Exclusive Look Inside: Buried Beneath the Boarding House

Mama Knows Best

The first time that Peggy came to the house on F Street, she had no idea what to expect. Usually, the lodging houses in Sacramento that were willing to take in the homeless and the addicted were one bad day away from demolition — some slum lord’s last attempts to squeeze a few more dollars out of a dying neighbourhood before the whole thing got bulldozed for a strip-mall.
F Street was a quiet stretch of suburbia. There were kids playing in the streets, riding their bikes up and down the sidewalk and selling nothing more intoxicating than lemonade on the street corners. When she pulled up outside, with no companion but a heap of overflowing manila folders in the passenger seat, she had to stop and double-check that she was in the right place.
The house at 1426 F Street was a two-story Victorian building standing tall and proud behind a well-tended garden. The paintwork on the outside of the house was just as immaculate as the lawn; pristine enough that it gave Peggy a twinge of guilt about the state of her own fairly well-maintained house. 
Something about this picture didn’t add up — there was no desperation in the air, no sign that this was the last stop before the graveyard. A lodging house like this could demand far more than the pitiful stipend that the state paid to house its down and outs. It could be a private care home, a hotel or even something more. It was only when she came closer that it started to add up.
There was a big man in the garden, heavily tattooed and more than a little intimidating as he moved among the flower beds with his muscles rippling. There was only one place that a man got top-heavy like that — prison. It was incongruous, watching him carefully planting delicate flowers with hands so big and scarred. He gave a deferring nod to Peggy as she passed but was careful not to stare at her legs, even as they went right by his face. An ex-con who intended to stay free; someone else who was down on their luck, being offered a second chance at life by whoever operated this boarding house.
The door had opened before Peggy could knock, and she’d flinched back from the smell of liquor rolling off the man who loomed out at her. He was shorter than her, wearing clean but badly-worn clothes, and he had the yellow tint of a failing liver in the whites of his eyes. Both of them froze in surprise, then he bellowed over his shoulder, ‘Mrs D. Somebody to see you!’
Peggy was ushered in and took in the sights and sounds with something approaching awe. The house was full of music. A record player spun in the corner of the living room, and Spanish singing drifted out through the open front door. There was a party atmosphere in the main room, and while none of the residents seemed to be drinking, they were all enjoying each other’s company. There was a card game going on the coffee table, and two older women sat by the bay windows chattering away. A man was sitting alone on the floral sofa, staring into space; even his foot was tapping along to the tune. Every one of the people in the house showed some hint at their true nature. From the spasmodic twitching of one old woman to the quiet muttering of the man in the corner, each of them hinted at some deep-rooted problem that would have them turned out of any ‘decent establishment’ after their first outburst. Yet, here, they seemed to be flourishing. The interior of the house was in good repair, even if the style was a little outdated, and there was the unmistakable smell of home-cooked Mexican food drifting through from the kitchen. The guests seemed more like a loosely assembled family than a group of addicts, mental patients and down and outs crammed into a building together. This place felt like a home.
All of that had been more than a year ago, but when Dorothea opened the door to her with a big toothless smile, Peggy felt like it could’ve been yesterday.
‘Miss Peggy! Come in, come in. Let me get you a coffee. It’s been too long. You’re here to see Bert?’
Coming into the presence of Dorothea Puente was like being enveloped in a grandmotherly hug. Peggy could easily understand why the woman found it so easy to keep tensions between all of her guests under control when her presence seemed to be so naturally calming. She had such faith in everyone she met, and it felt criminal to let her down. Even correcting her on something so minor felt strange. ‘Uh, no, not today. I’m meant to be visiting a Mister Alvaro Montoya.’
‘Yes, Alvaro is Bert. I don’t know why. Come on through to my kitchen. He is helping me in there today.’
On a stool by the table, Bert sat shelling peas and muttering to himself in Spanish. He should have struck an imposing figure, but just like Dorothea, he radiated peace. Peggy knew that the muttering was a symptom of his schizophrenia — the voices that only he could hear; ones that he felt compelled to answer out of some misguided politeness. But, that wasn’t the end of Bert’s troubles. He was mentally disabled — a grown man on the outside but little more than a child behind his deep-set eyes. His schizophrenia had made care workers nervous. He was too unpredictable in their eyes to be safely homed with other developmentally stunted adults. Meanwhile, his disability had made him incapable of navigating the all-too-complex and dangerous world of mental health wards and medication balancing. Caught between these two pillars of social care, he had fallen through the cracks and ended up living rough, until a volunteer had picked him up and slotted him back into the system.
