Disturbed Ground (5 page)

Whatever Dorothea was doing, everyone noticed the near-miraculous
improvements in Bert's appearance and demeanor. And Dorothea clearly enjoyed reaping credit for this, seeming to derive personal satisfaction from Bert's progress.

But Bill Johnson, Bert's bearded friend from Detox, viewed the move to Puente's residence with some skepticism. Time and again, Johnson had watched people leave the humble sanctuary of Detox for better accommodations, only to end up having their benefit checks snatched up by greedy landlords. One day while visiting Bert, he even
said as much to Mrs. Puente. "All board-and-care operators are in it for the money," he muttered.

Not one to sit back and take insults, the landlady shot back, "If I was, I would have kept the other place," referring to the grand house at 2100 F Street that she'd operated years before.

Johnson knew little and cared less about places she'd managed in the past; he cared about Bert, who he believed was due a large retroactive payment from SSI, (Supplemental Security Income, formerly called Aid to the Totally Disabled). And Johnson harbored a festering suspicion that Puente, that sly old cat, "was going to snag it."

It didn't set well with Dorothea Puente that her favorite tenant's buddy didn't trust her.

The next time Bill Johnson stopped by for a visit, Bert wasn't there, so Mrs. Puente seized this opportunity to give him a tour of the premises. She slowly led him through the house, room to room, purring with fondness for Bert. She showed him the thriving vegetable garden, gushing about how Bert so enjoyed helping with the gardening, and was
so
helpful with the weeding and planting. She steered Johnson downstairs, pointing out that a downstairs refrigerator was stocked with sodas so that her tenants could help themselves (unusual for this sort of establishment), and showed him that most of the tidy rooms had televisions.

Bert's room, Johnson noticed, was spotless. But as they wandered in and out, what lodged in Johnson's mind were not the domestic touches, the quilts and paperbacks, the cleanliness and comfort of the house, but the delectable aromas streaming from the oven. Pot roast: mouth-watering and savory.

Later, with that tantalizing fragrance still in his nostrils, Johnson grudgingly admitted to himself that such hearty fare set Puente's place above others. Bert was lucky to be living here. Few former Detox dwellers had it so good.

With time, Johnson learned that Dorothea Puente did much more than the ordinary boardinghouse operator, and took special care of Bert. She cooked him Mexican meals, and Johnson knew how Bert loved Mexican food. And she made sure Bert went to church every Sunday, a fact that the devout Mr. Johnson found heartening, since he'd assumed a similar role for Bert back at Detox.

Still, Johnson wasn't as thrilled as some about the changes in Bert.
It seemed to him that the landlady "hovered over him, put too much emphasis on his appearance." She was always straightening his collar or flicking lint off his shoulders, and she made him wear a sports coat, even in hot weather. In retrospect, Johnson perceived that Mrs. Puente wielded excessive control over his docile friend. "She manipulated him," he decided. But that's hindsight.

Dorothea Puente was taking such good care of Bert that the other tenants were jealous. They complained that she babied him and granted him special favors. And it was true. She made lunches for him, while everyone else was offered only breakfast and dinner. She gave him spending money, and even ran a tab for Bert across the street at Joe's Comer Bar, supporting what became Bert's daily pilgrimage to the darkened tavern for burritos and beer.

Moreover, it was uncommonly generous of Dorothea to agree to take in Bert even before his entitlement checks started coming. He wouldn't start receiving food stamps until early March, his first SSI check wouldn't come until June, and in the meantime he was living at 1426 F Street, for $175 per month, more or less on credit. Dorothea had said that if Bert's benefit checks were at first a little slow in coming, that was all right. This was typical of the extraordinarily kind Dorothea Puente.

Various charities—from the Policemen's Association to Mexican-American groups—benefited from her checkbook. On occasion, she even made it to the hundred-dollar-a-plate political fund-raisers. Sometimes she would pop into the Camellia Senior Center to donate a box or two of clothes—sometimes men's, sometimes women's. She made sure that workers collected her recyclables every Friday, which contributed a little extra cash to the work furlough center. And every Thanksgiving she donated a turkey to some needy group.

John Sharp, a tall, thin man with keen blue eyes and a bald pate rimmed with white hair, had nothing but praise for his new landlady. Sharp had moved in about a month before Bert. Just out of the hospital after back surgery, the sixty-four-year-old retired cook had no place to sleep. But Puente had a room for him under the stairway landing at the rear of the house for $160 per month, plus another $87 in food stamps.

To him, she seemed a whirlwind of activity, constantly cooking and
cleaning. Super-landlady. And Sharp appreciated Puente's thoughtfulness. "She had cable TV wired into my room at no cost to me, and she bought me a recliner chair because of my bad back," Sharp crowed. "She also bought a three-wheel bicycle for another guy who was crippled.”

Some other tenants were less coherent or less reputable than the sober Mr. Sharp. John McCauley, a bearded, truculent fellow who lived upstairs, was such a mean drunk that people generally stayed out of his way, though Dorothea seemed to like him. Homer Myers, a lumbering, white-haired old guy who was hard of hearing, tended to shy away from strangers, smiling vaguely at comments he probably didn't catch. And Ben Fink, a wiry man in his late fifties who walked with a cane, would characteristically drink up his benefit check as soon as it came each month, floating through the first few days, then drying out until his next check arrived.

Besides these men—five including Bert—other men and women occasionally stayed at Dorothea's. A week, a month, they were a transient population. But in the midst of this flux, Dorothea carved out a routine and stuck to it.

