The plan was, I would drive to Sophia’s after she got off work, pick her up, and then head to Mrs. Glynn’s. But Martine was late bringing the truck back; she was out somewhere on a job. I had to phone Sophia and ask her to come get me. This was fine with Sophia — no doubt she preferred her Saab to my jouncing, bone-rattling truck — but it made me mad as hell. In the two weeks since I’d let the Corvette go, I’d been marooned without a ride three times and been yelled at twice when I’d marooned Martine. Also, we were stuck in a situation where we were thrown together constantly. Mrs. Dibble had always tended to pair the two of us up, for some reason, but now it was even worse. Every job assignment had to take into account that Martine and I shared a vehicle, although we lived five miles apart and couldn’t stand to face each other anymore. What had I been thinking of, agreeing to such an arrangement?
And my poor little car, my little lost car. That car was my very identity — so ramshackle and rascally. I should never have let Martine talk me into selling it.
You see what I mean about my life being muddy.
Sophia arrived in her bank clothes, but I wore jeans and a stringy black sweater. No way was I dressing up for this. I climbed into the Saab, turning down her offer to let me drive. “Just gun that motor and let’s get this over with,” I told her.
She said, “Now, Barnaby, promise you’ll be nice to her.”
“Did I say I wouldn’t be nice?”
“She’s just a helpless old lady. Promise you won’t forget that.”
But as things worked out, it seemed to be Sophia who forgot.
Oh, she was congenial enough at the start. She pressed her cheek to her aunt’s cheek, and she told her how pretty she looked. Mrs. Glynn wore a baggy-chested silk dress and a strand of pearls she could have jumped rope with, looped and looped again and hanging to her knees. I’d never seen her in jewelry before. Or leather pumps, either, instead of Nikes. And Tatters was yapping frantically in the pantry. The only other time I’d known him to be shut away was when the minister came to call.
“How’ve you been, Aunt Grace?” Sophia was asking. “How’s your bursitis?” As if they were on the best of terms. It irked me some, I can tell you. When we sat down, I chose a rocker, not my usual seat beside Sophia on the couch. I tucked my hands between my knees and watched glumly as Mrs. Glynn arranged herself in her favorite chair.
“I can see just fine,” she told Sophia, “except for reading. Why do you ask?”
This caused a shattered little pause, until Sophia’s forehead cleared and she said, “Your bursitis, I said; not your sight.”
“My bursitis. Oh. It’s just lovely,” Mrs. Glynn said, peculiarly. She laced her fingers together and leaned toward me. “Barnaby,” she said, “I don’t believe we’ve conversed since I discovered I was burglarized.”
“No,” I said, “we haven’t.” I felt embarrassed; Lord knows why.
“Of course, it was a most distressing event. Most distressing. But you know what I say: money is only money.”
I’d never heard her say any such thing, but I nodded.
“In the final analysis,” she said, “the human element is what counts. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well …”
“You are a person my niece regards very highly I can appreciate that. And Ray Oakley isn’t half the worker that you were. I propose we let bygones be bygones.”
It was while I was computing her words that Sophia’s attitude changed. “If that doesn’t take the cake!” she told her aunt.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Glynn said.
“Let bygones be bygones? Generous of you, I must say!”
“Excuse me, dear?”
I said, “Sophia—”
“You owe Barnaby more than that, Aunt Grace. You owe him an apology. A complete and humble apology.”
“Sophia, it’s okay,” I said.
I had never seen her like this. I felt kind of flattered. But, “We’ll just put it behind us,” I said. “No big deal.”
“No big deal!” Sophia cried.
“Wonderful,” her aunt told me. “And may I expect you to resume your regular hours?”
“No, you may not expect him to resume his regular hours!” Sophia cried. “Over my dead body he’ll resume his regular hours!”
I said, “Hon.” I turned to Mrs. Glynn. “Unfortunately, I’ve … ah, got those hours filled now,” I said. “But I’m sure Ray Oakley—”
“You found the money, didn’t you,” Sophia told her aunt.
“What, dear?” her aunt asked quaveringly.
“You found it where you left it, and you don’t have the courage to say so.”
This struck me as assuming a bit too much. More likely, Mrs. Glynn had just recalled that I wasn’t the only person who knew her hiding spot. I said, “In any case—”
“You are the most dishonest of all of us,” Sophia told her aunt. Two scratched-looking patches of pink had risen in her cheeks. “You found that money and you won’t admit it. I bet you didn’t even notify the insurance company, did you?”
“On the contrary. I notified them at once,” Mrs. Glynn said. “I would never commit fraud, for mercy’s sake.” She spoke very primly and evenly, somehow not moving her lips.
I stared at her.
“So there,” Sophia told me, settling back in her seat.
“I don’t know how I could have been so forgetful,” Mrs. Glynn said. A teaspoonful of tears, it seemed, swam above each eye pouch. “I’d been listening to everybody’s warnings, you know. