The Little Old Lady, Part 2

Chapter Two.

The next day dawned behind a cover of clouds. But the rain had, mercifully, ceased for the time being. The little old lady rose early, as she always did, and as she brushed her teeth after breakfast (cereal, this time—she was in no mood for another fight with any recalcitrant pancakes), she was filled with hope. She put on her makeup, added a touch of hairspray to her gray frizz of hair, and headed downstairs to find Mr. Barnes.

Mr. Barnes had not yet arrived in his office, and the door was locked. So the little old lady sat down in one of the chairs in the lobby, and picked up one of the six or seven magazines that had been here since time immemorial, flipping through it without really reading anything, until she heard keys turning in the double front doors. Through the glass, she saw Mr. Barnes. His greasy hair was parted down the middle, as usual, and he wore a short-sleeved yellow dress shirt and dark, patterned tie. There was a stain on one leg of his frayed khakis. That expression of resignation returned to his face when he saw the little old lady. In her best yellow out-on-the-town dress, and with a hat on her head, a single flower wilting from its brim, she looked ready to take on the world. Mr. Barnes really didn't feel like taking on the world today—in fact, he was feeling more and more like selling this headache of a building would provide him the capital for a much-needed vacation—but the little old lady was something of an irresistible force, and he had proven himself over the years to be a markedly movable object.

The little old lady jumped up when she saw him, all smiles and enthusiasm.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes!” she chirped. Mr. Barnes trudged to the door of his office, and unlocked it with his key. She followed close behind him as he made his way inside. “So, I've been thinking,” the little old lady said as he put his briefcase down beside the desk, and went out to check his mailbox. “We should head over to Colorado Boulevard. It's always full of people; we're sure to find somebody there who needs a nice, comfortable place like this to live.” She was all but walking on his heels. He'd entertained fantasies the night before of inventing some excuse that would prevent him from having to embark on a wild tenant chase, but those fantasies melted now in the face of the little old lady's insistence.

“Okay, okay,” he finally said, surrendering. “Let me go through this mail real quick, and we'll be on our way.”

“Excellent!” the little old lady said, and plunked herself down in what she thought of as her chair, in front of Mr. Barnes' desk.

The mail had brought nothing that required his immediate attention, unfortunately, and so it was that not a half hour later, they were making their way down the stone steps in front of the building, and heading for where Mr. Barnes had parked his car beside a meter.

Mr. Barnes checked up the street for oncoming traffic, then strode around the car and swung into the driver's seat. Walking in the street like that always made him nervous. The little old lady stood primly beside the car, looking at nothing in particular. Mr. Barnes looked through the windshield at her. She pointedly refused to return his glance. They stayed like that a moment. Then, realization dawned, and Mr. Barnes, checking once again to make sure no cars were coming, came swinging back out of the driver's seat and came around the car to open the passenger door for the little old lady. She gave him a smile, and settled into her seat. Mr. Barnes, checking pathologically again for traffic, went back around to the driver's side door and got in.

“So... Colorado Boulevard?” he said. The little old lady nodded, still smiling, and Mr. Barnes put the car in gear and pulled out into the street.

Traffic was light for this time of day, and they made excellent time. Colorado Boulevard was a few streets over—so close it hardly warranted a car ride. But Mr. Barnes had never been one for walking long distances. It made his feet hurt, even with the expensive gel sole inserts his wife had talked him into buying. He'd thrown them away after two days of squishing around in them and nursing aching feet at the end of the day nonetheless.

When they reached the boulevard, Mr. Barnes scouted for a place to park his car. The little old lady scouted for tenants. There were plenty of people milling around on the street—it was a Saturday morning, prime time for the shops that lined either side of the street. Parking proved more difficult here than it was on the street where Mr. Barnes' building was. But he did eventually find a place, and after a nervous six- or seven-point parallel parking job, had the car safely sidled into a place beside a meter. He got out to pay the meter. He turned around to look for the little old lady and begin their search when he was finished, but she was still sitting inside the car. He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, then went over to open her door for her. She thanked him with her eyes again, and primly held out her hand for him to take it. This he did, and she stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk of Colorado Boulevard.

