The Little Old Lady part 3

Chapter Three.

The little old lady awoke the next day in higher spirits than she'd been in for quite some time. She felt like she'd really accomplished something yesterday. She couldn't wait to help all her new neighbors move in. In her mind, she could already hear Mr. Barnes beginning to complain about this and that, so she told him aloud to shut up. She was so happy, in fact, that she forgot all about her debacle with the butter, and started whipping up a fresh batch of buttermilk pancakes.

She was just about to sit down to eat them when the phone began to ring.

“Now, I wonder who that could be,” she said. “It had better not be any of those telemarketers.”

She held the phone to her ear, and sat back down at the kitchen table in front of her pancakes. Her hand froze halfway to the syrup and a frown crossed her face when the person on the other end of the line greeted her, however.

“Good morning,” the voice said. “This is Mr. Barr of Lake Plains Dairy, Inc...” She clicked the 'End' button on the phone, and set it down on the table next to her. She had gone back to reaching for the syrup when the phone rang yet again, almost immediately.

“Whatever it is, I don't want any!” she said as she answered the phone.

“Mrs. Dean!” that same voice said. “It's me! John Barr! From a few days ago. You gave me your number and told me to call you after I'd tried some real maple syrup.”

“Oh, Mr. Barr!” the little old lady said. “What a relief. I thought you were a telemarketer.”

“Yeah, I got that impression,” John Barr of Lake Plains Dairy Products said.

“Well, what did you think?”

“Mrs. Dean, I have to thank you. I went to the store the other day—I had to wear a disguise, of course, but it was completely worth it—and I bought a bottle of Canada Lakes Real Maple Syrup.”

“Oh, that stuff is just terrific,” the little old lady said. “I use it myself. About to pour some on my pancakes right now, actually. How did you like it?”

“It was amazing! I've never tasted anything like it. I can't... I can't even begin to describe it. I cannot believe that all these years, I've been using the fake stuff, and it never occurred to me—nobody ever told me—that the real stuff was so much better. And only three dollars more! I don't know how I can thank you.

“There's a problem, though.”

“Oh, don't be silly, Mr. Barr. How could there possibly be any problem with discovering a fantastic new product like real maple syrup?”

“But Mrs. Dean,” John Barr protested. “I work for Lake Plains. I can't be seen using anything but Lake Plains products on my pancakes. That's why I had to wear a disguise to the store. I'd lose my job if they saw me using a competitor's products!”

“That is quite a pickle,” the little old lady said. “Though I can't say I'd ever let myself end up in your position. Who would want to work for a company that not only sells fake maple syrup, but forces its employees to put it on their pancakes?”

“I was actually calling to ask your advice about that,” John Barr said. The little old lady beamed in spite of herself. Nobody ever asked her opinion on things. “I want to move to Canada, and drink nothing but real maple syrup. I could get a job tapping maple trees—be a force for good in the world.”

“I certainly see the appeal.”

“The only problem is, my wife won't move to Canada. She said I'm being ridiculous. She's a bacon-and-eggs girl from way back, you see. She doesn't care about maple syrup, so there's no way she'd ever understand. She says I'm being selfish.”

“Mr. Barr,” the little old lady explained, a little patronizing, “everyone's wife thinks they're being selfish.”

“I want to go anyway. But I don't know if I really am being selfish.”

“If you're looking for me to tell you that it's okay to leave your wife for the sake of maple syrup...” The little old lady paused. “Well, I suppose it's okay to leave your wife for the sake of maple syrup. As I've often said, breakfast is at least 90% presentation. But the other 10%—now that's maple syrup.”

“Oh, thank you,” John Barr said. “I'm buying a plane ticket today. I don't know how I can ever repay you.” They exchanged pleasantries, and then John Barr was gone. The little old lady smiled over her pancakes, not even caring they'd grown a little cold during her conversation. It was then that she recalled she'd had no time to go and get more butter.

She picked up the phone from beside her plate. She redialed the last call received, and when John Barr answered, she said, “Mr. Barr, I've thought of something you can do to repay me.”

“Anything,” John Barr said.

“When you get to Canada, tell the boys at Canada Lakes to get into the butter business.”

She had to eat her pancakes entirely without butter, but she was a tough lady; she made it through.

Her dishes in the sink, she all but skipped into her bedroom to prepare for the day. A little makeup—very tasteful, of course—her favorite dress, carefully washed and folded the night before, and a pair of good comfortable flats, and she was out the door.