It was the first time that Peggy had actually met the man in person; everything else had filtered through to her in reports and coffee room conversations. He seemed every bit the gentle giant that had been promised to her, but it was all too possible that he was merely subdued because of the presence of an authority figure.
‘Alvaro?’
He didn’t look up from his bowl, still furiously arguing under his breath in a steady stream of Puerto Rican accented Spanish, too fast for anyone to understand him. Peggy tried again. ‘Bert?’
His head jerked up suddenly, and it was all that she could do to stand her ground as his eyes slowly focused on her. A moment later, his face cracked into a beatific smile, and she let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. ‘Hi there.’
Peggy settled onto a stool beside Bert, taking care to move slowly and predictably. ‘How are you doing, Bert?’
Even as they spoke, his hands were still moving, still shelling peas with mechanical efficiency. ‘Helping Mama in the kitchen, today.’
‘Such a sweet boy.’ Dorothea’s gummy grin spoiled her otherwise handsome face. ‘So helpful around the house. I don’t know what I would do if he ever left us.’
The rest of Peggy’s questions were routine, but the answers that Bert gave her were still surprising. He showed a real understanding of his limitations, something that he had never really grasped before arriving in Dorothea’s tender care. She took care of him in more ways than just filling his time and his stomach. His applications for social security had been rewritten to ensure he got all of the support that he was entitled to. Dorothea handled all of his money for him, providing him with spending money but keeping him from using it for anything too frivolous or destructive. Alcohol was officially banned for the residents of F Street, and without the liquor that Peggy assumed he’d been regularly consuming on the street, all of the symptoms of his schizophrenia seemed to be becoming more manageable. He was so calm and collected that Peggy wondered if they might not start him off on medication again to bring the whispering voices in his head completely under control.
By the time that their visit was done, Peggy couldn’t keep her enthusiasm from showing. She wanted to hug Dorothea for what she’d done — something that a whole creaking net of social workers and carers had completely failed to do for years, if not decades. 
With her interview complete, they retired to the living room, where the same record player was still spinning. She let at least a little of her excitement gush out. ‘I can’t believe what a difference you’ve made to that man’s life. It goes above and beyond the charitable work you’ve been doing so far… you’re not just housing him; you’re teaching him how to live in the world. He isn’t calling you ‘Mama’ out of delusion, or any belief that you’re his birth parent — you’ve adopted that man!’
Dorothea feigned embarrassment. ‘Oh, he’s no trouble at all. I take care of all my friends in the house. He just needs a little more attention than some of the others.’
Peggy glanced around the empty room with a hint of a frown. ‘Where are all your other residents, today? Every other time that I’ve visited, they’ve been in these communal areas.’
‘It is very sad, but so many of them have moved on.’ Dorothea let out a sigh. ‘Some leave without a word, go back to the streets. Some move to a new town, new jobs, new dreams. I am happy for them, they’re moving forwards with their lives, but I miss them.’
‘It’s a testament to the amazing work that you’re doing here that so many of them are able to find their footing and start to rebuild their lives. You should be very proud.’ Peggy leaned in and gave Dorothea’s calloused hand a not terribly professional squeeze.
‘Oh, no. It’s no trouble at all. I just wish I could do more to help all of the people in this town who are in trouble. Perhaps…’ She trailed off.
‘Yes?’
Dorothea’s eyes looked huge behind her thick glasses. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you can send more people who need my help to stay? I have so many empty beds in this house, and there are so many people on the streets with nowhere to sleep at all.’
Peggy felt like her heart was swelling up. This woman wanted nothing more than to fill her home with the homeless, mentally ill and addicted. The ones that the rest of the world had left for dead. ‘Oh, I promise you, after I report back on how well Alvaro is settling in here, you should have more applications than you can handle. I’ll be personally recommending this place to everyone else in my department.’
Dorothea smiled again, looking every one of her 70 years as the wrinkles around her eyes threatened to consume her whole face. ‘Thank you. You are so kind.’
There were some more pleasantries and some more pieces of paperwork to be signed off. But, before Peggy knew it, she was back on her feet and heading out the door, ready to dive back into the dark and dismal world that was her calling to help people navigate. The garden had changed yet again since the last time she was here. The ex-convicts that Dorothea so kindly employed had been set to work rearranging everything and planting a new tree near to the mailbox. There were mounds of fresh, turned earth everywhere that Peggy looked. She’d liked the garden just fine the way it was before, and she suspected that Dorothea only kept making changes so that she could keep paying money out to her gardeners, month after month. The woman was so generous; it was hard to believe. 
With a genuine smile on her face for the first time in days, Peggy headed back to the car. She would find plenty of bodies to fill the spaces that Dorothea had made. She would make sure that the old woman’s kindness was spread around to everyone who could receive it.

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