Gardens I

 November 2, 198- 

Dear Ruth,

I awoke to an overcast day—still feeling tired after a brief early morning nap. The air was cool and filled with the sea. I was excited and a little nervous about seeing Candice. I almost didn’t want to go, but I chided myself and got into my little orange Datsun and drove to her home. The house is modest yet stately, not like the stucco boxes that are most commonly found in Pacific Beach. It has a big, high porch where you can sit and look at the trees and watch an occasional car pass. I was greeted at the door by an elderly lady, Mrs. Arbollini, who took me to Candice, who cares for Mrs. Arbollini and is given a room in return. She was sitting at a wooden table on a small patio made of reddish-brown stones. One side of the patio borders the garden and the other a small lawn dominated by an unruly apple tree. She was drinking tea and reading a book I later learned was Pierre Auguste Renoir, Mon Père by Jean Renoir. She rose to greet me, and again I was struck by her fair and elegant 19th century beauty, rarely seen in Pacific Beach where everyone still has a fading summer tan. In fact she reminded me of the fair-skin beauties Renoir painted.

“I was not sure you would come, Christine. You couldn’t have gotten much sleep. You must be tired. Please sit down.”

I sat down and looked upon her as if she had cast a spell upon me. “I love this time of the morning,” she continued. “It’s so peaceful and fresh. I always think of the earth giving birth to a new day. Would you like coffee?”

I told her I would love some. She said she’d return in a moment. Her words were filled with a softness and warmth that can come only from a woman. I felt as if I were entering into her being, into a sheltering harbor or cove. In this way she is very much like you except that you retain a kind of power and independence even during your most protective and loving moments. Candice seemed to surrender herself to me through her love. Being in her presence is very much like being in the presence of the sea—I do not feel that I am so much with a person as with a force or feminine presence. She returned with a small carafe of coffee and filled my cup.

“This is a lovely home. Is it yours?”

“No, it belongs to Mrs. Arbollini. She advertised a room at the hospital. She wanted a nurse as a live-in companion. She is actually in good heath, but she had fallen twice and her children wanted her to move into an assistant living facility, but she does not want to leave her home.”

“I can see why. The garden is beautiful.”

“I love the garden.”

“Does Mrs. Arbollini mind your being here?”

“Not at all. I rarely have to play nurse. She’s very independent. But I think she appreciates my company. She said before she often felt lonely, so it has worked out well for both of us. I have a spacious room, even my own bathroom.”

Candice smiled and took a sip of coffee. Her eyes never left my face. I wondered what she was thinking. It’s odd how two people see one another, one from the inside, the other from the outside. Each a mystery to the other.

“You must be exhausted after last night,” I finally said.

“No, not really. I usually become tired later in the day, and sleep in the evening then go to the hospital. I hope you’re hungry, Christine. When I told Mrs. Arbollini that I had invited a guest for breakfast, she insisted on doing the cooking. ‘After working all night, you should relax, Candice,’ she said. She was thrilled that we had a guest coming. And being Italian she loves to cook. So you better have an appetite.”

I was hungry and said so. A moment later Mrs. Arbollini came out of the house with a tray and Candice got up and hurried over to her and brought the tray to the table. On the tray were two plates with toast, bacon, and eggs.

“I hope you are hungry. I love to cook.”

“Very much. This looks delicious,” I said.

After playfully scolding Mrs. Arbollini that she should not be carrying a tray outside because she could trip, Candice introduced us again and explained that I came often to the hospital to visit a friend.

“I’m sorry your friend is ill,” she said rather somberly. Apparently she understood that Candice works with seriously ill patients. I told her that he was receiving the best of care and talks often about Candice.

“She’s a wonderful nurse. I know from experience.”

To change the subject, I told her that her garden was beautiful.

“Ever since my husband passed away, my garden has become like a child to me. It keeps me busy and when I care for it, we’re both happy. Besides, I would find it unbearable having to stay in the house all day. You see, I don’t drive so I don’t go anywhere unless Candice takes me. I don’t even venture around the block anymore alone. On the sidewalk what I fear most is falling. I’m just too unsteady and the sidewalk is old and broken in places, little traps set for elderly people like myself.” Candice and I laughed. Mrs. Arbollini was fail but sharp and had a good sense of humor.

“I would have to use a walker, and I don’t want to be seen with one of those.”

“Many older women use them, Mrs. Arbollini,” said Candice. “You shouldn’t let vanity keep you housebound.”

