than they are.” He chuckled: “But she’s no dreamer. She doesn’t want to do all the work herself.She intends from the moment she meets you for
you
to do the heavy work. I sometimes tremble when I see her approaching, because it means she has a new job for me.” Nevertheless, Andy noted, Ken knocked on her door with real enthusiasm as if assured that his new director was about to meet a woman of extraordinary qualities. As they waited for the door to open, Zorn said: “Did I hear you pronounce it ‘Miz Oliphant’?” and Krenek explained: “She insists. She’s been a leader in the battle for women’s rights.”
Ms. Oliphant welcomed them into what was clearly one of the least expensive apartments at the rear of the building, but it provided ample space, made almost ideal by opening onto a small plaza that fronted on the channel, where privately owned boats of all dimensions drifted by so close to shore that she sometimes felt she could reach out and touch them. “It was made for Laura,” Krenek said as the men sat facing her. “Not long ago she had both hips replaced and she wanted something on the ground floor so she could walk directly onto the plaza and exercise her mechanical joints. You’ve done wonderfully, haven’t you?”
“I’m not penned up, that’s for sure.”
“What was it?” Zorn asked. “Arthritis?”
“Yes. By the way, have you heard about the Georgia cracker who said: ‘My friend Oliver was told that his wife was in bed with Arthuritis, and he swore that if he could find where that guy Arthur lived, he was gonna shoot him’? Last year I wanted to shoot him, too, but this hip operation is sensational. And I was seventy-five when I had it.”
She asked to be excused for a moment while she prepared a welcoming drink for her guests, and when she got up Andy had an opportunity to look at her more closely. She was of medium height, spare in appearance and very determined in her gestures, as if she did not wish to waste a minute of her time. She had fine-looking thick gray hair, which she wore in a trim schoolboy bob. Returning from the corner of the room that served as a kind of kitchenette, she brought with her a silver tray on which stood three elegant glasses containing a pale reddish wine.
“It’s called
blush
,” she said, as if that were a name equal to port or sherry. Krenek explained: “It’s good old vin rosé from a California winery, but our women residents like to call it blush, as if that dignifies it in some way.” She shot back with “You keep your mouth shut, Kenneth, or no blush for you.”
Krenek took a substantial gulp of the wine, declared it to be superb and said: “Dr. Zorn asked the Mallorys the name of our famous palm trees, but none of us could remember because we’re not really tree people.”
Ms. Oliphant took a guide from her shelf, thumbed through it till she reached the palm section and read: “ ‘Florida can boast of eleven native species of palm trees, including all the most famous ones except the spectacular traveler’s palm of Africa, with its fanlike branches in a flat display.’ ” Looking at Zorn, she said, “So our remarkable specimens could be almost anything in the book, but actually they’re unique,” and she showed him an exact drawing of the trees he had stopped to inspect: “I’m sure you’ve spotted the salient features.” He noticed that she spoke eagerly, with a professional interest in enlightening others: “It’s the Washingtonia, that’s its proper name, but no one can tell me how it got the name. It’s a wonderful tree, but it’s not native to Florida!”
Ms. Oliphant rose, walked vigorously to her door and led the way to her private plaza without using a cane, and he asked admiringly: “How long ago was your operation?” When she replied: “Three months,” he said: “Miraculous. I know strong men who’re afraid to walk without a cane after six months,” and she said: “I couldn’t wait.”
you
to do the heavy work. I sometimes tremble when I see her approaching, because it means she has a new job for me.” Nevertheless, Andy noted, Ken knocked on her door with real enthusiasm as if assured that his new director was about to meet a woman of extraordinary qualities. As they waited for the door to open, Zorn said: “Did I hear you pronounce it ‘Miz Oliphant’?” and Krenek explained: “She insists. She’s been a leader in the battle for women’s rights.”
Ms. Oliphant welcomed them into what was clearly one of the least expensive apartments at the rear of the building, but it provided ample space, made almost ideal by opening onto a small plaza that fronted on the channel, where privately owned boats of all dimensions drifted by so close to shore that she sometimes felt she could reach out and touch them. “It was made for Laura,” Krenek said as the men sat facing her. “Not long ago she had both hips replaced and she wanted something on the ground floor so she could walk directly onto the plaza and exercise her mechanical joints. You’ve done wonderfully, haven’t you?”
“I’m not penned up, that’s for sure.”
“What was it?” Zorn asked. “Arthritis?”
“Yes. By the way, have you heard about the Georgia cracker who said: ‘My friend Oliver was told that his wife was in bed with Arthuritis, and he swore that if he could find where that guy Arthur lived, he was gonna shoot him’? Last year I wanted to shoot him, too, but this hip operation is sensational. And I was seventy-five when I had it.”
She asked to be excused for a moment while she prepared a welcoming drink for her guests, and when she got up Andy had an opportunity to look at her more closely. She was of medium height, spare in appearance and very determined in her gestures, as if she did not wish to waste a minute of her time. She had fine-looking thick gray hair, which she wore in a trim schoolboy bob. Returning from the corner of the room that served as a kind of kitchenette, she brought with her a silver tray on which stood three elegant glasses containing a pale reddish wine.
“It’s called
blush
,” she said, as if that were a name equal to port or sherry. Krenek explained: “It’s good old vin rosé from a California winery, but our women residents like to call it blush, as if that dignifies it in some way.” She shot back with “You keep your mouth shut, Kenneth, or no blush for you.”
Krenek took a substantial gulp of the wine, declared it to be superb and said: “Dr. Zorn asked the Mallorys the name of our famous palm trees, but none of us could remember because we’re not really tree people.”
Ms. Oliphant took a guide from her shelf, thumbed through it till she reached the palm section and read: “ ‘Florida can boast of eleven native species of palm trees, including all the most famous ones except the spectacular traveler’s palm of Africa, with its fanlike branches in a flat display.’ ” Looking at Zorn, she said, “So our remarkable specimens could be almost anything in the book, but actually they’re unique,” and she showed him an exact drawing of the trees he had stopped to inspect: “I’m sure you’ve spotted the salient features.” He noticed that she spoke eagerly, with a professional interest in enlightening others: “It’s the Washingtonia, that’s its proper name, but no one can tell me how it got the name. It’s a wonderful tree, but it’s not native to Florida!”
Ms. Oliphant rose, walked vigorously to her door and led the way to her private plaza without using a cane, and he asked admiringly: “How long ago was your operation?” When she replied: “Three months,” he said: “Miraculous. I know strong men who’re afraid to walk without a cane after six months,” and she said: “I couldn’t wait.”
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