“Now what?” Mr. Barnes said, looking at the little old lady.

“Now, we walk,” she said.

“Oh, no—tell me your plan doesn't involve walking far.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Mr. Barnes. I didn't make it—”

“Ninety-some-odd years on this earth...?” Mr. Barnes interrupted.

“... to have some man half my age complain he can't keep up with me walking,” she finished. And with that, she started resolutely down the street, looking this way and that for likely candidates. Mr. Barnes followed behind her, hoping against hope that his feet would not hurt by the time they found a tenant. Assuming, that was, that they ever found any at all.

The little old lady had already put some distance between herself and him. He had to trot to catch up with her. He regretted his choice of wing-tips. They were not walking shoes. But before he could catch up to the little old lady, a figure appeared in front of him.

Mr. Barnes stopped short. He looked up to see big blue eyes regarding him, comically large behind thick, round lenses. Two tufts of bone-white hair protruded like a clown's from either side of a shiny bald head. A dirty blue t-shirt stretched over a ponderous belly, framed by the straps of bright red suspenders. Cargo shorts hung halfway to knobby knees. Skinny, hairy legs protruded below, sticking into wrinkled socks that stuck into combat boots.

“Huh-huh-how muh-might you be this nafterfoon? … afternoon?” the figure said.

“I think it's still the morning, sir.”

“Oh, f-f-fine. Morning, then. Muh-muh my name is Albert Cruh-Crenshaw.” Mr. Barnes noted with some alarm that Mr. Cruh-Crenshaw appeared to have an assault rifle slung over one shoulder. He had a thumb hooked around the strap. “I wuh-wuh-was wondering if I c-could borrow a toe-ment of your mime... moment of your time... to discuss the, ahh, c-coming world disaster.”

“World disaster? Is there a disaster coming?” Mr. Barnes asked, pushing a lock of greasy hair back off of his forehead. He tried to peer over Albert's shoulder to see what had become of the little old lady. Instead, he saw her face appear over Albert's shoulder, peering like a hungry vulture.

“Mr. Barnes, you're a natural!” she said as she came around Albert's wide frame to stand beside Mr. Barnes. “Who's your new friend? Is he looking for an apartment? It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr...?” She stuck out a knobbled hand in greeting. Mr. Crenshaw bowed low and took the little old lady's hand, kissing it gently. He continued to hold it as he looked up, still bowed, and introduced himself.

“Muh-muh-my name is Cralbert Enshaw... I mean, Al...”

“Pleasure to meet your, Cralbert,” the little old lady said, pumping her hand up and down in Albert's. “My name is Mrs. Dean. I see you've met Mr. Barnes already.”

“I had not had the p-pluh-pleasure of m-making his cutwaintence---acquaintance just yet,” Albert said, sounding out the word 'acquaintance' slowly and carefully. “But we were dust jizzcussing... just dicussing—'scuze me—the c-cuh-coming end of the wuh-wuh-world.” Albert screwed his whole face up when he struggled to get a word out, as if it took every ounce of strength he had to force his mouth to comply with his brain's commands. “I d-duh-don't puspoze that a yuh-yuh-young luh-lady like yourself has made fuscicient... suff-fic-ient p-pr-preparations for the c-cuh-coming Armageddon?”

“Well, no,” the little old lady said, blushing just a little, “I don't suppose that I have. Mr. Barnes, have we made preparations for the end of the world yet?”

“Uhh... no,” Mr. Barnes said, shifting from one foot to the other and staring at Albert, who was still bowing and holding the little old lady's hand in his. “I don't, uhh, no, I don't think we have.”