“You see how she is, Christine, bossy but always considerate. You might have noticed that she said older women, not elderly women. I suppose it is pride, but those walkers... They’re just sad. I don’t want people seeing me and thinking Poor woman, she has to use a walker. Maybe that is vanity. I don’t know. Besides, Candice insists that we go for a walk every day, if only around the block. So I use her as my walker. It’s much nicer that way, and she doesn’t wear her nurse’s uniform when we go for a walk. That would look very sad.”

“Well,” I said, “You must be getting a lot of exercise in your garden because it’s beautifully kept up. My landlady was a fine gardener.”

“She doesn’t garden any longer?”

“She passed away recently—in her garden.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Was she old like me?”

“Yes, and very active until the end.”

“At my age I think of death as a new neighbor who will soon be inviting me over for tea. I just don’t know when, but I can’t think of a better place to be when the invitation comes than here in my garden.”

“Mrs. Arbollini that too morbid,” said Candice. “Let’s change the subject. And please sit down.” I watch Candice’s face and I could see that Mrs. Arbollini’s talk of her death distressed her. Strange I thought for someone who seemed so stoical at the hospital.

“I should go back into the house. Your food is getting cold.” I took a bite of the eggs.

“The eggs are delicious. You should join us,” I said, then began spreading strawberry jam on my toast to show that wouldn’t allow my food to get cold.

“Only for a second,” she said and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest me.

“You know, Christine, that when I’m gardening I do use a cane that Candice gave me. I know it pleases her, but I like it. It’s a helpful companion. It has four little feet, so it remains standing by my side like a valet waiting to give me a hand if I need it. And I can’t take all the credit for the garden since Candice arrived. See those geraniums. Candice planted them. They’re not only beautiful but attract humming birds. I often drink my tea here and look at the garden. And sometimes a hummingbird will pay a visit. They really are little miracles. You know, Christine, being in the garden revitalizes me. I love plants. I think if they could speak, they could tell us something important about living. People today are always in a hurry. Rush, rush, rush. That’s one reason I don’t enjoy going out. People are so impatient. The people at the grocery store are always in such a big hurry. I can feel them watching me at the checkout counter. I’m just too old to keep up anymore—old and slow is what I’ve become.”

“I don’t think it’s because you’re old or slow, Mrs. Arbollini. Life here is very hectic. I often feel the same way.”

“That’s why I am so grateful to have Candice with me. Sometimes I would become lonely and frustrated with my helplessness. My children wanted me to live with them or at least live closer to them in a home of some kind. But I’ve spent the over forty years in this house with my husband, Marco. His father was a tuna fisherman. He worked for him until the cheap tuna from Japan killed the industry. His father always complained that the American government was more interested in helping the enemy fishermen prosper than helping American fisherman. But Marco didn’t mind so much because a friend of his father apprenticed him as a ship’s carpenter. He loved that job...” She paused a second as if recalling an image of her husband in the house, then said, “It would break my heart to be separated from this house. It has been my life.”

“I understand, Mrs. Arbollini, being separated from that which you love. It’s hard.”

“But now I have Candice, so I’m no longer helpless or alone. She has been a lifesaver to me. I’m as comfortable with her as I am with my own daughters. And you probably know she plays the piano beautifully.”

“No, I didn’t know that. We just met at the hospital. She plays the piano for you? That’s wonderful.”

“You must come someday and hear her play. We’ll have a little dinner when you’re both free. Well, I better go. I’m sure you two have plenty to talk about. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Christine.” I told her the same. She stood up, smiled, and left us alone.

I told Candice that Mrs. Arbollini was a wonderful person.

“Yes she is. She considers me a blessing, but she has been the same to me. When I took the position, I didn’t know that I would also have a piano to play. One of Mrs. Arbollini’s daughters played when she was in high school, but then she left for college, married, and now lives near San Francisco with her husband and two teenage children. I think the old piano was depressed.”

“How did you know that?”

“It was awfully out of tune. But now it plays beautifully.”

“And do you play often?”

“Yes, everyday usually. Before I would use an electric keyboard, which I hated, or use one of the practice rooms at the college. Do you play a musical instrument, Christine?”

“The guitar but only for singing popular songs, nothing serious. My mother plays the piano. She wanted me to learn, and I tried for a while but she’d never leave me alone when I practiced so I gave it up. Now I regret that, but I did teach myself the guitar. Mother said I did so to spite her. That might have been a little true, but mostly I did it so I could practice in my room without her hovering about giving advice.”

“She left you alone in your room.”

“She learned to.” I smiled.

“It sounds as if you were a pretty rebellious kid.”

