“You ever smile, son?” she asked once.
“Sometimes.”
“I doubt it.”
Another morning, she said, “Your hair looks worse every time I see you.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Hm. Better. You sound almost alive today.”
She was difficult in a way that felt almost playful once you got used to her. I never saw her be sweet, but she paid attention. That counts for more than people think.
“You ever smile, son?”
One afternoon, I was carrying a couple of grocery bags home when she called to me from behind her fence.
“You live nearby, James?”
I stopped. “Couple houses down.”
She looked me over. “Hmm. You want to make some decent money, son?”
I stopped dead. “Doing what?”
She opened her front door and beckoned to me. “Come help me. We’ll agree on a price. I’ll explain everything over some tea.”
She called to me from behind her fence.
Inside, she poured me tea that tasted like boiled weeds and got straight to it.
“I’m dying,” she said.
I choked on my tea.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic! I’m 85, not 12. The doctor says maybe a few years, maybe less. I need help. Groceries, medication, rides, small repairs. I don’t have anybody reliable.”
“And in return?”
She watched me for a second. “When I’m gone, what’s mine becomes yours. I’ll leave everything to you.”
I choked on my tea.
“Are you for real, Mrs. Rhode? You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
So I held out my hand and said, “Deal.”
At first, it was exactly what she said it would be. I drove her to doctor’s appointments, picked up groceries, and sorted her pills into plastic containers labeled by day.
I fixed a cabinet hinge, cleaned out a gutter, changed lightbulbs, and took out trash.
She complained through all of it.
I held out my hand and said, “Deal.”
“You’re late.”
“It’s been four minutes.”
“Still late.”
I would tell her she was impossible, and she’d say, “Yet you keep coming back.”
Slowly, without either of us saying it, things changed.
She started asking me to stay for dinner. Her cooking was terrible, but she acted offended if I noticed.
Slowly, without either of us saying it, things changed.
Once she made meatloaf so dry I drank three glasses of water trying to get it down.
“This is awful,” I told her.
She pointed her fork at me. “Then die hungry.”
We watched game shows together in the evenings sometimes. She yelled at contestants like they could hear her.
She told me about her life, and I started telling her things I didn’t usually tell anybody: about foster homes, learning not to get attached, and never really planning past the next rent payment because it felt dangerous to count on anything more.
She yelled at contestants like they could hear her.
One night, she muted the TV and looked at me hard.
“You only ever think about surviving the next month, James. Don’t you have dreams?”
I shrugged. “I think I’d like to keep going at the diner. Maybe earn a promotion.”
“Well, I guess that’s something,” she replied.