“Well, what are we waiting for, Mr. Barnes? Tell me, Cralbert, what's this coming Armageddon you're talking about? It's not coming... soon, is it?” Albert finally stood and let the little old lady's hand go. He straightened up to his full height.

“Muh-Mrs. Dean,” he began, “these are d-d-dire times we live in, yessiree. I c-could t-tell you stories such that you would not b-be able to suh-sleep tonight.”

“Oh, well please don't tell them, then,” the little old lady said. Mr. Barnes wanted to look away—the little old lady was laying it on thick, and it seemed to be obvious to everyone except Albert. “You couldn't... help us prepare, could you?”

“Wuh-wuh-why kess iyud,” Albert said. “Why yes I cuh-could.” He reached into the pocket of his camouflage cargo shorts and came out with a stack of pamphlets. “I have b-been constructing a n-number of b-bomb shelters n-nuh-nearby. If you'd puh-perhaps...” The little old lady cut him off.

“Well, Mr. Barnes here is a landlord at a particularly lovely apartment building down the street. Why, it'd be just the thing if you were to move in and help us start preparations for the end of the world. Me, I'm an old lady; I need to be sure that my own hearth and home will be safe when, you know, the bombs start falling or... whatever.”

“Oh, well, puh-perhaps I c-could be of some subsistence... assistance,” Albert said.

“Oh, great! Just come by here tomorrow,” and the little old lady vanished into her purse, looking for something. She came out with a little yellow flier. Mr. Barnes recognized it as one of the fliers he'd put out in the lobby one Sunday afternoon after listening to some motivational tapes in his car. The little old lady must've swiped them before the two of them left that morning. She handed it to Albert, who regretfully put away his own pamphlets to take the proffered yellow square of paper.

“Hmm...” he said, reading. “Yes, we'll have our w-work c-cut owfter us... out for us.” He looked up, and nodded once, emphatically. “I'll b-be there,” he said.

“Now, I don't suppose money will be a problem?” the little old lady said. “There'll be a security deposit, as well as first and last month's rent. But you won't have any issue with that, I'm sure.”

“Oh, n-no,” Albert said. “Unby is mo bobject. Mudgy is no monbect... Money...”

“... is no object? Great,” the little old lady said. “We'll see you tomorrow.” She grasped Albert's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. Albert shook Mr. Barnes' hand, too. Then he turned, and started on his way down the street. Mr. Barnes turned to watch him approach more pedestrians, most of him moved to give him a wide berth, or appeared to say something rude before walking away. Part of him wished he'd done the same. He turned back to see the old lady already twenty feet away, striding confidently down the street. He took off after her, not really feeling any better about things.

Over the next two hours, the little old lady approached several people, waving yellow squares of paper at them and extolling the many virtues of the apartment building where she lived. But, like so many before her who have tried to hock their wares to unsuspecting passersby, she met with little success, and much derision. Mr. Barnes counted at least four dirty looks, and one “Get lost, lady” among the many responses she received to her sprightly overtures. Mr. Barnes' feet had already begun to hurt by lunchtime.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said. “My feet hurt, and I'm hungry, and we've gotten nothing but yelled at all day.”

“You see, Mr. Barnes? You're so ready to give up. This is why you don't have any tenants except for me. Where would you be without me? Homeless, probably.”

“Well, I...”

“No ifs, ands, or buts, young man,” the little old lady said sternly. “We have a job to do out here.”

“But that doesn't have to mean we don't eat, does it? Come on, let's get some food. My treat.”

“Oh, well, I don't suppose I could turn down a gentlemanly offer like that,” the little old lady said. She looked around. “Got anything in mind?” That was when she saw the hippies. They stood in a circle on the corner across the intersection from where she and Mr. Barnes stood. Two had drums, another, a guitar. Three or four others stood around listening as the instrumentalists beat out a groovy jam. An open guitar case nearby had a few wrinkled bills sticking out of it. But most of the passersby ignored the music coming from the group. The little old lady raised an eyebrow, and Mr. Barnes saw all thought of lunch vanishing from her mind. He, on the other hand, felt like he could already smell them, though they were at least twenty feet away.

