Deeds

Winner of CCP’s Judith Stark Creative Writing Contest, Fall of 2004

I worked at an automotive garage which was located on a residential block in Northeast Philadelphia. There was no parking lot for the employees, so I had to park with the residents on the block. Since the job was grueling and unsatisfying for me, I was always late because of lack of motivation. I usually got a parking spot that was down a block or two because I was always late. Every day for work, I would lug my tool box to and from my car. Compared to the job, it was a small price to pay. About two doors down from the garage, there lived an old lady who always sat out on her porch. She was about 80 years-old, short, gray hair, walked slowly, and when she did walk, it seemed as though she was using every bit of energy she had. Since it was cold in the winter, I didn’t see her much, but in the spring and the summer, she was always out on her porch. There were times that I would walk to my car after a day’s work, and she would still be there on her porch in the same spot as if time froze for her but moved for the rest of us. I would always say hi to her in passing because a hello never hurt anyone, but what started out as a courteous hello turned into an invitation to drain the well of kindness.

The series of events started on a June morning when I was walking to work. I walked by the old lady’s house, and of course, she was sitting out and enjoying the fresh air. I walked by, said hello, and rushed a wave in passing.

 “Hon?” she said, “There’s a heat wave coming today, and I can’t open my window. Open it for me?”

I was already late for work, so I figured what’s another couple of minutes?

“You’ll have to open it from the inside. Go in; I don’t mind,” she said.

She lived on the first floor of a duplex. I had to go through the five foot foyer which lead to the door and also lead to the stairs of the upstairs apartment. The door to the upstairs apartment was wide open which told me no one lived there. Plus, there was a sign outside that advertised a vacancy.

I approached the door and heard from the porch, “Go ahead, hon; it’s open.” So I opened the door, and the strong smell of cat piss greeted me like a second resident of the apartment. The apartment was really small, and it looked like it was just this one room. It contained a bed, an end table, a television set that was so small that even a man or women with the best eyesight would have trouble seeing its contents, and an old chair. Everything in the apartment was so dirty. The walls were cracked, and the rug had an occasional stain from either pets or clumsy coffee handlers. The sheets on her bed were so dirty that they looked as if they hadn’t been washed in years. The sheets and the pillow case were meant to be white, but their present color was off-white. There was enough religious paraphernalia to keep any atheist away, and on the center of the wall there was a crucifix, perhaps the cleanest object in the place. This room was wall-to-wall Jesus; it was like a Jesus Christ Casino. There were statues and those small 3×5 cards one would get from a funeral. If I wasn’t religious, I’d burst into flames. I went to the window and opened it a crack as requested.

Once again, I hear from the outside, “That’s it, hon. Thanks.”

So it seemed that my three minute mission was accomplished. I turned to leave only to find that my foot was planted in a pile of cat shit. That was straw that broke the camel’s back. I was officially grossed out by being in this apartment. I continued to make my way out of the apartment, tip toeing the same way a soldier makes his way through a mine field. I didn’t want to get cat shit on her rug, and I didn’t want to step in another pile. I exited the apartment and re-entered the porch.

“Ma’am,” I said while scraping my foot on the ground, “Sorry about the mess. It seems that your cat went to the bathroom, and I didn’t see it, and-”

“That’s okay, hon,” she said, “That’s Boots. She’s getting old just like me.” She then let out this laugh with a wide, toothless grin.

I laughed politely, and I went about my day. Despite the gross hardship, which didn’t leave any permanent damage, I felt good about my deed, and although it was small, it gave me something to look at as an accomplishment.

That June, particularly, was a tricky one weather-wise. It would be 90 degrees for a three day span then 65 degrees for another span. It just so happened that the day after I opened that old lady’s window, a cool front came through. In turn, when I was on my way to work, she asked me to close the window. Once again, I figured, “What the hell; what’s five minutes?” Little did I know things wouldn’t turn out that way. I wanted to make this quick, so I entered the room, watched out for any little presents by any pets, closed the window, and headed for the door. Upon my exiting the apartment, however, I was halted by the old lady.

She walked into the room, “You are a lifesaver. You’re going to be rewarded someday.”

I just told her how it was no trouble and tried to go about my routine, but she insisted I sat down.

“Don’t leave yet,” she said, “I’ve been preparing something for you.”

“I’m really flattered,” I said, “You didn’t have to do that. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m already fifteen minutes late for work.”

She said persistently, “Sit down; it will only take a minute.”

