“I’ll meet you down at the garages,” he says, searching the room for his keys.
“Sure. Thanks.”
We walk down through the courtyard, this time with no barking dog to alert the neighbors, and stand in front of the garage door. John’s light blue Chevy van sits parked next to an old magnolia tree.
“Terry. Look at the license plate. That’s weird. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“W-A-D-D.” The letters on the California plates are large and bold. We don’t understand it. We hear John walking down the courtyard clanking a huge ring of keys, and we nudge each other to be quiet. He rounds the tree and smiles at us. I get the feeling he has heard our comments, and I mouth to my sister a silent, “Shhhh.” He comes at us with long strides, his gestures expressive and dramatic. He runs his hands through his hair and rubs sweat off of his brow, as if he is posing because he knows we are watching. In the outside light, in his cutoff jeans and white T-shirt, he is taller and skinnier than I remember.
“Oh no,” Terry says suddenly, turning away. “His shoes!”
My eyes scan the ground. John is wearing the loudest, red, white, and blue, stars and stripes tennis shoes we have ever seen. They are obnoxious!
What a geek! I think, feeling my face burn red. This guy is definitely strange, and I’m so embarrassed for him.
John walks past us, still fumbling with the keys, and unlocks the garage. Avoiding our eye, he gathers hoes, gloves, and hand rakes. “Where’s Juan?” he asks, his voice husky and his back toward us.
“He’s coming,” Terry nervously answers, trying to cover for the other half of the green lump back on the cottage floor.
“He’s still sleeping,” I mumble under my breath and roll my eyes.
Terry nudges me hard in the side, stopping me from saying more. John pauses, glances my way, and smiles. Slowly I turn away, my back to him, and smile too.
“Come on.” John changes the mood with his booming, serious voice. “I’ll show you where to start.” John leads us to the back cottage. The overgrown weeds are thick and tangled. It looks as if no one has tended to the yard for many seasons. The sun, already hot, blares fully onto the side of the cottages. “You’d better get working, girls, before it gets too hot.” John heads down to Harriet’s to get Juan.
“I hope he’s up, Terry,” I say doubtfully.
“Me too.”
John returns with Juan in tow, leading him farther down the courtyard to work on pruning a large tree. Terry and I labor silently in the heat, pulling weeds and digging up their roots. Hours seem to go by. We are getting tired and thirsty when, suddenly, John appears next to us.
Without a word, John is down on his knees pulling weeds and digging deep into the soil next to me. The sun turns to hot noon as he wipes the sweat from his brow, leans back to squint at the sky, and announces, “Let’s have lunch.” John leads us single file back to his cottage. I like the idea of straggling behind, still connected to the earth, not quite willing to be in the static conversation among John, Terry, and Juan.
“Sit down,” he offers as we enter the coolness of his living room. “And don’t mind the dogs. They only bite a little.” He laughs at his own joke.
The room is a menagerie of knickknacks and charm. Half of the living room is covered from floor to ceiling in numerous homemade shelves. Looking at each shelf, I see an animal figurine, an exotic shell, a brass lion, and a candy dish. The walls are giant puzzles, with every square inch adorned with hats from around the world, curious framed costume jewelry, antique meat hooks, and various antique weapons. Patchworks of different-colored carpet samples, pieced together by hand, cover the floor, and in the corner by the front window, the most beautiful gold desk with a glass-mirrored top and lion’s head drawer handles leans under a billowing curtain.
The ugly dog is back and barking at our heels, blowing snot as we take a seat on the couch.
“John L,” John shouts, smiling and pretending to sound harsh, “you be nice!”
As John disappears into the kitchen, a miniature dachshund comes waddling out of the back room barking blindly into the air.
“That’s Buttons,” John calls from the kitchen between whirring noises. “She’s the grandma and blind as a bat.”
John L jumps up on the couch, loudly sniffing each of us in turn. Buttons nudges my leg lightly, relying completely on her sense of hearing and smell. I reach down to hold out my hand, talking to her softly.
The dogs quickly converge on John as he walks out of the kitchen with a tray full of food and drinks. Setting the tray down on the small coffee table, he pulls up a footstool and grins. “Dig in!” On the tray is a log of sausage, a wheel of the oddest-smelling cheese, a loaf of French bread, mustards, olives, other unopened jars, and a pitcher full of frothy pink stuff. John grabs the glasses and starts pouring.
“This is my own invention,” he proclaims proudly. “I call it fruit frappé.”
“Yum, thanks.” I gulp the smooth, sweet, thirst-quenching liquid.
As we savor our cool drinks, John starts dishing out food. He pulls out a huge Buck Knife, skillfully unfolds it with a sharp snap into the air, and slices the sausage.
“This is summer sausage. The best!” He cuts off hunks and throws one to each of the begging dogs at his heels. “And this is Camembert.” He spreads thick, greasy globs onto pieces of torn French bread, one for each of us. “Mm, mm.” His eyes roll into the back of his head. “Have you ever smelled anything better than that?” he asks, smiling and putting the cheese up to our noses.
“Ewww!” Terry says, faking a gag.
“Not bad.” Juan sounds like he wants to show off.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I answer. It does smell good, but I’m still carrying a grudge and don’t want to agree with John too much.
John gives me a quick look and a smirk as if to say, I know what you’re thinking.
This infuriates me. God, he always acts like he can see right through me. He doesn’t know anything about me! my mind screams as I sit chewing my food in silence.
John eats facing the bookshelves, away from the table, staring, as if in deep thought.
“What’s that?” Terry asks, breaking the reprieve and pointing at the funny-looking jar on the tray.
“Why don’t you try some and see?” John says, snapping back into the conversation. John reaches for the jar and twists open the lid. He pulls out an oily-looking nugget, holds it to his mouth, and proclaims, “Frog legs!” before swallowing it whole.
“No way!” I cry. “That’s disgusting!”
“I’ll try one,” Juan pipes up, laughing at me.
“Yeah?” John says. “How about you, Terry?”
“No, thank you.”
“That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen. You have no idea how many squished frogs we saw every day in Florida,” I interrupt, letting down my guard and revealing a bit about myself.
“Really? Well, we can just put them away then.” John smiles.
“No wait,” Juan cries, wanting to meet his challenge. “Hey, Terry, you have to try some too!”
Trying to be revolting, Juan gulps down three of the slimy legs; Terry is brave and tries one small piece as a dare. John doesn’t eat any more and downplays the game. I get the feeling he is taking my side suddenly.
We clean up and then head back out to finish the yard work, feeling relaxed from the food and more secure about earning our keep from the manager. At dusk we lock the tools in the garage, and John gives us decent pay. Dirty and tired, we head back to Harriet’s to shower and have some dinner.