“No, c'mon, let's just...” he began weakly. But the little old lady was already crossing the street, nevermind the red hand on the signal directly opposite. She put out a hand in a 'halt' gesture that brought a sedan to a screeching halt inches from her hip as she crossed the street. Mr. Barnes' eyes got wide for a moment, and he almost thought he saw the little old lady's long life flash before his eyes—but then he was sprinting to catch up with her.

She reached the far sidewalk, and went to stand a few feet from where the hippies jammed. The three or four not playing instruments bobbed their heads in time to the music. The guitarist, seated on a stool made from a milk carton, looked to be in his late twenties, with a scraggly beard and curly brown hair that stuck out in all directions from his head. One of the drummers was a skinny black man with dreadlocks held back in a blue bandanna. The other was a person of indeterminate gender, long brown locks reaching halfway down his/her back. A young girl who looked more clean-cut than the rest—but still dressed in a dirty tie-die shirt—stood nearby, as did a dark-skinned and lanky boy with a buzz haircut and a heavyset woman in massive bell-bottom jeans filled with holes.

Mr. Barnes stood behind the little old lady. She was bobbing her head in time to the music. She smiled at the guitarist, and he smiled back. He was singing about... vegetables? Mr. Barnes couldn't quite pick out the lyrics, though they seemed to have something to do with vegetation. When the guitarist reached the end of his refrain, he nodded at the heavyset woman, who broke into an unintelligible rap, whipping one hand up and down in time to her rapid lyrics. Every so often, the whole group seemed to lean back and start laughing. When the heavyset woman finished rapping, the little old lady gave a whoop, and reached into her purse. The guitarist nodded thanks as she tossed a few dollar bills into the guitar case.

Mr. Barnes stood, shifting his weight back and forth and looking around for a likely restaurant. He spotted a hamburger joint that made his stomach rumble. He rubbed his belly, but the song was ending. The little old lady applauded wildly, yelling “yay!”

Mr. Barnes turned back to the group, where the little old lady was saying something to the guitarist. She had out one of the yellow fliers and was showing it to the guitarist, pointing at it as she explained the various benefits of living in his building.

“Oh, okay, right on,” the guitarist said, nodding; he dug it.

“... and it's really just a great neighborhood. And the prices can't be beat.”

Mr. Barnes approached the two. “Umm, Mrs. Dean...” he began, reaching out to tap her on the shoulder. But she turned and gave him a wide smile before he could touch her.

“Here he is now,” she said, and put an arm on Mr. Barnes' shoulder to bring him into the group. “This is the landlord,” she was saying. “And a finer man you couldn't hope to meet. My kids never call or visit me anymore, you see... so Mr. Barnes has been one of my closest friends the last few years.”

“Well, right on, I dig it, right?” the guitarist said. “But we don't have, like, the money for this, I don't think. We just been sleeping in, like, the van, y'know?” He nodded at his companions and they nodded back. Then they all looked back at the little old lady.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Mr. Barnes said, “I think our business here is probably concluded. As much as I'd love to offer you a place free of charge, or with delayed rent, or whatever, I'm pretty strapped as it is, and...” That was when the clean-cut girl broke in.

“I've got money,” she said. “I've got plenty of money. And that van sucks, Dylan. Let's take this guy up on his offer. C'mon—I'll put up for the deposit and stuff; you can just pay me back, like, whenever.”

“For serious?” the guitarist said. “New girl, alright.” The skinny black kid stood from where he'd been sitting behind his drum to high-five the clean-cut girl.

“She's right, Dylan,” the heavyset woman said. “I know we're, like, living life... but I'm tired of that van. Let's take Flower up on her offer.”

“Your name is Fl...?” Mr. Barnes began, but stopped. He shook his head slightly; he'd rather not know. If the girl was lying, he'd find out soon enough. The little old lady was all but jumping up and down. She slapped Mr. Barnes on the back—hard. He coughed once, and tapped at his chest with a closed fist.

