A couple years ago, as my stepmom drove along the street on which she lives, she noticed a tree she thought would look nice in her yard. Unfamiliar with the species, she parked, boldly marched to the front door, and knocked.
The door swung open to reveal a man she immediately recognized not only from television and movies but because, over the years, he'd lived in several homes in the area. Grey now, and with haunted eyes, he asked what he could do for her.
She told him what she was after, and he graciously invited her in. He made a little joke of looking up her name in the community address book, but she knew he was double checking to make sure she was truly a resident, not a reporter. It struck her as sad that he couldn’t even trust an 81-year old woman.
He confessed to knowing nothing about the tree but promised to search through his landscape records and, failing that, to consult his gardner. They chatted for awhile about inconsequential things, and she felt a connection to him. Maybe because her own children had acted in “the picture business,” as this man had. Maybe because, in his youth, he’d been a part of the old Hollywood, as my stepmom had.
The very next day, she heard helicopters overhead and went outside. Not seeing police cars or fire engines, she returned to the living room and switched on the TV news.
There, she watched with a heavy heart, as uniformed men led Robert Blake from his home in handcuffs.
Now, this man’s fate is in the hands of a jury, and my stepmom waits anxiously for the verdict.
He never called her back about the tree. Guess he had more important things on his mind.
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