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constantly cooking and cleaning. Super-landlady. And Sharp appreciated Puente's thoughtfulness. "She had cable TV wired into my room at no cost to me, and she bought me a recliner chair because of my bad back," Sharp crowed. "She also bought a three-wheel bicycle for another guy who was crippled.”
    Some other tenants were less coherent or less reputable than the sober Mr. Sharp. John McCauley, a bearded, truculent fellow who lived upstairs, was such a mean drunk that people generally stayed out of his way, though Dorothea seemed to like him. Homer Myers, a lumbering, white-haired old guy who was hard of hearing, tended to shy away from strangers, smiling vaguely at comments he probably didn't catch. And Ben Fink, a wiry man in his late fifties who walked with a cane, would characteristically drink up his benefit check as soon as it came each month, floating through the first few days, then drying out until his next check arrived.
    Besides these men—five including Bert—other men and women occasionally stayed at Dorothea's. A week, a month, they were a transient population. But in the midst of this flux, Dorothea carved out a routine and stuck to it.
    She was up before dawn, and the first light of day usually found her in the yard, gardening, watering, sweeping, and raking. Breakfast was on the table at 5:30. Though not everyone fancied the idea of such an early meal, Dorothea treated the early risers to a hearty spread of eggs, bacon, pancakes—the works.
    It was Dorothea's daily habit to remind her tenants to take their medications. Each had individual health problems, and it wasn't strange to see pill bottles sharing the table with the salt and pepper shakers. On a kitchen calendar Dorothea noted appointments with dentists, social workers, and doctors, reminding her tenants of the dates, even making sure they arranged for transportation. The woman was organized.
    And she was busy. She took care of chores, laundry, and shopping herself, and by early afternoon she was usually dressed and ready to go out.
    At home, she was just an old hausfrau in an apron, but when she went out, she was always the lady. She favored bright dresses and, ever-conscious of her appearance, put on a touch of makeup and a mist of her favorite perfume before leaving.
    Dorothea Puente didn't mind walking to nearby destinations, such as McAnaw's Pharmacy, where she routinely picked up a variety of cigarettes, cosmetics, over-the-counter drugs, scandal sheets, greeting cards, and monthly prescriptions. Or, just down the street, she'd stop in on a Mexican friend who had a magic touch for making tamales. Dorothea might buy a dozen or two at a time, carrying the heavy bags back up the street and upstairs into her kitchen, where she would serve them for dinner.
    The Clarion Hotel, also just a short walk away, was another favorite stopping spot. With its plushness and polish, the Clarion offered a pleasant reprieve from the coarse habits of her tenants, and Dorothea's pale, pretty face was often seen here at the bar. She befriended one bartender in particular, whom she surprised on her birthday with a dozen roses and a big bouquet of balloons.
    This was Dorothea's way: the big display, the lavish gesture. After all, she was a retired doctor; she had the money, didn't she? Hadn't she come in here one morning looking dog-tired, complaining that the hospital had called her in on some emergency and she'd been up all night in surgery?
    Another reason for visiting the Clarion Hotel was that Dorothea Puente's "nephew," Ricardo Ordorica, worked there. A gnomish man of a child's size, Ordorica had worked as a gardener at the Clarion for many, many years. When Ordorica saw her come into view, his sad, droopy face would break into smiles. Dorothea was more than a good friend, she was his tia (aunt). When she'd been in prison, he and his wife had stood by her; now that she was back, everything was fine again.
    Dorothea had a special fondness for this little man. She