She tapped lightly on the open door of Mr. Barnes' office before entering. He was bent over some paperwork, as usual, but he looked up when he heard her knock.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dean,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes!” she chirped. “I hope you're feeling as good as I am today. Have any of the new tenants arrived, yet?”

“I'd be surprised if they had. You know it's only 7:30, right?”

“Oh... I guess my excitement got the better of me.”

“I've never met anyone so enthusiastic to help other people move.”

“Oh, you know I've always loved helping other people.”

Mr. Barnes had not always known that—nor, he thought, did he know it now—but he decided to keep his ignorance to himself.

“Well, Mrs. Dean, I've got quite a bit of paperwork to get done, here, especially since the new tenants are going to be moving in, soon. I need to make sure I don't have to file any forms now that we have a convicted sex offender living here.” He let a hint of an edge creep into his voice at that. He was still far from sure that bringing Geraldine Caldera into the apartment was a good idea. He kept having horrible visions of police officers leading Ms. Caldera out the double glass doors in handcuffs, the whole street out to watch, all of them whispering about the creepy sex offender Mr. Barnes had invited to live in his building.

“The neighborhood's going down the tubes,” they were saying. “Is the landlord trying to destroy our property values?”

The little old lady's voice brought him back to the present.

“Now, don't you start in on poort Ms. Caldera. She said it was all just a big misunderstanding.”

“I'm sure Hitler would have said the same thing.”

“Hitler? Hitler? Mr. Barnes, how many Jews do you think Ms. Caldera has killed?”

“How many little boys did Hitler make out with?”

“I'm sure it was plenty, Mr. Barnes. My husband fought in the Vietnam War, I'll have you know. He didn't put his life on the line so that...”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Mr. Barnes said, putting up his hands in surrender. “I'm sorry I brought it up. I'm glad Ms. Caldera is moving in. It's just... I have to make sure there's no special paperwork, okay? That's all.”

The little old lady still looked huffy, but she let the issue drop.

It was at that moment that they heard the first knock of the day on the double glass doors. The little old lady jumped with glee, and went out to see who had arrived. Mr. Barnes followed, a few paces behind.

Albert Crenshaw was peering through the glass between cupped hands. His eyes darted back and forth, but a big smile broke out on his face when he saw the two approaching.

“Moug norming!” he called, muffled behind the glass. “... Good morning!”

Mr. Barnes opened the front door, and Albert came in, towing a massive black canvas bag on wheels behind him.

“I'll huh-have a f-f-few more things later on, b-but for n-now this s'ould suffice... should suffice,” he said.

“Whatcha got there?” Mr. Barnes asked innocently. Albert frowned and looked sideways at Mr. Barnes.

“Wuh-wuh-what's it to ya?” he asked. “Man's b-buh-business is his b-business.”

“Oh, whoa, sorry, Al,” Mr. Barnes said. “It was just a question.”

“Well, queep yer... keep yer kuh-questions to yer self.”

Mr. Barnes surrendered for the second time that day.

“How about let's get you upstairs?” he said. “I've got a room all ready for ya.”

“Elxcinglent! … excellent!” Albert said, grabbing the handle of the bag. There was a sound like clanking metal when he lifted it to follow Mr. Barnes towards the elevators. The little old lady came behind, beaming.

As the elevator doors closed on the three of them, Albert turned to Mr. Barnes.

“So,” he began, “I've buh-buh-been thinking about the, uhh, suh... safety of the sufilities... facilities here, and I think it wuh-would b-be b-best if I were to examine the b-basement.”

“The basement? What for?” Mr. Barnes asked.

“Well, there are a nuh-number of scenarios I have b-been considering. Of c-course, we can't ool rout—rule out—nuh-nuclear w-war. A b-bomb shelter would have to b-be in the basement.”

Mr. Barnes paused a moment, staring at Albert. “Oh,” he finally said.

Albert nodded.

Albert seemed pleased with his accommodations—though the little old lady noted that he did appear to think the place was bugged. He unzipped his canvas bag an inch, slipped in a hand, and came out with a screwdriver and a flashlight. He proceeded to use these to remove every vent in the apartment and peer down all the ducts, inspecting them carefully and nodding to himself as he did so.

“Yes, yes,” he said every few minutes. “Looks g-good so far...”

Finally, after half an hour of peeping into vents, checking the corners of closets and looking in the back of the toilet, he stood before Mr. Barnes.