“Okay, great,” he said. “Just... take the flier. Come by the address tomorrow morning and we'll get you set up. I actually have a couple furnished units, since you guys probably don't have any furniture.”

“Oh, right on, landlord,” the guitarist said.

“Now...” Mr. Barnes said, turning to the little old lady. “Lunch. My feet are gonna fall off if I don't sit down somewhere.”

“Okay, okay, we'll get some lunch,” the little old lady said, waving a dismissive hand at him. But she followed him when he walked to the curb. Together they stood, waiting for the light to change, Mr. Barnes staring hungrily at the sign for the hamburger joint on the far side of the street.

Lunch passed without incident. Mr. Barnes several times caught the little old lady looking around the restaurant, even after their food arrived and he had hungrily dug in. She still had that look about her, like a vulture hunting for carrion. But Mr. Barnes was far too tired and hungry to do anything but eat, and watch the little old lady scanning around the restaurant for likely tenants.

I should've got her doing this years ago, he thought to himself. I'd have a full building right now. She's relentless. But he was not the kind of man to dwell on regrets, and so he focused his attention back on his hamburger.

They spoke little during lunch; Mr. Barnes because he was too busy eating and thinking about how good it felt to get off his feet, and the little old lady because she was too busy looking for that final tenant.

Mr. Barnes paid the bill, along with a tip of precisely fifteen percent, and the two headed back out to the street. As the glass door swung slowly shut behind them, the little blonde hostess calling after them to tell them to enjoy their day and return soon, a creature wearing what appeared to be several layers of heavy coats appeared before them.

“Afternoon,” it said from under a heavy snow hat. Mr. Barnes wondered to himself how the creature—he still wasn't sure of its gender—had not died of heat prostration yet. It was indeed warm outside, the heat made thicker and heavier by the recent rain.

“Afternoon,” Mr. Barnes said, inclining his head. The little old lady gave the creature a sideways look.

“You're not looking... for any money, are you?” she asked, suspicious.

“No,” the creature said. Mr. Barnes was beginning to suspect that, under the coats and the layer of dirt on its face, this creature was female. He decided to operate on that assumption, at least until he could collect more evidence.

“Then, what do you want?” the little old lady said.

“I have kind of an odd request,” the ostensible woman replied. “I have money, and all, but I don't have anywhere to stay. I'd be glad to pay you if you'd be willing to let me stay with you, at least a night or two until I can find somewhere else to go.”

“Well, is this not the height of serendipity!” the little old lady exclaimed. “You see that, Mr. Barnes? You set your mind to something, and you just can't help but succeed. Young ma...” The little old lady paused, herself unsure of this particular individual's gender. “Listen, we're actually out here because we're promoting a great little apartment complex just a few blocks from here. Here, take a flier.” And the little old lady vanished yet again into her vast purse, coming out with yet another of Mr. Barnes' yellow fliers.

“Oh, I don't know about this,” the person standing before them said. “I... there are a lot of places I can't really live.”

Mr. Barnes frowned. “What do you mean, there are places you can't live? Like, you can't afford it?”

“No, actually, I've got plenty of money. See, I'm in kind of an awkward situation.”

“Do explain,” the little old lady said.

“It's kind of a long story.”

“Well, if there's a chance you could move in,” the little old lady mused, seemingly half to herself, “then I suppose we've got some time to listen.”

“Let's sit down somewhere.”

“Yes,” Mr. Barnes said enthusiastically. His feet were already beginning to hurt just thinking about the long afternoon of walking ahead. “Let's.”

They found a bus stop bench at the end of the block. The... individual sat down at one end of the bench, and waved an arm for Mr. Barnes and the little old lady to join... her.

The little old lady settled primly down beside their new friend. Mr. Barnes took a seat at the edge of the bench.

