Of Clay Feet and a Troubled Farewell

The names I have used in this piece are fictitious.

One

I never knew George Landers to make a negative comment. In our first conversation, we spoke as old friends speak. There was a directness in his approach, which was utterly humorless and utterly sincere. Not until after my repeated attempts to crack the occasional small joke did he take the message and make a few quips of his own. I quickly loved him, as one loves a kindly uncle.

George was older than me. He and his wife lived in Building Five. I, the maintenance man, responded when the phone line went haywire, or the hot water tank spewed only cold. My knock, the shave-and-a-haircut, minus the final two beats, he answered, filling them in. It was his job, as it turned out, to hover at my shoulder, offering to be of assistance. His wife usually sat on the sofa, sewing, or reading. At the end of each official visit, he offered glasses of orange juice, which I drank, out of politeness.

Each day, when George went out walking, I met him near the street, to grin at him and offer a ride. I installed his printer. I helped him dig when he wanted to plant banana trees.

For three years we developed the routine, broken only when he went sometimes to do missionary work in Guyana. His was a blissful existence, until the day he reported the appearance of blood in his urine. Right away, his wife drove him to the emergency room.

George did not return from the hospital. But, before he died, he instructed that his funeral be joyous, for the entry of a faithful servant into heaven is a cause for celebration. I have to say, it was the only happy funeral I have ever attended.

The banana trees George had planted bore fruit for the first and only time that year. After that, they had to be dug up.

Two

The widow lived alone in the complex for another two seasons. In that time, we acquired a new manager, Joan Shepherd. Joan allowed Mrs. Landers to co-sign a lease for her son, George, Jr.
“These people are so wonderful,” I told Joan the next day. “I wish you could have known Mr. Landers.”

“I wish that you could have been in here when George, JR., signed his lease,” Joan said angrily. “He kept staring, and talking about my legs, in front of his mother. He tried to ask me for a date.”

I did not know how to respond to that. “He did? I met George yesterday, and he was very polite and respectful toward me.”

To me, George remained very solicitous , but his every encounter with Joan resulted in further friction. He always argued about his lease and suggested he was getting mistreated. One day, Mrs. Landers had to come in to sign a lease renewal. She and George appeared in the office, before the leasing agent. “Don’t be mean to my Mama,” George said. “If you do I’m going to beat you up.”

The agent, a very tall country girl, was not intimidated. “I don’t think you have enough ass to back that up,” she replied.

Three

Life in the apartments appeared placid for a time.

Then one morning I was given a letter to deliver into the hands of George Landers, Jr. It was a three day notice of eviction. When he called Joan on the phone for an explanation, she told him she was not allowed to give a reason for the notice. But, if he wished to take it to court and make the case public, he had the option.

The reason for it was news that could not be totally suppressed. I quickly learned that a woman had reported George to the police. It was for attempted inducement of her eight year old daughter to enter his apartment to “play a game.”

Because none of us was allowed to speak openly, he could claim that he was being kicked out due to his unpopularity with the office staff. His outraged mother turned on Joan like a wild beast. But she and George found a place in town and soon enough were gone.

Later, one of George’s neighbors reported to me that George had been following his daughter and one other little girl around the property. He said he told George very bluntly what would happen to him if he did not back off.

This story has troubled me for about three years now. The women in the office, speaking of child abusers, mentioned that an abuser almost always had been abused, during their own childhood. Which I had read about also. The women were pointing their finger at my great friend, George, Sr.

“- ran a boys school before coming to Texas.”

“It could have been some adult at the boys school, rather than the father,” I offered.

The damage has been done. I cherish the good times spent knowing George, yet the doubts about him persist. He was so convinced of his worthiness to go to Heaven, but that’s no proof of anything. I will never know the whole truth of this affair.

Four

My wife and I went grocery shopping, one Saturday. As we guided our cart through a dense crowd of shoppers, into a long expanse, the crowd fell away for a minute. I saw George, Jr., three aisles over, watching me, expectantly. He apparently did not know I had the goods on him, for it was obvious he anticipated a friendly conversation. But, I ducked down an aisle and led my wife to the far side of the store. By the time we worked our way around, he had gone. Sure, I wanted to tell him a few things, but, being an agent of the apartments, I could not. And friendly was not an option.