Moorpark Palms - 9. Chapter 9

For most of the summer, Claire urged Sally to complain about the noise. “You’ve been here longest,” she said. “They’ll listen to you.”
“I doubt it,” Sally replied
“Why?” I asked. The three of us were standing near the mailboxes.
“The new owners want to tear out my garden,” Sally said.
“What!” Claire was outraged.
“When did they say this?” I asked.
“No one told me,” Sally whispered. “I overheard.”
“Who?” Claire demanded.
Sally tried to calm her. “Well, you know they fired the gardeners...”
“No!”
“That’s too bad,” I said. Not that I could have identified the men – three interchangeable old guys who watered and swept on a schedule known only to themselves.
“Last week,” Sally went on. “That’s why everything’s so dry.”
I hadn’t noticed.
Claire roared on: “The gardeners have been here longer than I have!”
“Twenty-eight years,” Sally confirmed.
“Why are they taking out your garden?” I asked.
“Who can say?” Sally answered as she tenderly detached a leaf from a nearby bush. “My daughter Laurie – the one who died – used to love jade. It always reminds me of her.”
“I’ll call the owners,” I assured her. “Maybe they don’t realize...”
Claire threatened to move out.
“What would that help?” Sally asked. “Besides, I’d miss you.”
That served as a temporary patch.
“We could start a petition,” I suggested.
“Those cretins can’t write their names!” Claire insisted, and I wondered if she
meant all the “kids” or just the guys?
“Maybe if you wore a bikini when you asked,” I joked.
She smiled at me like I was crap, too.
“I’m serious,” I pushed on. “I’ll bet everyone would sign. They’d do it for Sally.”
“That’s very nice,” Sally said.
“And maybe they’ll legalize pot,” Claire scoffed.
But everyone did sign. Even though the band had more immediate problems.
“They kicked us out!” Younger Brother howled, while fingering my petition.
Had Claire scored?
“And we made this place rock!” he protested. “They don’t have one damn reason to can me!”
I could think of several.
“We’ll fight!” he tore on, grabbing the nearest paper – the back of a Chinese menu. “I’ll start a petition, too!”
I traded him signatures, knowing his list would never see the owners. It might not survive dinner.
The next morning, I called the real estate company from work, explaining how we all felt about Sally’s garden.
“Too late,” I was told. “Got the contract on my desk.”
“For what?”
“Sprinkler system – goes in tomorrow. New paint next week. Flowers and grass – deep six that stinking rain forest. Get some decent tenants.”
What did that make me?
“You can’t save any of Sally’s jade?” I coaxed. “Her daughters planted it. One of them died.”
“There’s no connection!”
“No...”
“So!”
The man had limited soul.
“It would just be nice,” I reasoned. “Sally’s lived there for over thirty years, and she’s nearly eighty. She won’t be here forever.”
“I’m not a betting man.”
“How about just the center bed?” I bargained. This was an area maybe seven-by-twenty feet, surrounding the courtyard palm.
“Looks like Pirate Cove.”
“How about the sides?” Each bed was maybe two foot-by-forty.
“Puttin’ in lilies.”
“What about the space in front of Sally’s apartment?” Maybe two-by-fifteen. “When she’s gone, you can tear it out.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then: “Lemme put you on hold.”
Was I getting through? Or did he just have to use the john?
Ten minutes later, he said: “OK. The bed in front of Number One. But not if the roots snarl the sprinklers!”
When I told Sally, she seemed pleased.
“Magic!” Claire said. “Now disappear the kids!”
When did I become Wyatt Earp?
“Actually, the band’s moving,” I lightly mentioned to Claire, momentarily stunning her.
“How did you do that?”
“I didn’t,” I had to admit. “They screwed themselves.”
She laughed. “As horny as they are, that’s one thing I wouldn’t have put money on.”
Still, early the next morning, our tiny victory seemed to vanish as the courtyard was savaged – three-hundred square feet of jade was mulched, and the wisteria was wrenched from the railings. Sally’s memories were stupidly destroyed, but at least she didn’t have to watch – she spent the day shopping with a granddaughter. Well after dark, she slipped home, going straight inside. Either she didn’t hear or refused to answer my knocks. The following day, sprinklers arrived and then the painters. Our warm cream stucco turned to pale gingivitis pink, and brash aqua slathered the brown, weathered trim. The orange apartment doors were also painted – not a bad choice – but to pool-bottom turquoise. Except for Sally’s narrow strip of jade, there were lilies and sod. We’d become Miami Vice.
The new owners surveyed this trendy Eden as the band loaded its van – their recent phone number newly blocked in purloined pink.
“What you think?” the preppier partner asked me. His buddy – who looked like a failed golf pro – stood nearby.
“Neat,” I said diplomatically.
“We’ll have a new manager tomorrow. Nice young guy and his wife. He’s a chef. She’s in advertising.”
The golf pro merely nodded. Possibly he’d chosen Younger Brother.
“Looks suburban,” Claire pronounced after the boy financiers left – in twin green Range Rovers. “Bring on those Stepford wives.”
Vic felt differently: “It’s sorta 90s,” he admitted, not tipping whether this was good or bad.
The Kansas couple: “Definitely raises the value.”
The UCLA girls: “As long as there aren’t slugs.”
The New Yorkers: “Cheerful!”
Yuck and Lonnie slithered approvingly.
Sally finally came out and looked around. It was evening, but she wore dark glasses. “It could be worse,” she quietly decided. “At least, they seem to care about the building.”
“‘Nothing gold can stay,’” I quoted. She nodded, though maybe not understanding. As I’m not sure I did.