She left the room to what was probably her kitchen. I didn’t observe that hallway yesterday. Besides, with the speed she moved, it would take a lot more than a minute.

“Really, ma’am,” I spoke with increased volume into the room, “I have to get going.

With that, she came back into the room. “Something to fill your tummy. We don’t want you going to work on an empty stomach.”

I responded, “I’m not-.”

“Sit,” she insisted.

I sat down on the only chair in the room, and because of the impact of my sitting, dust came from the chair’s cushion. There wasn’t much I could do but sit and see what would happen. Despite her frail being, she was awfully influential.

She set a dinner tray in front of me. I just stared at the sunflower pattern on the dinner tray until it would be replaced with what she referred to as a meal. She placed a bowl with a glass of orange juice down on the tray.

 “Here you go,” she said.

I looked up awkwardly yet politely. I wasn’t supposed to be there, yet she roped me into this commitment. I then looked down at the prepared meal only to see a horrible concoction. It appeared to be oatmeal, but it had black chunks, not to mention the fact that the silverware hadn’t been washed in god knows how long, and it contained little chunks of previous meals. I was stuck. There was no way in the pits of hell I was eating it; I didn’t care if it took her all night to prepare. She was watching me and hoping I would take a bite to see if the preparation was worth it. I needed an opportunity to leave, and thankfully, nature presented one. There was a slight pound of thunder and the slowly increased tapping of rain.

“Uh-oh!” I said, “I left my car windows open.” It was an obvious lie, but it gave me a reason to leave. “Thank you, but I have to take care of my car,” I said while rushing.

I bolted out of the apartment and down the street to my work. I moved so fast, she didn’t see which way I had gone. Yeah, I felt bad for my behavior, so I figured I’d make it up to her. The next morning, I walked my daily routine, but she wasn’t out there. At lunch, I was on my way to my car, and I saw her. I waved hello with the intent of getting into my car, and she signaled me to come over.

“Hon? Can you pick me up a loaf of bread and some cigarettes?” I figured it was the least I could do after my stunt yesterday.

“Sure,” I said.

“Let me get some money,” she replied.

She moved off of the porch and into the foyer. I hoped the money was right there because she was moving like molasses, and I only had 45 minutes for lunch.

“Here you go, hon. You’re a real lifesaver. Someone is going to look out after you.” I went and got the bread and cigarettes and still had some time left for lunch. I approached her porch, but she wasn’t out. I then approached her foyer, and accompanied by her feline friend, she came out of the house with a foil pan.

“No deed goes unnoticed,” she said, “These are for you. Me and Pixsie worked hard on them.”

I took the pan and peeled back the foil wrapping. Meanwhile, I felt Pixsie (or Boots-last week, she referred to the cat as Whiskers, Molly, and Jinx) maneuvering herself around my calf and shin in a figure eight motion. She was showing appreciation for the deed and also using my leg as a substitute for a hand. Beneath the wrapping were some brownies-some damn good looking brownies-not like the crap I was made yesterday.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said.

“Try some,” she insisted.

I took a piece of a brownie and started to chew only to find that it was as hard as the concrete I was standing on, and more stale than Styrofoam.

“Mmm,” I said, “These are good.”

I chewed and smiled like I was enjoying the treat even though my mouth was going through a harsh punishment.

For a month, it became a routine to do favors for this old lady. I was doing something for her, from taking out the trash to running an errand, at least one to three times a week. When it was really inconvenient, I simply told her I couldn’t do it. She would plead, but I had to draw the line.

One day, she asked me to run to the store to pick up some bread, and since I’ve done this a hundred times before, I figured it was no problem. It was fairly a routine procedure. It got to the point where I had small talk conversations with the cashiers. This particular trip caused a little ripple in the routine. It was no big deal to me, but I had no idea that it would mean worlds of difference to the old lady. I went to the store and proceeded down the aisle. I got to the bread shelf, and it was completely empty. This was kind of odd, so I went to the cashier and asked if there was bread in the back.

“The delivery of bread should be here in a half hour or so,” she replied, “Why don’t you come back then?”

This threw me off because I hadn’t considered any other options of where to get bread; this corner store always had it in stock. I went to the CVS right down the block. I didn’t even know if they sold bread, but I figured it was worth a shot. As luck may have it, they sold bread-Wonder Bread instead of Stroman’s- but bread is bread, or so I thought. I pulled up in front of the apartment complex, and with the bag of bread in my hand, I walked up the steps that lead to the porch. The old lady was already sitting there; she had her forearm at a 90 degree angle with a cigarette rested between two fingers. It was as if she was waiting for me.