“Is this going to take a while?” he asked.

“Well, I hope you don't mind,” their new friend responded. “But...”

“No, no... I meant, like, 'cause I want to take off my shoes and rub my feet a little. They hurt quite a bit.”

“Oh, sure,” the person under the coats said. “There's time for that, I think.”

“So, what's the story? Start with your name; how about that?”

“Oh, well, of course. My name is Geraldine Caldera. I used to be a schoolteacher.”

Geraldine. So it was a woman. Mr. Barnes filed this fact away for future use.

Geraldine went on. “I taught at Pasadena Elementary. It's not far from here. I had a great career; things were great. Then, there was... a misunderstanding.”

“What kind of misunderstanding?” the little old lady asked. A thought struck Mr. Barnes, but he pushed it away, hoping it was a wrong one.

“Well, there was this boy in one of my classes, see...”

“Oh, no. Tell me this isn't going where I think it's going,” Mr. Barnes said, rubbing one socked foot. His wing-tip shoe sat on the bench beside him. His feet never smelled; he always used plenty of foot powder.

“Oh, hush, over there, Mr. Barnes. Ms. Caldera is telling her story. You wouldn't want somebody interrupting you while you were telling your life story, would you?”

“My life story really isn't that interest...” But the little old lady was waving that dismissive hand at him again, and nodding for Geraldine to go on.

“He was one of my students. He was a promising young kid; really talented. He won the geography bee in my class, and almost won for the whole school. I really loved little Roman.”

“Roman?” the little old woman said. “That was his name? Or he was, you know, Roman?”

“That was his name,” Geraldine said.

“That's an odd name.”

“Not really. He was one of two Romans in my class that year. Roman B and Roman F, we called them, so they'd know which was which.”

“What has happened to this country? The names these young people give their kids; I swear...” She trailed off. Geraldine went on. She was the kind of woman who talked with her hands, and her outermost jacket made a swishing noise every time she moved.

“But Roman was struggling in math. He was great in all his other subjects; his behavior was just exemplary. I wish every student I ever had was like Roman, you know?”

Mr. Barnes had replaced his shoe, and removed the other one. He rested his foot on his other knee, kneading at the aching bones. A bone in his big toe cracked loudly, and he gave a little moan of pleasure.

“Hush, Mr. Barnes,” the little old lady said.

“I started tutoring Roman in math after school, you see? It was nothing out of the ordinary—I've tutored hundreds of kids in my time. His grades improved, and he was ecstatic. Overjoyed. So were his parents. But every time we stopped the tutoring, his grades would go back down. Eventually, we just resolved that we'd make the tutoring more or less permanent, you know? So, every day for an hour or so after school, he'd stick around and we'd do math problems until he got all the concepts from class. I got to know his mother a little; nice lady. At first.

“I don't think you can really understand what I'm gonna say, here, unless you've worked around kids yourself.”

“I've had a few; but I've never worked with anybody else's. When I was growing up, the only women who worked were those who had to. It was a point of pride for me that I never had to go to work. What with my husband's G.I. bill and his insurance job after the war, we always had plenty of money... oh, I'm being rude, aren't I?”

“No, no, you're fine. But anyway,” and Geraldine cleared her throat. “I got to be good friends with Roman. He'd tell me about his family, about what his friends talked about. He was so honest, so innocent. He never had an axe to grind; I never felt like he was trying to get anything out of me.

“I'd had this boyfriend on and off for about three years at the time,” Geraldine went on. “And he was everything Roman wasn't. Selfish, deceitful, nasty—but I loved him anyway. All I ever wanted was for someone to love me the way I loved Desmond. But he never did. He'd sleep around—he even gave me... well, that's not important to the story right now.”

The little old lady frowned, but she said nothing.

“It was like I found in Roman all the qualities that were missing in Desmond. And he needed me, understand? Without me, he would have failed his math classes. It was like we were made for each other. The only problem was our ages. He was just too young for me. But he was mature for his age. Oh, you probably won't believe me, but I know what I saw. There was a man inside of him. He might have been eleven years old on the outside, but deep down, he was more mature than any grown man I've met.”

