Disturbed Ground (4 page)

Judy and Beth climbed out of the van and mounted the stairs to the second-story porch, where an old woman in a print dress greeted them at the door. Her white hair was wound around curlers atop her head. With the translucent patina of age, her fine, pale skin stretched across her broad cheeks then shrunk in around her mouth: She had no teeth.

After a round of polite introductions, Dorothea Puente invited them inside. Judy and Beth inhaled savory aromas wafting in from the kitchen as they followed the grandmotherly woman into the parlor. Glancing about, Judy noticed the landlady showed a weakness for old-fashioned ceramic figurines, doilies, and dime-store religious pic
tures—kitschy, but inoffensive. A wide assortment of paperback novels
bulged from a full bookcase. A few magazines were splayed across the lace tablecloth covering a low coffee table, and morning sun
spilled through lace curtains, lending warmth to the clean but cluttered interior. Boardinghouses were never fancy, but this one had a homey feel to it.

"Can I get you some coffee?" the landlady offered.

The two visitors declined, "Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Puente."

The landlady quickly corrected them, "Please, call me Dorothea." And with that, she launched into conversation, first apologizing for her appearance; her new dentures weren't ready yet, she explained, seeming vexed. Her toothlessness made her look every bit her age— "I'm seventy, you know"—but it didn't seem to inhibit her from talking.

As they could see, she was saying, this wasn't a particularly large house. The guests mostly roomed downstairs, she lived upstairs. She did the cooking up here and the guests came upstairs for meals. This sort of arrangement worked well, in her experience. "I've been in the boardinghouse business for a long time," she told them. "I used to run a much bigger house at 2100 F Street some years ago. But I'm not in this business for the money, you know. I don't need the money. It's just that life has been good to me, and this is my way of giving something back."

Judy didn't completely buy this—people didn't run these sorts of businesses strictly out of the goodness of their hearts—but guessed that the landlady was too proud to admit she needed extra income.

"I don't have any family living nearby," Puente went on, "so I need my boarders around me. They're like a substitute family for me—-I'd be lonely without them. Besides, they keep me busy." She sat erect, her hands folded, and smiled at them with sealed lips, a toothless Cheshire cat.

Judy and Beth began telling her about Bert and his history. When they mentioned that he was from Costa Rica, with Spanish his native tongue, Puente chimed in, "Well, we'll get along fine then, because I'm Hispanic, too."

She explained that her large family, composed of many siblings, was still in Mexico. "I'm the light one, the baby of the family. They always used to tease me about being the
gringa!”
She chuckled, seeming amused by distant memories.

Looking at her, no one would have guessed Dorothea Puente to be Mexican-American, but hanging on the walls were framed awards given to her for contributing to Hispanic causes. And regardless of the woman's pale complexion, the general decor did seem to reflect Mexican tastes, Judy decided.

Turning the conversation back to Bert, Judy said that she wanted to make sure Dorothea understood that, even though he'd been staying at Detox for years, Bert Montoya wasn't an alcoholic. "He hears voices—he says they're spirits talking to him—and he answers them and gestures to them. But usually he's very quiet and very sweet. Physically, he's fine, except for a really bad case of psoriasis on his scalp that he's had for years."

"Well, I can clear that up for him," Dorothea announced. "I was an RN in World War II, you know. Some people in the Hispanic community here even call me 'the Doctor,'" she added with apparent pleasure.

As Puente went on, laying out a few of the house rules, Judy appraised her. She had a humanitarian streak, but seemed streetwise, not saccharine. Ordinarily, Judy might have worried about a woman of Puente's age running a rooming house like this, but this little old lady had savvy, with a hint of the sort of toughness one needed in dealing with sometimes unruly house-guests. She made eye contact, which invited confidence. And even with a bandanna tied over her curlers, even without her dentures, she communicated dignity. She certainly didn't seem out to impress them—perhaps that's what impressed Judy most.

"Well, how would you like to look around?" Puente offered, standing.

First, they followed her into the kitchen, where Judy and Beth discovered the source of the delicious aroma that permeated the house. They stood and watched as the apron-clad woman took a spatula and
turned several fat hamburgers sizzling on the stove. Not skimpy burgers.
Not macaroni and cheese. But big, hearty, half-pound burgers. This was considerably better than typical room-and-board fare; too often, the operators prepared minimal meals and pocketed the profits.

And Bert liked to eat.

"I cook in the morning," Dorothea was explaining. "We have an early breakfast and early dinner. The tenants take care of their own lunch. I'm always up by five, so I like to get started right away. Lots of times I do my gardening first thing in the morning."

From the kitchen, Dorothea stepped out on the back-stair landing and pulled some cat food from a shelf. "I know some people hate
cats," she said while filling a small bowl, "but I have a weakness for strays. My mama cat just had kittens."

Dorothea set the bowl in a corner, and Judy watched mewing little balls of fur squirming in a cardboard box. How kindhearted of this woman to take in strays, she thought.

The tour continued. Besides the parlor and kitchen, the upstairs included a dining room, the landlady's bedroom, a guest bedroom, and a bathroom. Downstairs, where the boarders mainly stayed, cheap paneling covered the walls, but the furnishings were sturdy and clean. It was far from luxurious, yet there were plenty of televisions and even a downstairs refrigerator for the boarders to use.