“Only with my mother. She’s one of those mothers who pushes all the wrong buttons, intentionally so...” I stopped talking for a moment thinking how much I disliked talking about my mother and wondering why I was talking to Candice about her.

“So you play the guitar and can sing. Perhaps we can get together and practice some songs.”

“I left my guitar in New Mexico.”

“Then you can sing and I will accompany you on the piano. Might be fun. Mrs. Arbollini would love it.”

“I’m a little shy about my singing.”

“Then we’ll have to have a couple glasses of wine to chase the shyness away.”

“That might work.”

“ Robert said you’re a painter.”

“Yeah, I love to draw and paint. I love the arts, but truthfully I haven’t really mastered any of them. I still draw and paint, but mostly right now I’m kind of in limbo about what to do with my life.”

“Me too, Christine.”

“But you’re a nurse.”

“Yes, but I never planned on becoming a nurse. It was a matter of necessity, and I was always pretty good at science when I was in school. It really wasn’t hard for me. You can see by what I’m reading that I too love the arts.”

“Yes, I noticed the book right away. So are you interest in Renoir?”

“I love the book, but I am reading it mostly because it’s in French. I discovered it at the Adams Avenue Book Store, which has a nice small selection of foreign language books, and you never know what you might find. Do you know French?”

“Yes, I studied it in high school and college.” She was delighted and she suggested that we speak French together. I told her I was a little rusty since I hadn’t spoken it with anyone since college.

“Good. Then we’ll speak it together to get the rust off. I’m a little rusty myself. From that moment on we spoke French. At one point I laughed, and when she ask me why I was so happy I told her it was because I enjoyed speaking French so much. She smiled and I could see she was as please as I was.

Then I said, “Renoir was not only a wonderful artist, but he lived beautifully, as an artist should. Your French is really good. Where did you study it?”

“I studied the piano for three years in Paris at the Conservatoire National de Musique, but I had to return to America when I ran out of money. Yours is pretty good too. Have you been to France?”

“Yes, to Paris, with my mother, who is a big fan of Paris, but I was too young really appreciate it.”

“Returning to Paris as a grown woman will give you something to look forward to. My first trip was as an exchange student. I spent a semester in Grenoble living with a French family. They took me to see so many things, and one weekend we visited Paris. My French really improved during that time and I fell in love with France and decided that one day I would live there. You say your mother was a big fan of Paris. Did she ever return?”

“Yes, but I didn’t go with her.”

“Why not? Because you don’t get along, if you don’t my asking?”

“Our relationship has grown increasingly strained over the years. You might say we are at the moment estranged from one another. I feel a little uncomfortable talking about her. Let’s just say we didn’t get along all that well.”

“I understand, but sometimes talking about those things is good. It can be therapeutic with someone you’re comfortable with.”

“You may be right, and it seems that lately I have been talking about myself a lot, and with people I’ve just recently met.”

“How about I tell you something about me and my parents?”

“Okay,” I said, though not feeling very comfortable with the little game of I tell, you tell, but I think she wasn’t trying to be nosy but believed that sharing such information would put our relationship on a fast track, and I have to admit was a little uncomfortable with that as well. But there is something about her that is irresistible, just as there is something magical about you, Ruth, that makes you irresistible.

“My father is a lawyer in a small city in West Virginia and my mother was a homemaker. She was infected with childhood polio and fully recovered. But it returned three years after I was born and severely weakened the muscles in her legs. At first she could get around well enough with a walker—like the one Mrs. Arbollini hates so much, but my mother considered it a godsend because it allowed her to get about. Later, she had to use the wheelchair. She hated the wheelchair because it made her feel like an invalid, which she was. She depended completely on my father and me and my older sister, Emily, named after the poet, Emily Dickinson, my mother’s favorite poet. She rarely found fault with any of us. She’d call us her three saints. I certainly was no saint, but I think my mother’s illness and her loving nature prevented me from doing anything really stupid. You might say I tried to be a good girl for my mother even though I often didn’t want to be a good girl.”

“You talk about your mother in the past tense. Is she still alive?”

“No, she passed away while I was studying in France.” I wanted to ask if she felt guilty not being with her mother when she died, but I didn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I still miss her. Probably always will. I felt bad that I wasn’t there at the time, but the illness came suddenly, but my mother loved my being in France studying the piano. She thought it was the most romantic thing ever, and I wrote to her every week. I think it was important to her that one of her daughters do something adventurous. She wanted me to do the things she couldn’t. She told me that when I left for France. I must ask why you and your mother didn’t get along when you shared an interest in art and France. Then, I promise won’t ask any more questions about your mother. We’ll talk about art.”

