Gertie and the Visitors

Gertie saw them come into her lane in their beat-up Ford, pulling a wagon with a tarp on it. They looked like ne’er-do-wells but she was happy to see them. She was eighty-three and had been a widow for ten years now. She hated the loneliness of it.

She heard the knock at the door and expected a man, but it was a woman with three girls. And she was a big woman. Gertie was tall but thin like a willow. This woman was a walnut tree—solid and heavy and her skin was dark like oiled wood.

“I was wondering if you needed some work done. Heard in town that you were sick and could use help.”

“Now who told you that?” Gertie said. “Was it Bud at the gas station or Homer at the grocery?”

“Homer. That’s who said it,” the woman replied. “I see that your lawn needs mowing. Show me your mower and we’ll get right on it.”

Before Gertie even had a chance to say no, this woman was walking back to the shed behind Gertie’s brick house and opening the door. She called to the youngest girl, “Ruby, you keep out of the way.” She took out the mower and pulled the cord a few times and it started. She began mowing, slowly, because the grass was so thick. The oldest two girls found Gertie’s rakes and were raking up the grass and carrying it to the grove in back. No one ever mowed the grove of walnuts and oaks.

Ruby found the porch swing and sat on it and looked around. Gertie walked over and gave her a small push. The girl jumped off like she was scared. Gertie said, “No, you stay on. Just want to show you that it moves back and forth.”

She sat on her wooden rocker and pretended not to notice the girl. When Gertie rocked back and forth, Ruby stuck out her foot and pushed off from the rail on the side. They both watched the lawn mowing.

Gertie had been sick for two months from congestive heart failure. Her neighbors had mowed a few times but they couldn’t keep up with things. Her garden had gone to hell. Weeds had taken over. Maybe these folks could hoe it. But how would she pay them? She only had her Social Security and her teacher’s pension.

She watched as the lawn mower choked from too much grass and stopped. This beast of a woman tried to start it but it wouldn’t go. She unscrewed the gas lid, looked into the tank and shook her head.

“Where’s your gas?” the woman called out.

“In that red can,” Gertie said. “In the corn crib.”

The woman found the red can and poured it but nothing came out. Then Gertie watched her push the mower over to her car. She got into the back seat and took out a piece of garden hose. The woman opened her gas tank lid, put the hose in it and then lay on the ground and sucked on the other end of the hose. When gas came out, she spit a lot and quickly put the end into the mower gas tank. In a minute it was filled and she pulled the hose away and lifted it up high so the gas wouldn’t keep coming out.

“My, my,” Gertie said aloud. Were they gypsies? That’s who would pull a stunt like that. That’s probably how they got gas all the time.

Gertie felt sick. She’d pay them five dollars when they were done and tell them to leave. She’d heard about folks like this who would befriend you and then rob you blind.

Sixteen years ago when she’d gone on that pilgrimage to Rome with Monsignor McCain, she’d seen gypsies all over. As they were walking from St. Peter’s to the Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel, a woman was on the sidewalk nursing a toddler. Gertie had gasped seeing this woman expose her...