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If you ask Sheila about her age, she answers that she has forgotten it. After her appearance, she seems to be about 90 years of age. Actually she is much younger, probably around 70, according to my estimate. By the liveliness of her gestures, she is ageless. She talks all the time, even to herself, waves her hands for more eloquence, and smokes a cigarette every fifteen miles, while drives her old Datsun at about 70 miles an hour on a narrow route that winds between mountains. No seat belt of course! She shakes the cigarette ash out through the opened window because fresh air is better than air–conditioning in her opinion. She does not know if the air–conditioning unit in her car ever works.
She does not live in Harrison itself, but 25 miles deeper into the mountains, where all fellow citizens know her and she greets them. She has no teeth left, and this seems to be one of her greatest regrets. From this reason she did not allow me to take her photograph, although it would have made a good portrait. Fortunately, her diction is pretty good, more understandable than that of many other people with complete teeth, but she speaks in jargon. Her face has some Asiatic traits, even if she does not admit to such ancestors in her genealogical tree. But in the USA nothing is impossible; maybe she herself does not know.
Her most recent hobby is the Internet, which is how we became acquainted. She knows a lot of things and thirsts to know more and more. When she learns something new, she enjoys herself as much as someone with the gift of a new car.
In the courtyard, a lot of poultry and some animals wait for Sheila to feed them in exchange for some conversation. This also provides her with a small income, as the pension – if there is one – seems to be rather little for living.
She regrets the death of her mother many years ago, which she still loves in her mind. I guess there are moments when she thinks her mom is still alive upstairs. During our talks on that first day, she mentioned her twice, each time with tears in her eyes. She finds consolation with a nice Bengali cat, which sleeps ceaseless, but to whom she talks almost continually. When you caress the cat, it opens one eye, but just for a second, to show that it is alive. Otherwise, only a small red tongue pokes from a mass of gray–beige fur. As with almost any old and lonely woman, Sheila is afraid of a lot of things and forgets many things. When the fear and oblivion work together, you could expect surprises. I had a great one.
When she invited me, I did not realize she was so senile and lonely. When I learnt that, it was too late: I was there, with no possibility of leaving before the next day. She had written to me that she has two daughters and mentioned her mother, as she still does, even though the latter does not exist any longer. As for her daughters, they both had left home to work in other places.
We talked about many things. She admired my paintings and I showed her how to use the Internet more efficiently. Things went along in perfect harmony and we continued until late in the evening, although I was very tired from my long journey. It was a pleasant evening. Her desire to know more is still alive for many fields of knowledge, but the Internet is her passion thanks to its novelty. Besides, it gives her a feeling that she is not alone. We went our separate ways to bed, eager to resume the conversation next day. After such an exhausting day, I slept like a log— I, not Sheila!
In the morning, the SURPRISE! I woke up to find a policeman looking at me. Detached, Sheila proclaimed that my presence worried her and she thought it best to call a policeman to verify me. The night had been a bad advisor for her. Probably she had telephoned one of her daughters, who scared her, more: "Who is that man? Why did you bring him into our house? Get him out immediately!" "Call a policeman!" This particular policeman checked my luggage, for form’s shake, but right to the bottom, as if I was some Bolshevik spy. He seemed to be an understandable man, however, and did so more for her satisfaction. At one time he said to her "You must be a detective, madam." Anyway, I could not reproach the policeman anything. Rummaging among my documents he discovered my identity card as a journalist, which I had taken with me by chance, for all contingencies. I do not know if it impressed him, but after no long he left. After the policeman’s departure, I repacked my belongings, and she started to apologies. Until noon, when the bus would again pass by, she showed me some of the nicest spots in the region, treated me with some local delicacies, and we talked a lot together. As a matter of fact, initially, she invited me there to see and paint some of the landscapes around. Saying good–bye, we hugged each other and she kissed me on the neck. Her eyes held traces of tears. I find her to be a good–hearted woman, but age had made her fearful and inconsequential. In fact she is good, very cleaver and uncommonly nimble. I will keep a pleasant memory of her, in spite of the trouble that she provoked.
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