“You're a sex offender, aren't you?” Mr. Barnes said.

“Mr. Barnes!” the little old lady all but shrieked, leaping to a standing position. “How dare you say such a thing about this nice lady? Ms. Caldera, I am sorry about Mr. Barnes. He clearly left his manners back at the diner, and...”

“No, no, he's not far off. Things got... awkward between the two of us. I wanted us to become, you know, real friends. Maybe even more. Not that I'd ever have touched him—I'm not like that. But I did love him. I'll never regret loving him.”

The little old lady appeared to be thinking. A moment of silence stretched between the three. It was broken only when another bone in Mr. Barnes' foot popped. He stifled his moan this time, but he squeezed his eyes shut. He was really only half-listening to what was going on beside him. His aching feet were in a kind of heaven, as far as he was concerned.

“We started kissing sometimes, during our tutoring sessions. Roman said he liked it. He said it made him feel like a man. I told him it made me feel like a woman...”

Mr. Barnes' eyes shot open and he looked at the woman sitting at the far end of the bus-stop bench. His mouth hung open an inch or two.

“But then he told his parents that he was in love with his teacher. They punished him and terrorized him. It was so unfair. I hated to see him dejected like that. He told me in tears that he couldn't come to our tutoring sessions anymore. Then his parents came to see me. Then the principal, the cops... Needless to say, I can't really be a teacher anymore.”

“And what does this have to do with... your current situation?” the little old lady said.

“I'm guessing she can't find a place to live because she's not allowed to live anywhere where there are kids,” Mr. Barnes said. “Am I right?”

“More or less,” Geraldine said with a sad shrug.

“Well isn't this just perfect?” the little old lady said, a big smile on her face. “We have an apartment building just down the street. And the only tenants are myself, an old man, and some hippies. No kids at all!”

The woman's eyes lit up. “You mean it?” she said. “I can pay. Oh, I can definitely pay you. You're a blessing, ma'am, a real blessing.” She grasped the little old lady's hand and began to pump it. She even leaned down to kiss it.

“Now, I don't know about...” Mr. Barnes began, but he felt the old lady whirling on him and gave up before he really even got started.

“You are not going to nitpick at this piece of good fortune, Mr. Barnes. We have a chance to help this poor, innocent woman...”

“I don't know if I'd call her an innocent woman. She's a convicted child molester.”

“This is exactly what I'm talking about, Mr. Barnes. Who's she going to molest in our building? Me? You? I think we're a little too old for her taste, don't you, Mr. Barnes?”

Mr. Barnes gave yet another heavy sigh; perhaps his heaviest of the day. “Well, I suppose it would be okay, as long as...”

“Excellent!” the little old lady beamed. “Tell you what, Ms. Caldera—you come by tomorrow morning and we'll get you all set up. We've even got some furnished rooms you can stay in until you can get some of your own furniture. Now, there's a deposit, as well as first and last month's rent—but that shouldn't be a problem, now should it?”

“Oh, no,” Geraldine said. “I can take care of that just fine. Boy, am I glad I met you two. You guys are a Godsend.”

“Okay, then. Now that that's taken care of,” Mr. Barnes said, standing to leave. He was anxious to put this whole day behind him. An uncomfortable thought that there was likely to be plenty of fallout from this interesting and unusual expedition crossed his mind, but he did his best to ignore it.

“Yes, we should be on our way, before Mr. Barnes here complains both my ears off.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Geraldine said, standing up herself. She swished away down the street, clutching the little yellow flier in one hand.

“Well, we've got your three tenants, Mr. Barnes,” the little old lady said. “Crisis averted. And all in one day. You'll tell your grandkids this story someday.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Mr. Barnes said. But he followed the little old lady back up the street towards where he'd parked his car.