Happiness Key (12 page)

Tracy plopped down on the edge of the sofa, and for a moment the room spun faster and Wanda had to close her eyes. “Wanda, what is there to understand? The man wanted me to—”

Wanda waved that away with a limp wrist. “It doesn’t matter what he said he wanted. I caught on real early all he and every one of them really wants is to talk to somebody who’ll listen. That guy’s kinda new, but he’ll catch on quick. They tell me all about their youth, when girls couldn’t get enough of them, couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, you know what I mean. And sometimes they get a little graphic. Like it makes them feel young and virile again just to recount those times, ’cause there’s nothing much to recount these days, not even when they sell as much Viagra over at the Rite Aid as they do plain old aspirin. Old men just love to tell stories. What else have they got? And who else is going to listen?”

“As if. You make it sound like a charitable venture.”

“Well, not exactly charity. I get paid. Takes a certain kind of woman to make an old man feel young and frisky again. I’m what they call ‘in demand.’”

“Is that
all
you’re in demand for?”

Wanda opened her eyes and made an attempt at indignation. “Just what are you implying, Ms. Deloche?”

“Oh, puh-leeze, stop with the ‘Ms. Deloche,’ would you? You know my name, and I know yours. And we’ve been through enough together to be on a first-name basis.”

“I’m trying not to think. It makes my head hurt.”

“Is this a hangover?”

“It is not! It’s something been working its way out for
a couple of days. Could be a virus. There’s one making the rounds. Could be pie-related.”

“Pie?”

“Coconut custard kept in the refrigerator too long. You got to be careful with custard and eat it quick. I knew better, but there wasn’t a soul at home to share it with.”

“Next time call me if you need to get rid of it faster, and I don’t mean the way you did tonight.”

“You never did put a healthy slice of pie in that flat little stomach of yours. And what did you mean about me being in demand for something else?”

“I mean, do you meet these guys for other kinds of favors?”

“You mean, am I hooking?”

“That crossed my mind, yes.”

“You just go ahead and take yourself out that door right now.” Wanda tried, but indignation really was beyond her. She sounded half-dead.

“It was a question,” Tracy said. “You’re running a senior citizen sex line here. It seems appropriate to ask.”

“I told you, I don’t run it! I work with a woman who set me up doing it. All these old guys would come in for the early bird specials at the Dancing Shrimp, and before I started work there, Lainie used to joke with them, make them feel good about themselves, if you know what I mean?”

“I don’t.”

“Telling a few off-color jokes, poking a little fun, stroking their egos.”

“I hope that’s all she was stroking.”

“You have a dirty mind.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Anyways…” Wanda closed her eyes again. “Lainie started getting calls. She figured out right away this was
going to keep going unless she put a stop to it, but she hated to do that. She saw a need, if you can understand that.”

“I guess I’ve never seen that particular need. The men that I know don’t have to pay for phone sex.”

“I bet they pay for the other kind. And I don’t mean by the hour, so don’t go getting uppity. I mean fancy presents, dinners out, weekends on some island somewhere.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“No? Close enough. Anyway, Lainie hated to tell them to stop calling, but she realized there weren’t enough hours to have these conversations and get anything else done. So one night she was joking with one of the guys that she was going to have to start charging him ’cause he was taking up so much of her free time, and before she knew what was what, he told her he’d give her a credit card number. That’s how it got started. Soon enough she realized she didn’t want to listen to callers, she wanted to be the organizer. So she asked me to take calls, along with a few other women she trusted. Lainie talks to the new ones a while, figures out what they need, then figures out which one of us will be good for them. They call her when they want to talk, and if we can take the call right then, we call them back.”

“And charge.”

“I keep track of how long we talk, yes, and they pay Lainie and she pays me. Do you get paid for the work you do?”

“Not from you, I don’t.”

“Well, you will, soon as you do some.”

“I’ve got a man coming over next week to give an estimate on your repairs. And by the way, I can’t afford him for myself.”

“I’m supposed to feel grateful I won’t be cleaning up after leaks and breathing gas fumes?”

“I don’t smell gas.”

“That’s because I shut off the valve every time I’m done using the stove. And your man will tell you there’s nothing wrong with the line. We had the gas company out here. It’s the stove needs replacing. The insides are all corroded.”

“Oh.”

Wanda wondered what would happen if she sat up. Before she could try, Tracy got to her feet. “Do you want tea or something? Do you have anything you can take for an upset stomach?”

“It’s not like you to be all helpful.”

