The Truth about Us by Janet Gurtler Read Free Book Online

worry. She hates everybody, not just you,” Wilf says when she leaves the dining room. I hide a smile as we lay out plastic cutlery packages and he explains more about how the lunch service works. Go to the doorman, escort guests to a table. Repeat until the section is full. Pick up their meals, deliver them to tables. Clean up when they’re done, set up new place settings, return to door for new guests.
    â€œMost days in summer, we don’t get huge crowds for lunch. The two of us can handle it. Dinner is another story.” He frowns at me. “We’re done setting up, and our guests won’t be here for another hour.” He glances around, as if he’s looking for something for me to do. I feel kind of stupid and useless and wish I could go home. Even home is more comfortable than this place.
    I lean against the table I finished setting. “I saw the marigolds and geraniums,” I say to fill up the awkward silence.
    He cocks his head to the side. “The what?”
    â€œPlants. Going to the greenhouse.” I wonder if he’s always so grouchy.
    â€œHow do you know what plants are going to the greenhouse?” he asks.
    â€œI saw them on the cart. When I was in the warehouse with Stella, she said they were going to the greenhouse. I recognized them. I used to like plants, okay?” I tell him.
    â€œYou mean the kind of plants you kids smoke these days,” he grumbles.
    â€œYou growing something you don’t want me to see?” I ask.
    He glares at me. “Isn’t it weird? A kid your age, interested in plants?”
    â€œProbably not as weird as a guy your age.”
    He stares at me for a long moment and then he laughs.
    It relaxes the knot in my stomach. I was kind of holding my breath, pretending to be cocky. This whole place makes me jumpy. And here I am, stuck in the middle of it, smack-talking an old man.
    â€œI had a garden at home,” I tell him, trying to be more polite. “My mom and I did. Well. We used to. We used to have vegetables and herbs. Flowers too.”
    â€œYou lose your mom?” he asks gruffly but not unkindly. “That why you’re here?”
    I stare at him and then down at my feet. “Not really.”
    â€œYou shoot somebody?” he asks.
    I look up then but shake my head.
    â€œRob a bank?”
    I try not to grin. “Nothing that exciting, trust me. Maybe I just wanted to volunteer.”
    â€œAnd maybe I’m Santa Claus.”
    For the first time all day, I laugh out loud.
    He crosses his arms and studies me with narrowed eyes. “Fine. You can come to the greenhouse,” he says as if I asked. “But don’t knock anything over. And there’s someone in there right now, working on my shelves. One collapsed and almost killed some azaleas. They were Rhea’s. So be careful.”
    â€œRhea was your wife?” I ask.
    â€œRhea was my everything.” He turns and starts walking, and I follow. He’s a slow plodder, but I stay behind him. We don’t talk, but I wonder why this grumpy old guy has a greenhouse at a shelter. I’m not about to ask, but I wonder.
    The greenhouse is sort of shaped like an old barn. It’s opaque with plastic and steel siding. The door is open, and I follow Wilf inside and pause and then breathe it in. The smell nourishes me. Moist air fills my lungs. I’ve forgotten how much the scents of greenery soothe me. It reminds me of different times. Simpler times.
    â€œNice,” I tell him, looking around at rows of plants on tabletops and plants stacked on the floor. I realize I’ve missed the satisfaction of nurturing plants.
    There’s a man on a ladder in the middle of the greenhouse, fixing a shelf, with his back to us. A little boy stands at the bottom of the ladder, watching. Wilf walks over and pats his head and kneels down to his level. “How are ya, big guy?”
    The little boy stands taller and giggles and holds