There Was an Old Woman

by Hallie Ephron

  Mina forced a smile and said, “Of course. Come back any time. Though I hope you won’t be disappointed. My memory is not as reliable as it once was.”

  “Who knows, maybe talking will bring back what it was like to work in that building.”

  As if that were something Mina could forget. As the girl trotted down the steps, Mina could almost feel the Empire State souvenir that she’d slipped into her pocket growing hot.

  Chapter Ten

  “What building?” Brian asked, his voice startling Mina. She was still standing at the open door, watching as the girl made her way back to her mother’s house.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “So what was she asking about?” Brian reached around her and pushed the door shut.

  Mina went into the kitchen. The girl had left the dishes neatly stacked on the counter. “Just this and that.”

  Brian was right behind her. “This and . . . ?” He shook his head. “So it’s her crazy mother who lives next door?”

  Mina didn’t answer.

  “That heap is an accident waiting to happen, if you ask me. If the inside is anything like the outside—”

  She turned to face him. “Good thing it’s not your problem.”

  He rolled his eyes. “So what did she want?”

  Mina sighed. “Not everyone wants something, Brian.”

  “Did you look at the papers I left?”

  She wondered if he grasped the irony of this exchange. Annabelle had had such high hopes for her little boy. Instead, they’d gotten this.

  “What papers?” she said.

  “The papers I brought over last week.”

  “Did you?”

  “Don’t you remember? We talked. You promised you’d read them.”

  Mina didn’t say anything.

  Brian narrowed his eyes. “You forgot all about it, didn’t you? Or maybe you lost them? It’s okay if you did. I can print another copy. Or maybe the typeface was too small? Was that the problem?”

  “There’s no problem.”

  “Aunt Mina, I know we’ve had our differences over the years, and when Mom got sick, I was pretty useless.”

  That took her aback. She hadn’t credited him with that much self-awareness. What was he up to?

  “But this isn’t for me,” he went on. “It’s for you. Your money won’t last forever, and this would offer you financial security. You’d be set for life. Think of it as your silver safety net.”

  Snake oil was more like it. And what business did he have sniffing around in her finances?

  “Thank you very much, but I’m already set for life, or at least for what life I’ve got left. And if not, well, that’s not your problem, is it? Don’t worry, you’ll own the house when I die.”

  “I don’t want this goddamned house!” Brian slammed his hand down so hard on the kitchen table that the salt and pepper shakers jumped.

  Mina took a step back, her hand at her throat. Suddenly she felt very alone.

  “Sorry, sorry!” Brian put up his hands. “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that talking to you . . . sometimes talking to you is like talking to a brick wall. Please try to think about it, Aunt Mina. You’d have security. A regular income.”

  Mina sucked in her cheeks and stared at him. He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling, as if the good Lord Himself was up there, commiserating. She followed his lingering gaze to the scorch mark on the ceiling. That was from a few weeks ago when she’d ruined her mother’s teakettle and, in the process, set fire to the kitchen curtains.

  Mina turned and opened the corner cabinet. One at a time, she hung each teacup on its hook and set each saucer on the stack. She closed the cabinet and turned back to him. “I’m sure I put those papers somewhere. We can talk about it next time you come for a visit.”

  “If you can’t find them, I’ll bring another copy. We can sit down and read it together.” Brian was like a dog worrying a bone long after there wasn’t a shred of meat left on it.

  Pivoting away from him again, Mina walked to the sink and turned on the tap. She ran the water hard, shook some Ajax onto the porcelain, and began to scrub it down. As she worked at a stubborn stain, her hand spasmed. She dropped the sponge, frozen by the painful cramp that contracted her hand into a claw. Damned arthritis. She flattened her hand on the counter, spread her fingers, and waited for the muscles to relax. She snuck a look over her shoulder to see if Brian had noticed. But he was already moving toward the door.

  As she rinsed away the suds, she heard the front door open and close. At last he was gone. She turned off the water and stood there, holding on to the thick cool edge of the sink. Didn’t want the house? Pfff. She knew full well this house was the only reason he kept showing up and sniffing about. She and Annabelle had owned the house outright for years, ever since their mother died. Unencumbered. That single word had given Mina peace of mind, knowing all she had to do was pay the taxes and keep up with repairs.

  Brian knew exactly how she felt. He couldn’t even look her in the eye when he’d spouted all that mumbo jumbo about a security net and regular income. She should have destroyed those papers instead of hiding them and feigning ignorance. She should have burned them. That’s what she’d do now.

  She remembered exactly where she’d put them. She went into the living room and lifted the sofa cushion she’d been sitting on.

  The papers were gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Evie could hear Mrs. Yetner and her nephew arguing even before the door closed behind her. Tolstoy’s famous quote came to mind: Every unhappy family was unhappy in its own way.

  The way Mrs. Yetner talked down to him, Evie couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy. He was no match for his aunt. Evie had to laugh, remembering the innocent shrug she’d given him when asked about a document he’d left for her to read. Evie had seen Mrs. Yetner stuff a sheaf of papers under the sofa cushion before she settled herself on it.

