The Heart of Henry Quantum (19 page)

“You're in a no-stopping zone,” he said.

“I am? Oh my gosh, I'm sorry. I just pulled over to think for a minute.”

She stole a glance at the phone.

“You need to turn that ringer off, ma'am.”

“But I—”

“Please turn the ringer off.”

She fumbled for the button and the ringer fell silent.

“Thank you, ma'am,” said the officer. “You know it's a sixty-dollar fine.”

“I didn't realize I couldn't pull over here, officer. Honest.”

“There's the sign right in front of you.”

“Oh, gosh, I didn't see it. I'm so sorry.”

“You need to pay attention to signs.”

“Absolutely. I'm so sorry.”

“That's why we have signs. So you pay attention to them.”

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “That's the whole problem!” And with that she burst into tears again.

“Ma'am,” he said.

“I never see the signs!” She reached out the window and grabbed the policeman's hand. “He used to bring me teddy bears!” she sobbed. “He even named them!”

“Ma'am, have you been drinking?”

“No,” she said between sobs, “just half a glass of rosé. We always drank rosé. I drank the rosé,” she corrected herself, “he drank Pouilly-Fumé.”

“Maybe you should calm down,” he said.

“But he was perfect!”

“Nobody's perfect,” the policeman said.

“You don't know Bones.”

“I don't know what?”

“Bones. That's what everyone calls him. He's skinny. He likes
Star Trek
. Do you have a tissue?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I think I have one somewhere. Hold on.” She fished through her purse and found a little packet of Puffs and blew her nose.

“Are you all right now, ma'am?”

“Yes. Go on with your ticket. It's okay.”

“You know you could have caused an accident. Coming round that curve, other vehicles cannot see you.”

“I'm a terrible person,” she said.

“You're not a terrible person. You're just illegally parked.”

“You're being very nice, Officer. I appreciate it. I do.”

She blew her nose again. He rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting for her to finish.

“Okay,” he said. “Look, it's almost Christmas. I'm going to let you off with a warning this time.”

“Really?” she said.

He scanned the interior of the car for a moment and then did the same to Daisy. “Yes. But you sure you are all right now? I'm taking you at your word that you only had half a glass.”

“I'm fine, honestly. I'm fine.”

“All right, then. Go ahead and move the vehicle.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

And so, gathering her wits as best she could, Daisy engaged the turn signal and gingerly pulled out onto the road. By the time she got to Marin Country Day she was more or less back to normal, normal enough for Tasha at least not to notice, or at least she hoped so. By now she had completely forgotten that her phone had been ringing, and all she wanted was to throw Tasha in the back seat and get her the hell to ballet.

But it was not Henry Quantum who had been calling Daisy at that moment, though she had hoped it was. Henry at that hour was still engaged with Santa Claus on the bench in Union Square. It was only Ashiyana Malleshawari calling from India to inquire about a phone bill that had not been paid, because Daisy had thrown it in a pile with other mail and had forgotten all about it, which happened to her frequently, just as she ignored all the text messages and e-mails from AT&T. It was one of the things she never really got used to, paying bills—the accountant had always taken care of them—and at times Edward scolded her about it. The utilities for instance—the electricity came perilously close to being shut off, until Daisy actually read the note banded in red that warned her of the imminent cutoff. And there were also the credit cards, whose overseers invariably ended up calling Edward, who then called Daisy, who in turn refused his help no matter how much he pleaded “for the children's sake.”

And so when she arrived home that day, having deposited Tasha at ballet, she was surprised to see Jorge, the gardener, waiting at the front door.

“Jorge!” she said.

“Mrs. Hillman,” he said.

“It's not Tuesday, is it?”

“No, ma'am,” he said. “It's just you haven't paid me in three months.”

“Oh my God!” she cried, “I'm so sorry! Come in and I'll write you a check. Next time just ask me sooner.”

“It's all right, ma'am,” he said. “No problem. It's just, you know, three months.”

Jorge spoke in a thick accent that she assumed was Mexican but actually was Guatemalan, and she barely understood anything he said, particularly when it came to what he was doing in the garden, so she got in the habit of nodding amiably whenever he spoke. It was because of this that she was shocked at the size of the bill, since it reflected the purchase of quite a few trees, shrubs, and perennials, on top of the work it took to remove a troublesome redwood and a rotten live oak.

“Jorge,” she said, “I'm just renting here. All these purchases—”

“Eh?” he said.

“I'm just a renter. We don't do improvements like that.”

“Renter?”

“You know, I don't own this house.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Ah,” he said.

“I thought it was just part of the monthly fee, all those plants.”

“You want me to take them out?” he asked.

“What?”

“You want me to take them out?”

“No, we don't need to go out. I know what's out there.”

“No, take them to garbage.” He pantomimed carrying a huge load and tossing it toward the street.

“Oh,
throw
them out. But I'd still have to pay for them, wouldn't I?”

“You can't take that stuff back.”

“What?”

“You can't take that stuff back.”

“Yes, the stuff in the back.”

“
Sí
,” he said.

“Okay, look, I'll just write you a check for all this. But no more planting without telling me.”

“I do tell you,” he said.

“What?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “No more.”

“
No más
,” she said.

“Right.
No más
,” he replied.

She sighed at the impossibility of ever really communicating with anyone, even a gardener she'd had for years whom everyone said spoke perfect English. Suddenly she recalled the missed phone call in the car and realized it must have been Edward wanting to rescue her again, but not without first making her feel like an idiot. She fished her checkbook out of her purse and scribbled her signature as fast as she could, mumbling the whole time, “Jorge, I'm so embarrassed, I really am. It won't happen again.”