“Look, I’m trying, okay? Maybe it doesn’t come naturally, but even I can make tea and open a bottle of pills.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Wanda swung her legs around and pushed herself gently upright. The nausea did not return.

“I figured I owed you an apology. For the way I acted at the park.”

Wanda didn’t know what to say to that, just like she wouldn’t know what to say on Judgment Day.

“Do you want that tea or not?” Tracy asked after a long pause.

“There’s some bags in the cabinet beside the microwave. Just put one in a cup of water and stick it in until it boils.”

“I can manage.”

Wanda remained upright until Tracy came back, but once she had the tea, she reclined against the arm of the sofa, where she could rest her elbows and steady her shaking hands. She took a sip, then another, and decided that was going to be it for a while. Her stomach was still
rolling, but with gentler waves. Tracy left again and came back with a wet washcloth.

“You can wipe your face if you need to.”

Wanda set her cup on the coffee table and took the cloth, but she was suspicious. “You’re being awful nice.”

“It’s not the first time in my life.”

“Well, I guess that’s good to hear.”

Tracy took a seat across from the sofa. “I know this really isn’t any of my business, but I’m curious. Does your husband know what you’re doing? Does he
mind?
”

“Kenny?” Wanda managed something like a laugh. “Kenny don’t know a darned thing about me anymore.”

“I see him walking a lot.”

“He comes home, then he lights out of here fast as he can go. But it leaves lots of time to make my calls and make some money to sock away for whenever I divorce him.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have him? I mean, more than the time and money?”

“That’s personal.”

“It’s kind of a personal night, don’t you think?”

Wanda thought it was probably a question worth answering. “I’d rather have the old Kenny,” she said at last. “But not this one. This one’s not worth the minerals in his body.”

“I’m sorry. I was in a bad marriage, too. Only I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out.”

“This isn’t that hard. I’m married to a stranger.”

“What happened? To change him, I mean? Another woman? The bottle?”

“He killed a man.”

Tracy went silent. Wanda didn’t know why she was talking about this, and especially why she was talking about it to this woman. Maybe she was as lonely as the
old men who called her. Maybe, when it came right down to it, she was just like them. Tears rose in her eyes, but they didn’t dare fall.

“He was a cop with Miami-Dade. We had a good life. Other cop families for friends. Good kids. A house we didn’t pay that much for in Doral, then the price just rose and rose until we were sitting on a pot of money. Kenny liked what he did, made it all the way to detective. Him and me, we were happy as could be, even though we’re as different as apple pie and lemon meringue.”

“So what happened? He killed somebody on the job?”

“A drug dealer, a young one, which made it worse. Down in Cutler Bay, at one of the high-rises. He had a gun in plain sight, and turned it on Kenny and his partner. Kenny shouted his warning in English, and Spanish, too. He took Spanish classes every chance he got, so he’d be able to make himself understood, and not just to the Latin Kings, to any man on the street who wanted to tell him stuff. He was that kind of cop.”

“He sounds like a natural.”

“He probably couldn’t have lived with himself even one bit if he hadn’t shouted that warning in Spanish, too. The man heard him, but instead of dropping his gun, he fired. Kenny had to take him down. That’s all there was to it. And they investigated, you know, the way they have to. But there were plenty of people, not just his partner, but good people who lived there and saw what had happened and said so, even when they knew it might make trouble for themselves. But they said their piece anyway, because the guy who died was nothing but trouble.”

“I can imagine how your husband must have felt.”

“Maybe at first I saw how it was for him. Right after. He’d fired before, but nobody ever died. And the kid was
from a family that loved him and tried to make things right. That made it worse. Like maybe he still had potential, even though he went off to jail after high school the way some kids go to college.”

“So why is it so hard to see the problem now?”

“That was a year and a half ago. And every day since, Kenny’s moved away a little more, ’til he’s not here at all, even when he’s home. We moved to Palmetto Grove so he could work in a quieter place. And he does do mostly desk work now, something he used to hate. Manages stuff, goes to meetings. He rented this place ’cause he said he wanted to be near the water, that maybe he would find peace. Instead he just drifted further and further away.”

“Doesn’t it take time to get over something like that?”

“He’s just getting deeper.”

“Man, I would never have believed it, but you and I actually have something in common.”

Wanda raised one tired eyebrow. “Well, aren’t we special to share bad marriages.”

“Of course, my husband went to prison. Yours sticks people there.”

“Your apology’s accepted.”

Tracy smiled. Wanda thought the lovely smile really made the woman. And unlike some of the others, this one looked completely genuine.