  That must have been Brian’s dark gray Mercedes parked at the curb. Mrs. Yetner’s vintage Ford Mustang was parked in her driveway. Evie remembered that car with its silvery-blue body, white vinyl top, and distinctive Mustang snout. A period piece from the ’70s, it was still pristine, shiny clean outside. She walked over to it. Neat as a pin inside, too. Just like the house.

  Mrs. Yetner’s was an orderly existence, buttressed by selective amnesia. If only life were that simple, Evie thought as she crossed back over Mrs. Yetner’s lawn and waded through the knee-deep weeds in front of her mother’s house. Then she could pretend not to notice that the ground was littered with roof shingles. She could turn a deaf ear to the creaking front steps. Pretend that she had taped the Georgia O’Keeffe print over the broken window as a decorative touch.

  She went inside, stepping past one of the two garbage bags full of empty liquor bottles. How long had it taken for her mother to drink her way through all that? She dragged the bags outside.

  She wanted to at least get the kitchen sorted before she left for the hospital. She unplugged the refrigerator and washed out the inside with cleaning solution. When she was done, she left the door open to air out as she started stuffing garbage into a new bag, setting aside any mail that she found layered through the trash. There were so many cat food cans. Her mother must have started feeding stray cats around the same time she’d given up emptying ashtrays—plates and bowls and coffee cups everywhere were filled with cigarette ash. It was a miracle she hadn’t set fire to the house. Again.

  Under a mound of ash in a pie tin, Evie found the keys to her mother’s Subaru. Attached to the key ring was a piece of leather. Embossed into it was:

  I MOM

  Evie rubbed the tooled surface between her thumb and forefinger. She remembered the summer when she’d made that at Y camp, and the pleasure on her mother’s face when she’d given it to her.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Evie did love her mother. But even then she’d been terrified that one day she’d turn i
nto her. It had been a relief to discover that though she liked the buzz of a glass of wine, more than two made her queasy. When she was overwhelmed or sad, she never turned to drinking. Instead, she made lists. Or cleaned closets. Straightened drawers. Alphabetized spices.

  Evie tied off another full garbage bag and dragged it to the front door. The therapist she’d seen for a few sessions had pronounced her “well defended.” Evie had wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and then she decided it didn’t matter.

  Opening the front door, she heaved the bag out onto the lawn, taking care not to stand on the weakened steps. She’d stepped back inside when she heard a door slam. Through the murky kitchen window, she saw Mrs. Yetner’s nephew out on the street, unlocking the door of that Mercedes. Then he paused and nodded across the street to a man—the one who’d been driving a red car and whose wave Evie had ignored.

  Evie pulled away from the glass. Waited until she heard a car engine rev. She was about to look out again to see if the Mercedes was gone when her doorbell rang. She thought for sure it was the nephew, come to ask her something about Mrs. Yetner. But when she looked out through the peephole, it was that across-the-street neighbor looking back at her.

  When she pulled open the door, he smiled up at her from below the broken step. “Hi. I live across the street.” He offered her a fleshy hand, and Evie pushed open the storm door and shook it. The punky top step creaked when he stepped on it and peered inside. His breath smelled of cigarettes and mouthwash.

  “You must be Evie. Your mom talks about you all the time. I’m a good friend of Sandy’s.”

  Sandy? That had been her mother’s nickname growing up, but she’d hated it ever since the movie Grease.

  “Heard she took ill,” he said. His smile was sad and he had rosy cheeks, spidered with veins. A drinker, of course. After a few martinis, Mom probably stopped caring what he called her. The thought was so cold and mean, Evie stopped herself. At least her mother still had a friend who obviously cared.

  “I’ll let her know you were asking after her, Mr.—”

  “Cutler. But please, call me Frank.”

  “Frank. I’ll let her know.”

  “Well. I . . .” He paused. Like he hadn’t thought ahead to what he was going to say. “Just wanted to know how she’s doing. And of course when she’s coming home.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t really know myself. I’m going over to the hospital later today. I’ll let her know you came by.” She started to shut the door.

  “If I can help in any way?” His gaze shifted overhead. “Because I fix things for her all the time. I’ve been trying to get her to let me go up and fix that window for the longest time. Maybe I can take care of it before she gets back?”

  “No.” Evie felt an embarrassed heat rise into her cheeks. Her mother probably didn’t want Frank to see what a mess the house had turned into. “No thanks.”

  He stepped back. “Sorry. I . . .” He blinked three times. “I was just trying to help.”

  “I know. I appreciate it. And once I figure out what’s what, I’ll get back to you. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.” He stood there like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t manage to get it out. “So, if there’s anything I can do, you know where to find me.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the house across the street. “Whistle. Or better yet, call.” He offered her a business card.

  Evie took it and promised she would.

  Chapter Twelve

  Back in the kitchen, Evie considered the man’s card with his name, address, and phone number. How nice that her mother had found companionship right across the street, someone who shared her twin passions: smoking and drinking. He’d probably upgraded her to Grey Goose.