“It’s okay. It’s just that right now I’m trying to distance myself from her and other things so that I can think more clearly about what it is I want to do with my life. My mother was, still is for matter, a snob. In a way she hated her life and sought to escape that which she hated by isolating herself in the culture and art of Albuquerque, which is pretty limited. Her parents didn’t want her to attend high school in Albuquerque so they sent her to a very expensive girls boarding school near Boston. That really spoiled her. She loved it there. She wanted me to go to the same school, but I didn’t want to leave my home, my father and brother. There was no way I wanted to do that. Besides, unlike her I love New Mexico. Sure now I feel the same way she does about Albuquerque, but there is more to New Mexico than just that city. My mother has never liked it there. She’s not a big fan of the kind of nature you find in New Mexico. A vast, untamed desert is what she called it. Everything about New Mexico was too wild, empty and unruly for her. The plan was she would go to college back East as well but her parents couldn’t afford it then. My grandfather owned a drugstore, but by the time she was ready for college the big chain drugstores and big-box stores moved in and he couldn’t compete with them. So he sold the business and retired early. I don’t think it was a good time for my mother. So she went to the University of New Mexico and did her best to isolate herself from the provincials. She met Dad who really wasn’t like her at all and still isn’t. In his own way he’s a very classy guy but he’s also very much a working-class guy. He owns a company that drills water-wells and lays irrigation pipe and has made a good living for all of us. And he knows lots of people in Albuquerque and New Mexico, lots of the movers and shakers of the old white culture.”

“Old white culture?”

“The bankers, farmers, ranchers, miners—you know, the good old boys.”

“I see.”

“He’s involved in clubs such as the Lions and Chamber of Commerce. I think Mother saw Dad as an opportunity, not just for herself but for him, and he was financially able to provide her with the kind of life she thought she deserved. To her credit, her gentility and interest in the arts probably contributed to Dad’s becoming known as patron of the arts and even more than a civic leader than he already was. I don’t think he’s ever felt comfortable as a patron of the arts. Too artificial, I suppose. The people he enjoys being with are farmers and ranchers and men in the water-well drilling business. And I think the marriage has worked out because he’s often gone for a week or more drilling wells, checking on various drilling operations, and confabbing, as he calls it, with farmers and ranchers. The thing is, my mother and I are very different people who share an interest in art. I’m more like my Dad. Or maybe I’m not. I don’t know.” I stopped talking, again wondering why I was telling this woman I just met so much about something I wanted to forget about for a while, my mother and my father,  the father thing especially.

“It sounds like neither of our mothers got exactly what they wanted. Maybe in that way you and I are more like our mothers than we think. Apparently, neither one of us is exactly where she wants to be.”

“Like your working as a nurse in San Diego rather than as a pianist in Paris.”

“Something like that. And you?”

“I’m not sure what it is that I should be doing. I often miss New Mexico, though not Albuquerque. But you’re right. At this point in my life I am not sure where I belong.”

“Well then, we should make the most of Mrs. Arbollini’s garden, and I don’t want to break my promise, so let’s talk about art, though most of what I know is music.” 

So we discussed art, and we both really enjoyed speaking French together. It was as if the language transported us into a different realm of existence, a realm defined by her presence. I might well have been sitting at a French cafe talking with a French artist. In that garden with Candice, I had left California and America. We discussed Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Picasso, and other painters whose works can be seen in Paris museums. To be honest I could barely remember the museums Mother and I visited, but Candice knew them well. She told me about her interest in music and about some of her favorite composers, Mozart, Chopin, Schubert, Brahms, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff. It soon became clear to me that Candice, like me, is very much a romantic. She told me about her music studies, and for the first time since leaving New Mexico I spoke about my art—but I did not speak of you, Ruth. Why was that? Perhaps, it’s because I know how futile it would be to try to tell another person about you, even someone as sympathetic as Candice. Or perhaps I wish to keep you as my secret. But I wish you could meet her, Ruth… No. I don’t wish that. I never want to share you with anyone else. But I know she would like you. In some ways you two are very much alike. You both are very giving and loving. Yes, you are very much alike except you’re dark and untamed, like the land that gave you birth, and Candice is as fair and delicate as the little garden she and Mrs. Arbollini cultivate. You’re both beautiful. Your beauty is that of the wind, rain, and mountains, and hers is the beauty of Rome and Paris. How much we women need each other. Renoir saw why. We are the source of all beauty and love. And we are replenished by one another. 

Good evening my dark-eyed beauty,

Your Chrissie