“You find out anything more about old Herb?” Wanda asked. “Did you go back and apologize to the chess players, too?”

“I’m afraid they’ll beat me over the head with their canes. No, I tracked down an old landlord, and he gave me a reference Herb had used, a preacher in Kentucky. I heard from him this afternoon while I was painting my living room. He remembered Herb because he used to do chores around the church and never asked for a cent in
return. Pastor Fred didn’t remember much that was personal, but he did say he was pretty sure Herb had a daughter out of state, that he mentioned her once, then clammed up when he asked more. He said Herb was a man with secrets, and nothing Pastor Fred did or said made him comfortable enough to talk about them.”

“Well, that’s a kick in the head,” Wanda said.

“Until he called, I was feeling good about just telling the funeral home I washed my hands of the whole mess. Now I’m pretty much obligated to go through his stuff and see what I can find. But I’m not looking forward to it.”

Tracy sighed and got to her feet again. “I’m going to go now and let you rest. Can I get you anything before I do?”

“You can get me the phone.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to make more calls tonight. The way you feel? You’ll give the old guys heart attacks.”

“No, I’m going to call Kenny’s cell phone and tell him to get his worthless butt back here in case I need somebody with me tonight.”

“You know, I was married to a man I could never have asked for that kind of help. I wouldn’t even have considered it in the best of times. Maybe you’ve still got something left with your husband after all.”

Tracy took everything back into the kitchen while Wanda thought about that. She returned with a glass of ice water and a bag of peas, and held them out. “You feel better.”

Wanda already thought she might. And that was the strangest part of a strange, strange evening.

On Monday morning Janya discovered American garage sales and fell in love. She was entranced with the lopsided displays of colorful books, battered baby furniture, and surplus cups and saucers laid out over ordinary lawns. Castoffs transformed an unassuming Palmetto Grove street into a more familiar one of vendors hawking merchandise. Best of all, bartering was encouraged. The sale she visited was a gigantic neighborhood effort, where yards would bloom for a week with old television sets and dresses adorned with funny padded shoulders. An entire block of junk was the best possible initiation.

With Rishi’s encouragement, she had taken the bus with a map in hand to find her way to the unfamiliar neighborhood. Rishi had promised if she found something at a good price, she could pay, and he would come at lunchtime to take her treasures home. He had been enthusiastic, and so proud that she was willing to wander streets she didn’t know.

Now, on Tuesday, humming the energetic “Dus
Bahane”—one of her favorite Bollywood songs—and moving her hands and feet to the music, she rearranged yesterday’s purchases. A folding table to hold a simple bronze lamp beside their sofa. A soft green basket to put beside the lamp for mail. A woven rug in shades of rose and beige to place in front of the sofa. A plant stand that was exactly the right size for one of Mr. Krause’s ferns.

Of course, when the Krause family was found, she would give back the fern. In the meantime, she had brought several smaller plants into her cottage for safekeeping. One sat on a brass tray filled with different sizes of candles—which she’d also found at the sale. One shared the bedroom she shared with Rishi.

When she gazed at the plants both indoors and out, their greenery reminded her of the courtyard in the house where she had grown up, lush and fragrant with bougainvillea and frangipani, and shaded by a gulmohar tree with flame-colored blossoms that blazed in the months before the monsoon.

Her favorite purchase completed the illusion. She had bought a small fountain to set on a table on their tiny patio, and it reminded her just a little of the one she had often sat beside as a child. She knew this fountain had never been expensive, even when new, and that it was impractical, because she had to run an extension cord from the house when she wanted to hear it. But with more of Mr. Krause’s plants on the concrete and under the trees surrounding it, the patio was now a welcoming place. And when the fountain gurgled, and she could bring a chair outside and sit beside it, she knew she would be as happy as she had been for a very long time.

She wondered what all this meant. Was she growing resigned to her new life? Was she, as other people did, relinquishing the dreams she had held for herself and
settling for something so much smaller? There seemed to be no point in holding on to old dreams of family, love and happiness. She had called home yesterday, when she hoped her mother would be gone, to speak to her brother. Among other things, she had hoped Yash would tell her the news coming in her mother’s letter. But Yash had been gone, as well, and the new maid had told her there was no time when Janya could count on reaching him.

After she had replaced the phone in its cradle, it seemed that losing Yash, to whom she had always been close, was the final sign that life as she had known it was over. Yash had not telephoned since she moved into this cottage. Clearly he, like her parents, wanted to forget she existed.