  Which reminded Evie of Seth, who was so particular about his martinis, sensitive to the nuances of vodka that completely escaped Evie. She slid her phone out of her pocket. One message. She played it.

  “Hi, babe. Sorry to hear about your mom. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.” There was a pause, and music and laughter in the background. “Listen, I scored a pair of Knicks tickets for tonight. Courtside seats. Meet you in the bar at the Club at six? We can get Chinese another time, right?”

  Wrong. And what didn’t he understand about family emergency?

  “Sounds like a narcissist,” had been Ginger’s take on Seth. Evie hated it when her sister turned out to be right. Her suggestion that perhaps he wasn’t the most generous of lovers had been uncomfortably on the mark, too.

  Evie texted him back a terse Sorry, can’t make it, shoved the phone back in her pocket, and got back to work.

  It was four by the time Evie left for the hospital. Even after a hot shower, she felt a miasma of stale alcohol and cigarettes clinging to her. The towels in the linen closet had been infused with that stench. She’d splashed herself with her mother’s Jean Naté and made a mental note to add laundry detergent and dryer sheets to her shopping list. With her mother’s car, she’d have the luxury of loading up at the PathMark a mile away.

  She unlocked the little one-car garage and raised the overhead door. There was her mother’s Subaru. A taillight was broken. She walked along the driver side. The left front fender was scraped, too. Evie sniffed. Did she smell gasoline over Jean Naté?

  Boxes were clustered near some old car batteries on the floor by the car door. One box contained cigarette cartons. Another was nearly full of liquor bottles. Evie pulled one out from between the cardboard inserts. More Grey Goose. Apparently vodka and cigarettes were being delivered by the caseload.

  Evie pushed the boxes away from the car door and got in. The interior smelled sweet, like fermented apples. She looked around and found the source: a rotting apple had sunk into the drink holder. She gouged it out with a tissue and tossed it into one of the nearby boxes. Then she buckled the seat belt, slipped the key into the ignition, and turned it halfway.

  The lights on the dash came on. She rolled down the window to let out the cloying smell. Adjusted the mirror. And then turned the key farther to start the engine.

  It caught, gave a sputter and a wheeze, then died.

  Evie sighed. She turned the key again. Wha-wha-wha. The engine cranked. And cranked. But no matter how much she pumped the gas, it wouldn’t catch. When she tried turning the key again, the engine barely roused itself and the engine light dimmed.

  That’s when she realized that the needle on the gas gauge was pointing to empty.

  She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. The horn gave a feeble bleat. She wanted to scream. It probably wasn’t the first time that her mother had parked the car and left it running until it ran out of gas.

  Evie sat for a moment, pulling herself together, then popped open the glove box. She looked in vain for an AAA card. She was pulling out the owner’s manual when her cell phone rang. She almost didn’t bother to look, thinking it would be Seth, his feelings hurt by her brusque response.

  But it was Ginger.

  “Are you at the hospital yet?” Ginger asked.

  “I was about to leave.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Disgusting. Stinky. Garbage everywhere. Cockroaches. Pantry moths. Squirrels. I’d give it a twelve on a scale of one to ten.”

  Ginger groaned.

  “I started cleaning out the kitchen. Tossed out a mattress. Covered a broken window.” She gave the car key one more futile turn. “And now the damned car won’t start. So I’m going to have to take the bus to the hospital.”

  Evie leaned forward and picked up a white paper bag from the floor of the passenger seat. It was printed with the black-and-red logo for Ruth’s Chris Steak House. Inside was a leftovers container that she didn’t dare open. Beneath it was an empty champagne bottle. Veuve Clicquot.

  “It wasn’t bad when I was there last,” Ginger said.

  “When were you here last?”

  “Mom’s birthday.”

  Two months ago. Evie had sent
a card, but for the first time she hadn’t called. Now that felt mean. How big a deal would it have been to pick up the phone?

  “I brought her a cake,” Ginger said, rubbing it in.

  That explained the cake in the refrigerator. “Did you take her out for a steak dinner, too?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I don’t even take myself out for steak dinners. I brought her a lasagna.”

  And there was the baking dish with blue moldy stuff in the fridge. Maybe Frank had been the source of the steak dinner. How many bottles of champagne had they gone through before this now empty one for the road?

  “The house was just the usual messy,” Ginger said. “And Mom was pretty upbeat. She was excited about how she’d be getting money each month, I guess because her Social Security kicked in.”

  “So you haven’t seen her since her birthday?” Evie asked. That was surprising. Ginger had always been the “dutiful” daughter.

  “We were supposed to get together, but she kept canceling. You know, that’s nothing new.”

  Evie did know. “Guess what she’s drinking these days.”

  “Vodka.”

  “What brand?”

  “I don’t know. Smirnoff?”

  “Grey Goose.”

  “So?”

  “It’s expensive. There’s the better part of a case of the stuff in the garage. And a big flat-screen TV in the living room.”

  “Really?”

  “She didn’t have the TV when you were there?”

  “Uh, no. I would have noticed.”

  “So how come she’s got a brand-new TV but the place is falling apart? I mean really, literally falling apart. She didn’t say anything when you saw her at the hospital?”