“It's okay,” said Jorge. “No problem, really.”

“You're very kind, Jorge,” she said.

“Lots of people forget to pay,” he said.

“They do?”

“Sure.”

“Jorge,” she suddenly said, “come in and have a cup of tea.”

“Oh, no,” he said.

“Please.”

He fiddled with the check.

“Please,” she said. “Please.”

Eventually he followed her past the Christmas tree with its dozens of presents piled beneath its emerald limbs and into her tiny kitchen, which the landlord had refurbished with bright blue IKEA cabinets. She sat him down at the counter and turned on the electric kettle.

“What kind of tea do you like?” she asked.

He offered her a blank smile.

“I have all kinds. In black tea, I have Yunnan and Darjeeling, and I have chai and chamomile and Mighty Leaf Green Dragon. I have oolong if you like oolong, or rooibos—Would you like rooibos?”

“Please, you choose.”

“I like mango blend.”

“Okay,” he said.

“But you can have whatever you want.”

“That's good.”

“What is?”

“What you said. That one.” He pointed to the tea bags in her hand.

She was disappointed, of course, because she wanted him to feel comfortable and equal and she knew he didn't. She had put him in an awkward situation and now she regretted this. She hadn't meant at all to humiliate him—just the opposite, in fact. But there was no way to stop it now—that would have been far worse. So she put a mango-blend tea bag in his cup and a mango-blend tea bag in her own cup, and when the water was ready she poured first his, then hers, and then she sat down next to him on the stool and said, “Sugar? Sweetener? Milk? Lemon?”

“Sugar,” he said, and she handed him the bowl and he put a tiny bit into his tea, though she knew, just knew, he really liked a lot of sugar.

“Take as much as you like,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, but didn't take any more.

“Be careful, it's hot,” she said.

“Okay, thank you,” he said.

Then they sat side by side for some minutes without speaking, and also without drinking, because the tea really was too hot, and finally Daisy asked him about his family and he told her everyone was fine and she asked about his eldest daughter, Estrella, and he said she was in college now and when Daisy heard the word “college” she said, “You must be very proud,” and he nodded, and then he began to tell her about his son, Antonio, and how he loved computers and wanted to make computer games, but that he would probably go into the army first because that way his education would be paid for, and also a little about Esme, his youngest, who just entered high school, who was very beautiful and had to be careful, but that everyone was fine, just fine.

“I'm glad,” she said, assuming from his tone and also the word “fine” that everything at home was going well.

And then she asked him the question she had wanted to ask him from the first, which was, “Why didn't you call Mr. Hillman about the bill? Everyone else does.”

“Oh,” he said, “I'm very sorry! I offended you—”

“No, no, don't be alarmed,” she told him. “I'm glad you didn't.”

“I don't know,” he said, staring into his teacup, “I thought you want to be the one to pay.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It seems it is important to you. To do it yourself.”

She made out only half of what he said, but what she pieced together made her happy.

“You're very sensitive,” she said to him.

“Sorry?”

“You are very kind.”

“No, no,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” she said. She broke into a warm smile, then went to the pantry and produced some cookies, which she put on a plate. She herself took the first bite, and the chocolate was still on her teeth when she laughed and said, “See? There is some sweetness in this world, isn't there?”

Jorge took his own bite of cookie. “For sure,” he said.

“You think a person can change, don't you, Jorge?”

“Yes,” he said. “A person can change.”

“I think I've changed,” she went on. “I think I'm starting to be my own person.”

They drank a few more sips of tea; then Jorge stood up and looked at his watch.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Hillman,” he said. “Another house.”

“Of course, of course, I'm sorry to have kept you so long.”

She led him to the door.

“You probably think I'm crazy,” she said.

“No, Mrs. Hillman. You are a very nice lady.”

“I wish everyone thought that.”

She could see how desperate he was to leave, but still she could not let him go.

“Jorge,” she said, “it's really okay that you planted all that stuff in the yard. You make everything so beautiful, and you were just following your instinct. How were you supposed to know we didn't own this house?”

“Yeah, I didn't know.”

“Some people just make the world more beautiful, Jorge. They can't help themselves.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Hillman.”

“Yes, of course, good-bye, Jorge.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hillman.”

“You're welcome. We'll do it again some time.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Bye-bye.”

“Okay, 'bye,” she said.

“Bye-bye,” he said, and almost ran down the driveway to his truck.

Daisy closed the door and went back inside. The clock in the hallway chimed four fifteen. She'd have to pull herself together and go back for Tasha, she was already late. She guessed she wouldn't talk to the instructor today. It was too much. She heard Jorge drive off and had to ask herself what on earth was she thinking, asking him in for tea? What had she wanted from him? She decided she had better look over her bills and pay them tonight. But for now, she just stared out the rear window at the fading light and Jorge's beautiful plantings—azalea in wild clumps, hydrangea growing up along the back fence, roses, some of which were amazingly still in bloom, hibiscus waiting out the winter, lantanas in full color, and several trees—she recognized juniper and manzanita and Japanese maple in various states of sleep or growth. She held the teacup within her two hands, held it close to her chest where she might feel the heat radiate through her palms and into her body, and enjoyed the steam rushing up to her nostrils rich with the scent of mango.

She was in love. There was nothing she could do about it. Edward would never have been able to stand up to that love and neither had Noah, the most recent boyfriend, and most likely no one else would, either. But she would have to try. Surely Henry Quantum wasn't the only man in the world for her. Surely that kind of thing was nonsense—the idea that there was only one soul in the entire universe destined for you, preordained by God—as if God cared. But if God exists, she thought, then she must care. She must care for each and every one of us. Or else she wouldn't be God, would she?