Thinking about that again made her sad, and the music died. She brewed masala tea, plugged in the fountain, and took a chair outside to sit and think about nothing except the green of the plants and the sound of water cascading over pebbles.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there. The air grew warmer, and she knew the patio would soon be in full sunlight. It was time to go inside, although she didn’t know what she would do. She had read both her library books and was waiting until Friday, and the next dance class, to get more. The little cottage sparkled, and the hour was much too early to begin dinner preparations. American food, even the way that she improved on it, was so elementary it was quickly dispensed with.

Last night she had watered the larger plants that still remained at Mr. Krause’s house, but now she decided she would check on them again to see if they needed attention before the sun rose too high.

She wasn’t far from the house when she saw Tracy striding toward her. Janya admired the way the other
woman moved, as if there were a magnet pulling her toward her destination. Every step was infused with purpose. Tracy’s arms swung loosely, and although she wasn’t really a tall woman, her legs were long, and each step covered a healthy distance. Women here seemed to lack the fluid, languid grace that was so much a part of femininity in India. But Tracy made up for this with sheer energy.

“Good morning,” Tracy said, catching up to her. “Heading to Herb’s?”

“I thought I would make sure the plants have enough water.”

“I wonder if I’m supposed to have his utilities cut off? I hate to. You wouldn’t be able to water, and going through his things would be difficult. No light, no air-conditioning. Impossible, actually.”

“Then you’ve decided to look through his papers?”

“I checked the inside of his car. Nothing. I’m stuck with the house now, I guess.”

Janya listened as Tracy told her about the conversation with the preacher.

“So he has a daughter,” she said once Tracy finished. “And if she lived somewhere else when he lived in Kentucky, perhaps that somewhere was here? Perhaps this is why he moved to Florida.”

“I know, but if that’s the case, don’t you think she would have shown up by now?”

“It seems so. But maybe they were estranged.” Janya thought of her own family. “Parents and children often are.”

“Tell me about it,” Tracy said. “Right now mine are out in California wishing I’d never been born.”

Janya felt a stab of recognition, although it seemed implausible that she and this woman had anything in
common. “So you are hoping to find her address, perhaps?”

“Hers or somebody who might be able to help me find her. I’ve been putting it off. I really feel strange going in there.” Tracy glanced at her. “Not that I’m superstitious, but it just doesn’t seem right somehow. To be in there, rifling through his things. Like I’m disturbing the dead, scaring up ghosts.”

“You believe in ghosts?”

“I didn’t think I did.”

“When my father’s mother died, I thought I saw something leave her body. Like a wisp of smoke.”

“Oh, thanks. Now I have to worry about Herb hanging around and making woo-woo while I go through his stuff. Do you think he’ll haunt me for messing with it?”

“Open the doors and the windows, and let the fresh air inside. You will feel better.”

“Maybe I’ll find something quickly. Maybe it’ll be simple.”

“I could help you.” Janya hadn’t realized she was going to offer. But the long day stretched ahead of her. She had started the week well, with things that were new to her, things that had given her pleasure. Why not continue?

“Let’s just be straight with each other,” Tracy said. “I’m torn. You’re already taking care of the plants. You helped me the day I found him. I would like you in there with me, but I feel kind of…I don’t know, guilty.”

“There is no need. I have nothing else to do. My days are uncluttered.”

“Well, mine are a mess. Like my house. You really wouldn’t mind?”

“I really wouldn’t.” Janya realized she meant it. She
was not certain she liked Tracy Deloche, but she wasn’t certain she didn’t, either.

“Then let’s take your advice and get all the windows open first to air it out. I had them open until a couple of days ago, when it rained.” Tracy went up the walkway with Janya behind her and unlocked the front door.

The house merely smelled the way tropical houses did when they had been closed up too long—a little moldy, a little damp. Tracy waved her hand. “I switched his air conditioner to the fan setting, so it’s going to be hot. It’ll be better once the air starts moving a little.”

They made short work of the windows and left the front door open with the screen door closed. Janya turned on fans, while Tracy propped open the kitchen door for better circulation.

Back in the living room, Tracy looked around. “I thought I’d start with a tour. It’s possible I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. There may not be any papers to go through. I haven’t seen any lying around.”

“There is mail.” Janya sifted through a pile on the coffee table to make her point, letting it drop back on to the glass top.

“There is?”

“You haven’t been bringing it in?”

“I guess it never occurred to me that he’d still be getting mail. That was dumb.”

“How did it get here?”

“Wanda had a key, but I took it. And I locked up after I closed the windows.”

“Was the mail here then?”

“I didn’t pay much attention.”