“You got the bread?” she asked.

I gave her the bread and reached in my pocket to give her the change, “They didn’t have bread at the one store, so-

“This isn’t the bread I want,” she said in a disappointed tone, “This is Wonder Bread. I hate this bread. I sent you to do one simple thing, and this is what happens.”

I just stood there dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I would’ve expected a thank you but not this.

She barked at me with anger that she probably hasn’t felt in a hundred years, “Take it back, and get some good bread.”

 I guess I should’ve considered the source since this lady was old, and let’s face it, the clock ticks, but it doesn’t tell the right time. All of these factors, however, escaped me completely. All I knew was I was being reprimanded and belittled over something insignificant.

Despite the fact that I would get nowhere, I felt I had to defend myself, “I went to the store, and they didn’t have the bread in stock. I went to-”

“This isn’t the bread I wanted,” she interrupted.

“Well, it’s better than nothing.”

“Take it back,” she replied.

At this point, I was getting really pissed, “No, I’m not driving around the neighborhood to get you a loaf of bread. You wanted bread, and you got it. Now, I’m going home.”

I stormed off her porch, and I never looked back. I got into my car, pissed as hell and closed the door.

“Crazy old-,” I muttered to myself, “Bread is bread! I can’t believe some people.”

For days, even weeks after that, I avoided her at all costs. I parked on a different part of the block when I could, and I even walked on the other side of the street. When she did see me, she would signal me to come to her or yell, “Hon.” Even though it was against my nature, I still ignored her. Weeks passed before I interacted with the old lady again, but for some reason, and I didn’t argue, she didn’t ask me for anymore favors-that is until the day she gave me a chore that was way out of my jurisdiction.

She was sitting on her porch as always, but she was so sullen.

“Hon,” she said in a cracked voice while small tears ran down her face, “I lost Mitsie.” (You remember Mitsie, don’t you? Yup, same cat).

“Did she run away?” I asked.

“No, she’s dead. Can you bury her?” This was way out of hand. Getting bread and cigarettes is one thing, but burying an animal is another. Animal control was out of league.

“Maybe you should call the ASPCA,” I suggested.

“You could bury her around the bend,” she insisted as if I made no suggestion. It was evident that this old lady wasn’t going to take any other option.

“She’s in the living room. Why don’t you get her?”

“I really think you should call animal control. They handle this all the time,” I pulled out my cell phone, “I’ll call them.”

As I was trying to get the number from the operator, the old lady came out with the cat wrapped in a white sheet. “Here, Hon. Start digging.”

I hung up my phone in a surrendering fashion. As if I was being influenced by a stronger power, I took the shovel. She guided me to the spot where the cat is to be buried. Next to the apartment complex, there was a small, neglected field of grass. It was about the size of a driveway, but it couldn’t accommodate a car. A lot of the grass was dead, and what wasn’t dead was too high.

“Here’s a spot, hon,” she said.

There was a row of six or seven rectangular plaques hidden in the grass. She must have every cat or dog she’s ever had buried in this field. With stripped dignity and compassion, I started digging. It was really an awkward position for me because it’s really not a battle I should be fighting, and if there was any time I should’ve put my foot down, it was now. Sometimes, one acts based on what the moment calls for one to act. Mainly, I hoped to God that none of my co-workers would come down the street to find me digging.

Before long, I was ready to put the cat in the grave. I went around to the porch and asked if she had any last words. She came around with a rosary and said some prayers as I lowered the cat into the ground. When she finished, she went back to her porch, and I buried the deceased animal.

All in all, I really felt bad. This lady doesn’t have much at this age, and an animal is an excellent companion at any age. It was like she lost another friend or child, so I lowered my head and prayed silently. I went back to return the shovel, but the old lady was nowhere to be found. I just leaned the shovel against the wall and went about my day.

I never saw the old lady after that. Two weeks after the burial, I noticed a sign that said, “Apartments for rent.” I didn’t know if the old lady passed away or was moved to an old age home. About a month or so after the burial, I got another job, so I wasn’t in the neighborhood anymore. I occasionally wonder if I really left an impression on that old lady, assuming she’s still alive. Did I really make her days, or did old age clean her mental slate?

Even though I was inconvenienced by many of the favors-especially the last one-they left an impression on me. I found a piece of myself that was very selfless and noble and not many people can say that. Regardless of how it made me feel, I brightened the life of someone who needed a silver lining. If everyone in the world did that for someone else or had that done for them, things would be much different.