Page 5 of Just The Way You Aren't

“Mr. Powers sent out more letters. I think he really means to evict us all this time,” Mr. Katz wheezes just loud enough for me to hear. He’s stretched his oxygen cord as far as it will go to come talk to me, and, as usual, Old Tucker, his elderly golden retriever, trots out of the house to tug on his owner’s shirt. Old Tucker is the more responsible of the two when it comes to Mr. Katz’s oxygen.

Hmm. Obviously, I’m going to have to reschedule the fundraiser meeting and have a neighborhood meeting here instead. Poo on Mr. Powers for scaring his elderly tenants like this! “I’ll be back soon, Mr. Katz. You tell the neighbors we’re going to have a meeting later today, okay?”

He nods, scooting backward with every tug of Old Tucker’s teeth on his shirt. “Thank you, Willow. We know you have that fundraiser meeting.”

“It’ll keep.” That is my motto. You put out the fires burning closest, and anything else will keep.

“Say hello to Mrs. Baumgartner for me?” Mr. Katz asks shyly.

I smile. I wish the cords running from her oxygen tank and his oxygen tank were long enough that the two of them could go on a proper date. But both of them are still waiting for more lightweight portable systems to make going out more feasible. Something else I need to follow up on. “I will bring her all your love.”

Mr. Katz’s ears turn pink and he mumbles a “thank you” before letting Old Tucker pull him back into his house.

I put the van in gear and drive another three blocks, waving to Juana and Roberto as I pass, then pull up in front of a faded brick walk-up that always looks like it’s exhaling under the weight of time. The once-bright red fire escape isrusting, the windows sag under peeling trim, and the stoop has settled unevenly, as if the building itself is weary.

It’s been that way since Mr. Baumgartner passed unexpectedly from a heart attack. Mrs. Baumgartner still lives in their rent-controlled apartment on the ground floor, but she can’t keep up with the little things—dusting the hallway light fixtures, sweeping the front steps, making sure the door buzzer works when it feels like quitting.

I make a mental note to send a volunteer to help with a few minor repairs.

I’m stepping out of the van, about to grab her meals, when my phone rings. It’s the caterer for the fundraiser.

“Ms. Harper.” I wonder if the uptight Ms. Banks sounds this beleaguered with all her clients. “You need to tell me how many people will be at the fundraiser.”

“Please, call me Willow,” I reply cheerfully. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know our headcount yet. I was going to go over the numbers tonight with the committee, but…”

There was a longsuffering sigh. “But something’s come up.”

“Y-Yes,” I say sheepishly. I feel like a student being taken to task by a teacher. Or I’m about to be.

“Ms. Harper, I run a business. I need a minimum deposit…” Ms. Banks begins in a nasal tone that reminds me of Charlie Brown’s teacher. I’m sorry to say her lecture also sounds about the same to me: “Wah-WAH-wah-WAH-wah-wah.” I’ve heard it before.

“Oh dear, look at the time! I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. By the end of today. Thank you!” I babble and quickly hang up.

I lean against the side of the van with a sigh. The mainproblem is while we provide many services for a lot of elderly people who want to stay in their homes, our budget remains woefully tight. Hiring a caterer at all is an astronomical expense, especially since I don’t know if this fundraiser will even be successful or not. With the caterer and venue rental, it’s possible we won’t even break even. And I just can’t have that.

“You should let Juana make tortillas,” Mrs. Baumgartner says, coming out onto her porch.

Mrs. Baumgartner never misses a trick. “I’m afraid she actually would.” I chuckle, bouncing up the stairs. Mrs. Baumgartner is also straining the length of her oxygen tubing. If it were just a little longer, she could sit outside her door in the sun sometimes.

Instead, I go inside a stale-smelling home. She keeps it up as well as she can, but dust has settled in places and formed a kind of furry film in a few corners. I’d add another volunteer to my mental list, but Mrs. Baumgartner is too proud to have someone else come in and clean. And I like that independent spirit about her and wouldn’t change it for the world. I give her a bright smile. “Pot roast and summer squash this time. Your favorite.”

“With the little red potatoes?” she asks, looking hopeful.

“Of course!” I grin. “Now, you sit down. Lunch today is a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato soup. I’ll heat it up for you.”

“Oh, Willow, you don’t have to do that. I know you’ve got enough on your plate without heating up lunch for this old biddy.”

“Nonsense. Oh—before I forget,” I add, my grin turning mischievous. “Mr. Katz sends his love.”

Mrs. Baumgartner smiles fondly and does, indeed, sitdown on her sofa, allowing me to heat up her food. “That old charmer.”

“He’s only charming to one person I know,” I tease.

She chuckles and looks off into the distance, tugging a little on her oxygen tubing.

I hurry over to rearrange the nasal cannula back into position while the aged microwave struggles to heat her food. “Don’t want that going anywhere.”

“True. But I’d like to go somewhere. When will they have my new oxygen?” Mrs. Baumgartner asks, not really asking me but rather lamenting aloud.

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