Janya lifted the pile and sorted through it. “From the cancellation marks, I would say it came last week.”

“Does any of it look personal?”

“Not unless he has a correspondence with the telephone company or the one that provides power.” She held the envelopes out to Tracy.

“You know, if I don’t pay these, they’ll come and turn off his utilities anyway. I’ve got no frigging clue what I ought to do.”

“Perhaps we will find an answer today.”

Tracy dropped the envelopes back on the table. Her expression brightened. “Maybe his family’s been here. Maybe they found out he died and came to clean up, and brought in all his mail.”

“If so, why did they not begin to pack? Or talk to you?”

“You’re spoiling my fantasy. I guess at the least we ought to look around to see if anything else has been moved.” Tracy started in the direction of the kitchen. Janya went the other way.

The house was not as large as Janya’s, which had a second bedroom. Despite that, she found a surprise off the bathroom. She had thought a door beside the shower led to a closet for bed linens; instead, now she found it opened into a room. As small as it was, she wondered if the room had been meant as a nursery, or perhaps, as Herb had clearly used it, an office.

“Tracy, did you know there is another room here?”

Tracy came into the bathroom and stood in the doorway. “I guess I should have figured it out from the footprint of the house, only spatial relations aren’t my thing.”

There was a small desk in one corner, a wooden filing cabinet in the other, and a narrow bookshelf beside it. The center of the room was taken up by the desk chair, and there wasn’t an extra inch of space anywhere.

“You know I’ll bet it was a laundry room,” Tracy said. “Right off the bathroom, where there’s plumbing. Along the way, somebody took out the fixtures and closed it in.”

“This is probably the place to start looking for information.” Janya took a few steps and opened what actually
was
a closet. Stacked neatly inside were a dozen cartons.

“Oh, I was so much happier a few minutes ago. Look at all that stuff!”

“Did you find any other signs his family might have been here?”

“Nothing. The mail’s the only thing out of place.”

“Yoo-hoo!”

Janya turned to Tracy. “Is somebody calling you?”

They heard shoes clattering across the floor of the living room, and in a moment Wanda walked in. “I saw you heading over. Thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

“You’re looking bright-eyed, considering,” Tracy said. She gestured to Wanda. “Wanda wasn’t feeling very well last night.”

“Wanda was feeling like somebody cancelled her birth certificate, that’s how Wanda was feeling,” Wanda said. “Staying home from work today, just to be sure the green-apple two-step doesn’t come back.”

“Janya offered to help me look for information on Herb’s family. Want to join us?” Tracy asked.

Janya wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She might not know exactly how to regard Tracy, but she was fairly certain how she felt about Wanda. The older woman was patronizing, crude, and convinced that Janya and everybody who had not been born right here in Florida was a step below her. Janya had told Rishi Wanda’s theory that foreigners should not send money to their families, and Rishi had suggested that Janya stay away from her. There was prejudice in this country, just as there was at home,
just harder to gauge. Rishi said it was safest not to try to fight it.

“I guess I could help,” Wanda said. “Although I’ll plant my behind somewhere comfy while I do it, that’s for sure.”

“Did you by any chance bring in Herb’s mail?” Tracy asked. “There’s a pile of it on the coffee table.
Recent
mail.”

“How would I have done that? You took the key, remember? Short of breaking a window and tossing the mail on the floor, I didn’t have access. Frankly, I never thought about his mail.”

Janya looked over the things on the desktop while the other two discussed who could have left the mail on the table. She thumbed through an old edition of Webster’s dictionary, then an accounts book with shaky penmanship detailing how much Herb had paid for lettuce, milk and other groceries each week. There was information on how much he paid for utilities. What was left each month from his meager Social Security check.

“He was not a rich man,” Janya said, closing the ledger. “From this, it seems he lived from month to month.”

“No addresses, like people he was sending money to?”

“We should look at it more closely, but I think there was no money to send.”

“Bummer,” Tracy said.

“Where do you want me to start?” Wanda asked.

Janya’s search of the desktop had turned up little. She opened the deepest drawer and found a collection of nearly a dozen file folders. “Perhaps with these?” She scooped them out.

“I’ll just take them into the living room and see what’s what….”

Janya started to reply when Tracy put her hand on her arm to silence her. “What’s that?” she mouthed.

Wanda was listening, too, her head turning side to side, as if she were hoping one ear might be better than the other. “Somebody’s out there,” she whispered.

Janya heard a noise that sounded as if something soft was being dragged across the floor. Tracy’s gaze met hers. Together, they shrugged.