She was up before dawn, and the first light of day usually found her in the yard, gardening, watering, sweeping, and raking. Breakfast was on the table at 5:30. Though not everyone fancied the idea of such an early meal, Dorothea treated the early risers to a hearty spread of eggs, bacon, pancakes—the works.

It was Dorothea's daily habit to remind her tenants to take their medications. Each had individual health problems, and it wasn't strange to see pill bottles sharing the table with the salt and pepper shakers. On a kitchen calendar Dorothea noted appointments with dentists, social workers, and doctors, reminding her tenants of the dates, even making sure they arranged for transportation. The woman was organized.

And she was busy. She took care of chores, laundry, and shopping herself, and by early afternoon she was usually dressed and ready to go out.

At home, she was just an old hausfrau in an apron, but when she went out, she was always the lady. She favored bright dresses and, ever-conscious of her appearance, put on a touch of makeup and a mist of her favorite perfume before leaving.

Dorothea Puente didn't mind walking to nearby destinations, such
as McAnaw's Pharmacy, where she routinely picked up a variety of cigarettes, cosmetics, over-the-counter drugs, scandal sheets, greeting cards, and monthly prescriptions. Or, just down the street, she'd stop in on a Mexican friend who had a magic touch for making tamales. Dorothea might buy a dozen or two at a time, carrying the heavy bags back up the street and upstairs into her kitchen, where she would serve them for dinner.

The Clarion Hotel, also just a short walk away, was another favorite stopping spot. With its plushness and polish, the Clarion offered a pleasant reprieve from the coarse habits of her tenants, and Dorothea's pale, pretty face was often seen here at the bar. She befriended one bartender in particular, whom she surprised on her birthday with a dozen roses and a big bouquet of balloons.

This was Dorothea's way: the big display, the lavish gesture. After all, she was a retired doctor; she had the money, didn't she? Hadn't she come in here one morning looking dog-tired, complaining that the hospital had called her in on some emergency and she'd been up all night in surgery?

Another reason for visiting the Clarion Hotel was that Dorothea Puente's "nephew," Ricardo Ordorica, worked there. A gnomish man of a child's size, Ordorica had worked as a gardener at the Clarion for many, many years. When Ordorica saw her come into view, his sad, droopy face would break into smiles. Dorothea was more than a good friend, she was his
tia
(aunt). When she'd been in prison, he and his wife had stood by her; now that she was back, everything was fine again.

Dorothea had a special fondness for this little man. She greeted him warmly in Spanish, patting his shoulder, asking about his family. He beamed up at her.

Few people knew that Ordorica was not really her nephew but her landlord. For a time, Dorothea Puente had rented just the top floor of 1426 F Street, with the Ordoricas downstairs, and they'd lived there almost as kin. The children loved her like a grandmother, for Dorothea baked them cakes, took them on trips, and surprised them with gifts.

Now that the Ordoricas had moved into their new home, Dorothea was renting the entire house on F Street, and the children didn't see her as often. But she frequently came to see her "nephew" at the Clarion Hotel, and he regularly stopped by the house to see his
tia.

But more than friends, more than "family," they were business associates.

Often when she saw him she would open her purse and, murmuring a few words, take out some checks and hand them to him. Ordorica would nod his head of black hair, fold the checks in his tiny hands, and put them into his pocket.

Dorothea didn't drive, and if she were venturing many blocks from home she always called a cab. These days, her favorite cabbie was Patty Casey, a trusting woman who enjoyed Puente's company and was pleased to oblige whenever Dorothea called. Besides, Dorothea was a good tipper.

When Casey pulled up in front, Dorothea was usually waiting. And, as she hurried out the gate, Casey noticed that she always dressed impeccably, her shoes and handbag matching.

During the week, the landlady often called Patty Casey to take her on errands, to appointments, to the bank, or to shop at nurseries, where she indulged what Casey considered a "fanatical" love of gardening. The cabbie would drop her off at Lumberjack, a huge place, and pick her up when she called a couple of hours later, laden with landscaping supplies.

Back at the house, Dorothea would insist, "Now, I don't want you lifting a thing, Patty, with that bad back of yours. Promise me you'll sit right there. I'll get Bert to come help me." And right away, Bert would come out to hoist the heavy stuff into the house or under the stairs, wherever Dorothea directed him.

(Casey thought Bert such a sweet, likable person that, spying him in the neighborhood, she would sometimes pick him up and treat him to a short ride. She noticed that he loved to "watch the little digits go around" on her meter.)

Casey thought it touching that Bert called Dorothea "Mama," and she considered it bighearted of Dorothea to take Bert in and care for him the way she did. In fact, Dorothea was one of the kindest, most considerate people Patty Casey had ever met.

Dorothea also had a vain streak, Casey noticed, but whatever her faults, she was the anchor of 1426 F Street. A houseful of people relied on her, and week after week, Casey saw how hard Dorothea worked to run the household and care for her marginal boarders.

All this despite Dorothea's own health problems.

On the way to a doctor's appointment one day, Dorothea sadly revealed that she was battling cancer. "Imagine that," she sighed. "I don't even smoke, and I'll probably die of lung cancer."

Casey clucked with genuine concern. With a personality as plain and sturdy as her build, Casey was becoming Dorothea's loyal confidante.

One day early in March, the landlady invited her into the house to pick out a kitten. She carried the mewing little thing home, nursing it like a warm, fuzzy token of their friendship.

On Sundays, dressed with her finest jewelry
,
Dorothea Puente would ride to the lovely old Catholic church, the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament, at Eleventh and K streets. But more often, whether or not she admitted it to Patty Casey, her destination would be a bar.