Outside, they saw that the yard was remarkably well kept, with flowering plants and shrubs, even a small vegetable garden. Here was an ornamental cherub, there a small windmill, and in the front, a religious figurine—almost a shrine.

The threesome was soon back in the parlor, and when the conversation drifted to chitchat, Judy asked to use the phone. Leaving Beth and Dorothea, she used this opportunity to take another look around. Magazines and a big stack of mail, mostly bills, sat near the phone. Normal enough. She noticed the liquor cabinet was unusually well stocked . . . but this somehow made the place seem homey. Overall, the house was remarkably clean and well cared for, more than sufficient.

The two VOA co-workers were soon saying their good-byes. Judy waited until they were back in the van before venturing, "Well, Beth, what do you think?"

Without hesitation, Beth answered, "I think Bert would really like it here."

"Oh good," Judy said, flashing her wide smile. "I'm glad it's not just me."

After so much delay, Judy and Beth felt the system was finally working for Bert. There seemed no reason to wait, so they decided to bring him by that very afternoon.

If Bert Montoya had any reservations about meeting this stranger, they melted within minutes of his arrival. He spoke little, his reactions always filtered through his innate shyness, but Mrs. Puente was thoroughly disarming, speaking Spanish with him, showing him around, patting him as if he were a son.

"You know, if you move in here, I like cooking Mexican meals," Dorothea told him. "At the moment, no one here is Mexican, but I like Mexican food, and I would be real happy to cook some for you. Wouldn't you like that?"

Bert probably couldn't remember the last time someone had offered to cook a meal especially for him. A blush of pleasure showed on his face.

Dorothea showed him the room that could be his if he decided to move in. It was small and tidy, with just the essentials, really, but private, and with his very own TV. To anyone accustomed to first-class treatment, it would seem a dump; but to someone used to a vinyl mat on a concrete floor, it was a palace.

By the time they were ready to leave, Bert seemed utterly enamored of this Hispanic landlady with the big house. He let them know that he was ready to move in that same day.

But, knowing how easily he was swayed, Judy and Beth cautioned him to take a couple of days to think about it. This was the first place he'd seen, after all, and he might like another boardinghouse even better.

This was Monday. On Wednesday, February 8, Bert Montoya moved into 1426 F Street. Leaving behind the corrugated metal warehouse on Front Street and saying good-bye to his friends at Detox, he moved to a cozy, storybook house of blue and white near the heart of downtown. After years of living in a shelter meant as a last resort for the woefully down-and-out, Bert finally had a home. That night, for the first time in years, he would lay his head on a real pillow and sleep in a real bed.

PART II: F IS FOR FATAL

Dorothea was a woman you just didn't question. . . . She was Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde as far as I could tell.

—
John Sharp, Tenant

CHAPTER 4

From the moment Bert moved into Dorothea Puente’s boardinghouse, the texture of his life changed. He was no longer ignored, isolated, an outcast among outcasts. Rather, he became an important consideration within Dorothea's busy arena. From now on, what he wore, whom he spoke with, and how he spent his time were matters worthy of interest, even scrutiny.

Dorothea was constantly patting down his unruly hair, straightening his clothes, tucking in his shirts. In Spanish, she was always instructing him: "Don't forget to shave, Bert," or "Go and wash your hands," or "Give me your laundry, and I'll make sure you have some clean shirts."

Within two weeks, Dorothea had managed to eradicate Bert's chronic psoriasis—an accomplishment so swift and complete that Judy and Beth blinked with amazement at the sudden improvement in his appearance. His hair was clean; the mantle of flakes had disappeared from his shoulders. And this proved only the beginning.

During their visits over the next several weeks, Judy and Beth were delighted to see how Bert thrived under Puente's care. It seemed that every time they came by, Bert had undergone yet another transformation. The man who had wandered barefoot in summer, or clomped about in ill-fitting boots in winter, now wore snappy new shoes; Dorothea had given him two new pairs. His hair was combed, his nails were clean. And Dorothea made sure he had fresh clothes, making a present of six new shirts, a couple pairs of slacks, and a jacket.

Besides improving his grooming habits, Dorothea seemed to help him psychologically. She curtailed Bert's discourse with the spirits, openly scolding him for "talking to the devil." She even managed to get him to again start taking his antipsychotic medication, Mellaril (though he continued to murmur protests; he never did like the drug).

Over the weeks, Bert seemed more aware, more grounded, more confident. He even started speaking more clearly. One afternoon when she came by the F Street boardinghouse, Judy was startled when Bert came out to greet her, asking, "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she answered, stunned that, for the first time, Bert had initiated a conversation.

"Beth said you were sick," he mumbled, but Judy was impressed by Bert's improved pronunciation.

"I was sick this morning but now I'm better," she replied with a nonchalance that masked her astonishment. His former grunts, his monosyllabic "yeah" and "nah" answers had given way to complete sentences!

Judy and Beth, who felt a special responsibility for Bert, were elated. After such a frustrating struggle with his "identity problem," they felt doubly gratified that Bert now had his own room, his own wardrobe. And more than the big meals, more than the creature comforts, they saw that Dorothea Puente offered Bert dignity, reviving in him a connection with his long-neglected Hispanic roots. His self-esteem seemed to soar under her tutelage as they never would have dared hope.