“It's p-perfect,” he said. “I'll have to make some muh-modifications, of course.”

“What... what kind of... modifications?” Mr. Barnes said, frowning.

“Oh, nothing too d-drastic,” Albert said. “I'll wuh-want to b-bar the windows, install a kesurity—security system.”

“Security system?”

“Cameras, muh-muh-microphones, you know. All buh-buh-boilerplate stuff. Muh-maybe a few buh-b-buh-booby traps.”

“Cameras and microphones are fine, but I'm gonna have to draw the line at booby...”

“That all sounds great, Albert. And when you're done, you can outfit my apartment, too,” the little old lady said. Mr. Barnes gave her a frown, too. She paid him no mind.

“That sounds fuh-fuh-fantastic. You c-can never be poo tree-paired. Too prepared,” he said. The little old lady nodded, smiling.

“I am gonna need that security deposit, and first and last month's rent,” Mr. Barnes said.

“Oh, of cuh-course,” Albert said. “I've aw-lays b-believed strongly in suh... security.” He unzipped his canvas bag again, tossing the screwdriver and flashlight bag in. He drew out a briefcase closed with brass clips and a combination lock. “Luh-let's go downstairs,” he said with portent, and strode for the apartment door.

The little old lady stood behind Albert, who had taken a seat in one of the chairs before Mr. Barnes' desk. Mr. Barnes had passed some paperwork his way, and sat with his hands folded on the desk while Albert filled out his information.

He craned his neck a little to see what Albert was writing. Albert appeared to have written “N/A” for virtually every answer.

“Albert,” Mr. Barnes began. But Albert was already sliding the paper back towards him. He slapped his black briefcase on the table. He gave Mr. Barnes and the little old lady dirty looks until they both turned away, then spun the dial on the combination lock until Mr. Barnes heard the clasps on the briefcase snap open. Mr. Barnes turned back around to see Albert opening the case.

Behind Albert, Mr. Barnes could see the little old lady's eyes had gone wide.

“I threw in a luh-little extra, for your t-t-trouble,” he said as he turned the briefcase towards Mr. Barnes. When Mr. Barnes saw what was in the briefcase, his eyes went wide, as well.

The briefcase appeared to be filled with gold ingots. Six of them, to be precise. They lay in a neat row, each one labeled with its weight.

Mr. Barnes turned to the computer on his desk. A quick Internet search revealed...

“Albert, this is more than three times what you owe,” he said.

“Luh-like I said,” he said, grinning like a hyena. “F-for your t-trouble.”

Mr. Barnes took the forms, all filled out with non-information, and slid them into his desk. He closed the briefcase, and put that under his desk.

For the first time since he'd told the little old lady that he was going to have to sell the building, he felt good. The little old lady's eyes were still wide behind Albert, and her mouth was hanging open. Mr. Barnes gave her a subtle thumbs up.

“Let's get you moved in,” he said to Albert, offering his hand.

“Puh-puh-pleasure d-doing business with you,” Albert said.



Geraldine was at the door as they went their separate ways out of Mr. Barnes office, Albert towards the elevator, and the other two towards the door. She was standing and waiting patiently, looking now and again up and down the street. She was still wearing her many coats, and she seemed to have brought a shopping cart full of odds and ends with her.

“Good morning,” the little old lady said.

“It's good to be home,” Geraldine said as she stepped inside. She looked around the lobby, smiling. “Home,” she said again, as if tasting a word nearly forgotten with long disuse.

“You can just follow me,” Mr. Barnes said. The little old lady noted that Mr. Barnes shot the shopping cart a few glances. But he said nothing.

Geraldine couldn't stop staring at everything. She regarded the walls, the ceiling, the vending machines at the far end of the lobby. She even inspected the elevator as they rode up to the fifth floor, where Mr. Barnes had arranged a few furnished units after reading a book about property management.

He unlocked the door to one of the units, and the three vanished inside.

Geraldine left her shopping cart near the door and all but ran around the room, looking at everything. She opened every cupboard in the kitchen, flounced onto the sofa, vanished into the single bedroom. She came out beaming.

“It's gorgeous,” she said, reaching out to grab and pump Mr. Barnes hand. “Gorgeous. It's been...” She stifled a tear. “It's been... so long...” She hugged the little old lady as she lost the battle and the tears began to flow.

