the right of the door.
Suddenly, looking at the windows, all she wanted to do was climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Corban had done his best to control his anger as he went outside and scrubbed the glass. Now he came back in and looked at the window from the inside. “How’s that?”
The old woman didn’t say anything. She just stood looking from one window to the other. Before she could enlist him to clean the rest of her dirty windows, he held out the filthy cloth. “Where do you want me to put this?”
“In the laundry basket on the back porch. The paper towels go in the trash under the sink.” She held out the wad she had taken from him.
Corban took them and headed for the kitchen, thankful that the old bat hadn’t ordered him to get a bucket and do the whole house. Not that it couldn’t use it. The whole place, from the greasy ceiling to the old yellow-and-gray linoleum on the kitchen floor, could stand a cleaning. At least the metal and yellow- and brown-flecked Formica dinette tablewas clean, though the ancient gas range and rounded-front refrigerator could use a scouring.
“And be sure you put the Windex back where you got it!”
Did she think he meant to steal it? He tucked it under the counter, deposited the sodden paper towels in the paper trash bag diapered with a plastic grocery sack, and slammed the cabinet. He found the washer and dryer tucked in the tiny back porch; both machines looked older than he was! He spotted the laundry basket containing one faded pink towel, a washcloth, and a pastel, flowered polyester dress similar to the one the woman was wearing. He tossed the dirty washcloth on top.
The house depressed Corban. It was dusty, dimly lit, and grim. And there was a smell. He couldn’t define it . . . it wasn’t just the house but the peculiar, indescribable scent of the old woman herself. Corban was faintly repulsed by it. He was equally repulsed by his surroundings. Worse, he was repulsed by the frizzy, white-haired old woman in her cheap dress, bubbly crocheted cardigan, and old pink, fuzzy, matted slippers. She stood there in her seedy living room looking like an old banty hen ready to peck at him. She stared at him with those rheumy blue eyes, and from the look in them, he could see she didn’t much care for him, either.
That annoyed him. He was volunteering his time to help, wasn’t he? She should show a little gratitude.
We’re off to a bad start. He shouldn’t have looked through her window, but how was he supposed to know it would take her five minutes to get to the front door? Regardless, he had to do something to salvage the situation. How was he going to get the information he needed if he wasn’t in her good graces? He forced a smile. “Nancy said you needed to go to the grocery store. I’ll take you.”
There. That should bring a smile to the old crone’s face.
Leota pursed her lips. He was looking at her, waiting. For what? A pat on the head? A big kiss? She didn’t want to go anywhere with this arrogant young whelp. She’d seen him glance around her house with a look of distaste. No doubt he came from grander environs. Bully for him. She didn’t move and she didn’t say anything. She looked him over in his faded blue Levi’s. Whoever heard of wearing a tan suede coat over a white T-shirt . His hair was cut short, cropped like a Roman Caesar’s. And oh, did he have the airs. King of the world, was he?
“I’ve got arthritis. I’m not much good at kneeling.”
“Ma’am?” He tilted his head slightly.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
He looked perplexed, then faintly irritated. Like he had places to go and people to see. And she was wasting his precious time.
“Would you like me to get your shoes for you?”
Oh, so polite.
Just because she was old didn’t mean she was senile. She knew she was wearing her slippers. Why shouldn’t she be wearing them? It was her house. People didn’t sit around all day in their
Suddenly, looking at the windows, all she wanted to do was climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Corban had done his best to control his anger as he went outside and scrubbed the glass. Now he came back in and looked at the window from the inside. “How’s that?”
The old woman didn’t say anything. She just stood looking from one window to the other. Before she could enlist him to clean the rest of her dirty windows, he held out the filthy cloth. “Where do you want me to put this?”
“In the laundry basket on the back porch. The paper towels go in the trash under the sink.” She held out the wad she had taken from him.
Corban took them and headed for the kitchen, thankful that the old bat hadn’t ordered him to get a bucket and do the whole house. Not that it couldn’t use it. The whole place, from the greasy ceiling to the old yellow-and-gray linoleum on the kitchen floor, could stand a cleaning. At least the metal and yellow- and brown-flecked Formica dinette tablewas clean, though the ancient gas range and rounded-front refrigerator could use a scouring.
“And be sure you put the Windex back where you got it!”
Did she think he meant to steal it? He tucked it under the counter, deposited the sodden paper towels in the paper trash bag diapered with a plastic grocery sack, and slammed the cabinet. He found the washer and dryer tucked in the tiny back porch; both machines looked older than he was! He spotted the laundry basket containing one faded pink towel, a washcloth, and a pastel, flowered polyester dress similar to the one the woman was wearing. He tossed the dirty washcloth on top.
The house depressed Corban. It was dusty, dimly lit, and grim. And there was a smell. He couldn’t define it . . . it wasn’t just the house but the peculiar, indescribable scent of the old woman herself. Corban was faintly repulsed by it. He was equally repulsed by his surroundings. Worse, he was repulsed by the frizzy, white-haired old woman in her cheap dress, bubbly crocheted cardigan, and old pink, fuzzy, matted slippers. She stood there in her seedy living room looking like an old banty hen ready to peck at him. She stared at him with those rheumy blue eyes, and from the look in them, he could see she didn’t much care for him, either.
That annoyed him. He was volunteering his time to help, wasn’t he? She should show a little gratitude.
We’re off to a bad start. He shouldn’t have looked through her window, but how was he supposed to know it would take her five minutes to get to the front door? Regardless, he had to do something to salvage the situation. How was he going to get the information he needed if he wasn’t in her good graces? He forced a smile. “Nancy said you needed to go to the grocery store. I’ll take you.”
There. That should bring a smile to the old crone’s face.
Leota pursed her lips. He was looking at her, waiting. For what? A pat on the head? A big kiss? She didn’t want to go anywhere with this arrogant young whelp. She’d seen him glance around her house with a look of distaste. No doubt he came from grander environs. Bully for him. She didn’t move and she didn’t say anything. She looked him over in his faded blue Levi’s. Whoever heard of wearing a tan suede coat over a white T-shirt . His hair was cut short, cropped like a Roman Caesar’s. And oh, did he have the airs. King of the world, was he?
“I’ve got arthritis. I’m not much good at kneeling.”
“Ma’am?” He tilted his head slightly.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
He looked perplexed, then faintly irritated. Like he had places to go and people to see. And she was wasting his precious time.
“Would you like me to get your shoes for you?”
Oh, so polite.
Just because she was old didn’t mean she was senile. She knew she was wearing her slippers. Why shouldn’t she be wearing them? It was her house. People didn’t sit around all day in their
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