came out here, and he said—”

  I didn’t get to hear what Blackie had said, for we were interrupted. It was Stu, with a copy of Small Farms under his arm and a plate loaded with pizza.

  To Jessica, he said, “Hey, aren’t you Jessica Nelson, from the Enterprise ? I’m Stu Laughton, author of Small Farms.”

  I was surprised, because I thought Jessica surely knew him from the farm or the market. But I must’ve been wrong, because she replied, “Yep, that’s me. Nice to meet you.” She ducked her head, and I caught a glance that passed between them, a private glance weighed with a significance I didn’t understand.

  But the glance was gone in a flash, and Stu’s tone was so casual that I thought I must have been mistaken. “Hark Hibler says you’re reviewing our book for the Enterprise. Do you need a copy? I’ll be glad to drop one off for you, if you’ll give me your address.”

  “No need to bother,” Jessica replied. “I’m all set. Your publicist sent me an advance reading copy and I’ve already written a draft of my review.” Her expression became serious. “I’ll tell you up front what I think, Dr. Laughton. Everybody needs to know what’s happening with our food—and they will, if they read the book you and your wife have written.” She paused. “I was really impressed with the section on genetically modified crops.”

  Stu nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. Margie and I are hoping the early reviews will spark some interest.”

  “Spark some interest?” I laughed out loud. To Jessica, I said, “If you really want a scoop, Jessica, ask him about appearing on All Things Considered.”

  “No kidding?” Jessica’s brown eyes widened. “All Things Considered? Now I am impressed.”

  “It’s not definite yet,” Stu said. But he was grinning that cocky grin of his. “Just a maybe, at this point.”

  “When it happens, it’ll be an Enterprise banner headline,” I said.

  “For sure,” Jessica agreed.

  “Certainly hope so,” Stu said, and made off in the direction of the beer.

  When he had gone, I went back to the subject. “What was it you were saying about the sheriff?”

  Jessica nodded toward two empty side-by-side chairs at a table on the far side of the deck, next to a wooden tub of patio tomatoes, the ripening fruit like bright red jewels. “Let’s sit where we can talk.”

  “What’s up,” she said, when we were settled, “is that Mr. Hibler has assigned me to cover the trailer fire story. I’m going to get a byline on it, too.” She paused. “I’d like to interview you, China.”

  I wasn’t surprised that Hark wanted the story covered, although it was a little unusual that he hadn’t taken it himself or assigned it to one of his staff writers, instead of handing it over to an intern. He probably wanted to help an ambitious girl reporter beef up her portfolio. But my role in the trailer fire was pure happenstance, and I hadn’t been able to do anything constructive except phone 9-1-1. There’s nothing newsworthy about that.

  I s
aid, “Well, I’m glad about the byline, Jessica. That’s great. But the sheriff knows everything I know, and a heckuva lot more. Why don’t you interview him?”

  “I plan to, just as soon as he’s available.” Jessica’s expression was serious. “But I really want to interview you, China. There’s a strong human-interest angle to this, and I aim to give it my best shot.” She gave me a crooked grin. “After all, this may be the only big story I get this whole summer. I don’t mind telling you, I need it.”

  And want it, I thought, remembering what Hark had said about Jessica being competitive. “I can understand that,” I replied reluctantly. “I hope you’re not planning to do the interview right now, though.”

  She shook her head. “How about tomorrow? Lunch? Okay if I bring a tape recorder?”

  “The tape recorder is fine, and so is lunch. The tearoom is closed on Mondays, but there’s usually stuff for sandwiches and salad in the fridge. We’ll have the place to ourselves.” I grinned. “Unless you’ve got an expense account. In which case—”

  “Expense account?” She snorted a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. Mr. Hibler is as tight as a tick when it comes to expenses. But I don’t want to panhandle,” she added hastily. “I’ll pick up the tab.”

  “No tab when we’re eating out of the fridge.” I paused. “What was it you were saying before Dr. Laughton interrupted us? You mentioned that you had talked to the sheriff and he said . . .” I trailed off, prompting her.

  She leaned toward me, her voice conspiratorial, her face purposeful. Her intensity reminded me of myself at her age. “He said that the victim was shot, China. Tied up, hands and feet, and shot.”

  “I know,” I said, and was immediately sorry. Jessica had thought she had a scoop. I softened my tone. “Chief Dawson is a friend of mine. We spoke about the situation late last night. The sheriff had already filled her in, and she passed on the news to me.”

  Impatiently, Jessica threw up her hands. “This town. Everybody’s connected to everybody else. Who the hell needs a newspaper?”