The little old lady patted Geraldine on the back, but Mr. Barnes saw an expression of barely contained disgust. He could smell Geraldine from where he was standing, so he imagined the little old lady must be suffering mightily.

“Tell you what,” Mr. Barnes said. “Let's get this thing paid for, and then you can come back up and take a shower.”

“Oh, yes!” Geraldine said, trotting over to her shopping cart and reaching in to produce a battered checkbook. “Let's!”

Mr. Barnes was willing to take it on faith that Geraldine's check would clear, despite the significant water damage it seemed to have sustained, if it would get her out of his office and into the shower in her unit. She, too, disappeared into the elevator as soon as the transaction was complete.

“Well, this is going swimmingly, don't you think, Mr. Barnes?”

“Well, no disasters so far,” Mr. Barnes conceded. “So I guess, yeah, it is.”

“See? What did I tell you? A little faith and ingenuity; there's nothing we can't accomplish. We should have been doing this all along, you and me. We'd have a full building and you could retire in style. Not that I'm suggesting you go anywhere, of course...” Mr. Barnes listened as the little old lady chattered on, giddy like a little girl.

The hippies did not arrive until much later that afternoon. The little old lady spent most of the day in the chair in front of Mr. Barnes' desk, floating ideas for ways to get even more tenants into the building.

“We should be out every day, if you ask me. There are just hundreds of people who all need a place to live, and you've got just the ticket. We've really stumbled onto a gold mine here, if you ask me.”

“Heh. Literally, in some cases,” Mr. Barnes said, playing loving footsy with the briefcase full of gold under his desk.

Over the course of the day, Albert had reappeared periodically to ask odd questions about the apartment he now inhabited. He wanted to know, at various times, where the central circuit breaker was, what the building's outer walls were made of, whether the building had an intercom, and—when the answer to the last question was 'no'—whether Mr. Barnes would mind if he installed one.

“Oh, by all means,” Mr. Barnes had said. The little old lady just sat beaming in her chair, her head craned around to look at Albert as he stood in the doorway of the office.

“Charming guy,” Mr. Barnes said when Albert disappeared.

“Oh, certainly,” the little old lady said. But they both jumped when, from out in the lobby, they heard Albert yelling.

“Warning! Alert! Muh-Mister B-Barnes! Get your shotguns!” Mr. Barnes and the little old lady rushed out into the lobby to see what was going on.

Albert was standing by the elevator, but he was pointing at the front door of the building. They looked to see what he was pointing at.

Outside the double glass doors, the gaggle of hippies had arrived.

“Wuh-wuh-what are they d-doing here?” Albert said, eyes wide.

“Oh, don't mind them, Cralbert,” the little old lady said with a wave of her hand. “They're moving in!”

“Tuh-tuh-t-tell me they're not p-p-part of our p-plan,” he hissed, a hand covering one side of his mouth. “Thuh-they'll just be bed turds... d-dead birds around our nuh-necks. All that nuh-noisome saying and pling—playing and singing. It'll g-give away our position.”

The guitarist Mr. Barnes remembered from yesterday—Dylan, right?—had a guitar on his back and a toothsome smile on his face. He was waving at the two of them through the glass. Mr. Barnes opened the door, and the whole crew came bursting in. They were all talking at the same time; to each other, to the little old lady, to Mr. Barnes.

“I c-can't be held sepronsible—responsible for th-d-th-these... ind-d-dividuals should any suh... scenarios occur,” Albert was trying to say over the din. Everyone ignored him.

“First things first,” Mr. Barnes said. “Let's get you paid up, and then I'll show you to your unit.”

The clean-cut girl appeared from the middle of the group, and Mr. Barnes led her into his office. The little old lady stayed in the lobby with the rest of the gaggle of hippies, who had begun asking questions about the unit they were about to call home.

The girl—who apparently was named Flower, after all—produced a credit card to pay for the unit. Mr. Barnes used the credit card machine on his desk to run it. And, wonder of wonders, the charge went through. He didn't see that the name on the card was not Flower. And while he was sure her name wasn't Flower, had he thought to check, he would have been equally sure that her name wasn't Joseph R. Sheldon, either.

But as things went, as soon as the charge went through, a smiling Mr. Barnes led the hippies and their gear up both elevators to the furnished rooms on the fifth floor. He put them in the unit furthest from Geraldine's, to avoid noise complaints once everyone got comfortable in their new 'digs,' as Dylan termed it.