“Who are you guys again?” he asked.
I made up some story about a property management company working with Sheila and her estate. We’d worked mostly with her lawyer but needed to meet with her about some matters. That lifted his spirits as he envisioned a future where the dump on his right would stop dragging down his property value. He ran inside to get the information I wanted.
“Yard’s been a bit of an eyesore for a while now,” he said and handed me a slip of paper. “It’d be great for the neighborhood.”
***
The Calvary Convalescent Home was a two-story structure that resembled a converted motor inn. It was just off the 210 Freeway in a semi-commercial area on Foothill Boulevard. We parked under a carport that once served as a loading zone for vacationers to unpack their luggage. The air was hot and dusty and recalled the brittle desert winds of autumn.
The lobby was populated with furniture you’d find at any hospital, dentist office, or clinic — the medical industry had a singular approach to furnishing. Old display racks that once held pamphlets for local attractions now contained flyers on estate planning and funeral services. I approached the front desk where a woman who was close to becoming a resident smiled up at me.
“I’m here to see Sheila Lansing,” I informed her.
“Did you have an appointment?” she asked.
I responded that I didn’t, that I was a family acquaintance and that if she had the time, would like to spend a few minutes with her.
“Don’t you worry about that,” she smiled. “Our residents always appreciate a visitor. Any kind.” She called out to an overweight Filipina in maroon scrubs. “Tala, can you please show these gentlemen to Ms. Lansing’s room?”
I turned to Hector, but he was already headed for the door and back to his car.
“Well,” I said to the attendant, “I guess it’s just me.”
I followed the woman down a linoleum-lined, fluorescent-lit hallway. We passed a small chapel where a pre-dinner service for about five residents and their attendants was in progress. I tried to make small talk with the nurse but she wanted no part of it. She silently led me out to a second floor balcony that ran the length of the building. Ten or so cushioned glider chairs separated by dusty potted palms looked out on the parking lot below. Straight across was the freeway and its ever-present traffic. If you closed your eyes and thought long enough you might just mistake the sounds of the cars for the lapping waters of the South Bay.
The sun was just creeping over the roofline, and a male attendant lowered blinds before the glare fell on the residents. I followed my escort to the last chair where a slender woman sat with her hands clasped over her lap. You could see the former beauty under the poorly-applied makeup and sweater much too heavy for the temperature outside. I thanked the attendant, but she waddled off without acknowledging it.
“Not the friendly type,” I commented.
“Don’t mind her. She’s just angry that she’s fat and doesn’t have a man,” said the woman and put out her hand. “I’m Sheila Lansing.”
“Chuck Restic.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Restic?” said the voice, wary of a reverse mortgage pitch or some other scam to bleed money out of her.
“I was hired by your ex-husband to help him find his granddaughter,” I said.
Her frail hand went limp in mine.
“She’s in trouble,” she said more as a statement than a question. She seemed to get lost in the thought.
“Do you know her, Mrs. Lansing?”
“Yes,” she answered and motioned for me to pull over one of the plastic chairs. “I met her last year.”
“How did you meet?”
“Here,” she answered. “Right here in this building. She was part of a school program that put volunteers into the community.”
Jeanette’s school was some twenty miles from here. There must be a hundred other such convalescent homes between the two. “Us old biddies get lonely and a voice in person, any person, is very welcome.”
I glanced down the balcony at the other visitors and wondered how many were family and how many were just strangers trying to do a good deed.
“Did she know who you were when you first met?”
“She said she didn’t.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I finished for her.
“No.” Sheila unclasped her hands. “She knew but pretended to be surprised. It came up in the most comical way, like bad acting on a soap opera.”
“Why do you think she sought you out?”
“Other than our mutual relationships with Carl,” she answered, “I can’t figure out why.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We talked about almost nothing of much significance — things going on in school, some boy she had a crush on, a new movie, kid stuff. We would talk for hours, right here with her in that chair.” She reflected on the moment. “All these visitors are here to provide comfort to us buzzards but it always felt like I was the one comforting her.”
“Why did you assume Jeannette was in trouble?” I asked.
“Because she’s a troubled girl.” I gave her time to elaborate. “She doesn’t seem like a normal child. There’s something very sad about her.” I thought of all the self-help books in her room and the photo with Valenti. “I never could figure out why.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“A few weeks ago,” she said, then added, “maybe. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”
I pressed her for details but the only contact information she offered I already had. I found myself asking her more questions even though there was little to gain from them. With rush hour traffic looming, I should have left long before but I had this overwhelming feeling of guilt and found myself lingering. Our conversation wound its way to bits of her life and eventually to her time with Valenti. She spoke of a different man than the one I knew. He came from very humble beginnings in San Pedro, the son of a pig farmer. “He was shy but eager,” she recalled. “And the hardest worker I ever met. My father fell for him just as hard as I did, after he got over the fact that he had no money. Carl became the son he never had. My poor dad, he fed us for most of those years.” Sheila’s father supported them in all facets and even bankrolled many of Valenti’s early business ventures, all of which flopped. She spoke of their financial struggles and each recollection tasted a little sourer than the last. She stopped before she got to the part about the divorce.
“Is that hoodlum still following him around?”
“Who’s that, Mrs. Lansing?”
“That Chicano character,” she replied.
I looked over the edge of the balcony at Hector who stood by the car in the parking lot below. The late day sun reflected brilliantly on whatever prodigious amount of product he was using in his hair.
“Did Hector work with Mr. Valenti when you knew him?”
“Inseparable,” she scoffed. “Neither of them is any good. Carl’s dirty to the core and Hector’s the towel he uses to keep his hands clean.” Her anger was palpable but it only lasted in that momentary flash. “I apologize. I don’t mean to come across as the scorned woman. Carl and I were together briefly but it didn’t work out, to neither fault of our own. I eventually married a wonderful man who was very good to me,” she told me a little too emphatically, as if trying to convince herself of that fact more than anything. I got the sense that poor Mr. Lansing spent thirty years of marriage feeling like number two. I let her drift back into a place where happier memories outnumbered the sad ones and then thanked her for her time.
“Will you do me a favor?” she asked as I got up to leave.
“If I can.”
“Don’t mention me to Carl. And if you have to, don’t mention all this to him,” she gestured to the shabby surroundings. “I don’t hold any resentment but I do still have my pride.”
I walked out of the lobby into the late day sun and thought about what the woman had told me. It felt like something was being left unsaid, either deliberately or not.