The Fugitive Grandma Lives

Chapter 8 - God's Children

That evening at the Valentine family apartment, Johnny explained to his father Frank how his grandmother had nearly collapsed in the Great American parking lot.

"We should take you to the hospital, Mom," Frank said.

"Nah, it's too risky," Stella said. "I just lost my balance. Nothing really."

"What were you going out for anyway?" Frank scolded. "I told you to let me take care of shopping."

"I can't stay cooped us in this place like a chicken 24-7."

"It could happen again. You could break your hip. You think it's hard hiding now? Wait until you get hurt."

"I'll be more careful, Frank, I promise."

Her son slouched wearily, sinking into the couch, too exhausted to argue.

That night Stella dreamt about the glory days back in Santa Ramona, working at Caruso's, the family-owned grocer that ultimately fell on hard times and was acquired by Great American. In her dream, the original owner Angelo "Old Man" Caruso called out from beyond the grave.

"Stella, you were blessed with a special gift," he said. "You do the right thing when everyone else is afraid. You live true to your heart."

"I can't live true like that anymore," Stella replied. "I am too weak now."

"Maybe it's the other way around, Stella," Elmer said. "Maybe you are getting weak because you don't live true like that anymore."

"That's what my heart says but my head says something different," Stella said. "They say you're supposed get wiser with age but that's a bunch of hooey. I am as mixed up as ever."

"You'll figure it out, Stella. You always do," the old man said. "Just remember at the end of the day we're all God's children. We're all in this together."

"Who in the heck ever told you that?" Stella asked the ghost.

"You did."

Then Old Man Caruso vanished and she woke up on a sweaty pillow.

***

Every Monday morning, Stella had a standing social commitment for the card game at the Golden Palm Country Club. She attended with a group of friends, ladies in their eighties and nineties whom she'd met at charity fundraiser when she first arrived in the desert. Most of the women were significantly better-off than her old crew in Santa Ramona. They were well-to-do ladies living off of multiple streams of income coming in through pensions, stock, rental properties and Social Security. One of the women, Helen Moreno, drove a Jaguar convertible and another, Claire Bettencourt, lived with her pet dachsund in a 5,000 square foot home in Indian Wells with three servants. Two of the other ladies, Sarah Black and Linda Ehrlich, stayed in a gated community in Rancho Mirage with two pools and a golf course.

Stella applied plenty of makeup and donned her finest bronze-colored wig. She knew her son didn't approve of her going to these card games. On the other hand, she'd been social all her life and they both knew complete isolation would be the end of her. Besides, Stella insisted that going to the card games was part of her cover as Lucy Chase and provided vital intelligence about the local community.

They sat in a shaded veranda next to the country dining room, overlooking the fairway of the seventh hole in the club's world famous golf course. The women drank Arnold Palmers from tall glasses with gold trim at the base.

"They're going to have to do something about these illegals," Helen said. 

"It's like an infestation of roaches if you ask me."

"At least roaches have the good sense to hide. They're living in plain sight. It's as if they think they're regular people just like us!"

Two Spanish-speaking workmen with leaf blowers cleared fallen palms from the fairway as two white-haired golfers in gold chains and collared shirts arrived in the cart.

"Still, gotta take good help where you can find it," Claire said. "The girl I hired, she'll do whatever I say for twenty dollars cash. She gets down on her hands and knees when she scrubs."

The elderly golfers shouted and waved their fists, urging the workmen to clear the fairway.

"What about you, Lucy?" Linda asked. "What's your opinion on these illegals?"

It took a second before Stella realized they were talking to her. She was drifting in and out of dreams and memories.

Stella, you were blessed with a special gift. You do the right thing when everyone else is afraid.

"Yeah what's your opinion?"

"We're all God's children," Stella answered.

"Come again?"

"I mean, we're all in this together. That's how I see it."

The other women exchanged confused glances until their waitress arrived with a fresh set of Arnold Palmers.

On the fairway, one of the old golfers set his ball down and drove it straight along the fairway, hitting one of the workmen smack in the side of the head. Stella and the ladies heard the ball thud into the man's skull and dropped their cards on the table.

The two golfers stiffened, watching nervously from a distance as one laborer checked the pulse of his fallen companion. Neither one of them took a step in the direction of the injured man.

"He isn't breathing," said the golfer who'd hit the ball. He fiddled nervously with his gold chain.

"Don't try to help," his friend warned. "They'll sue you for all your worth."

A trickle of blood ran down the wounded workman's temple. The women gasped.

"Just ignore it," Helen said. "Pretend we didn't see anything."

"She is right," Claire whispered. "We shouldn't get involved."

Then with a flash, Stella sprang into action, grabbing the ice from her Arnold Palmer with a cloth napkin and walking out from the veranda.

"Where are you going?" the ladies wondered.

Stella walked past the two golfers and hopped into the driver's seat of their cart, zooming out across the fairway. She knelt by the wounded man and pressed the ice against his bleeding forehead. Before anyone understood what had happened, she had already lifted the man into the golf cart and was driving out to a surface street, merging with car traffic headed toward Highway 111.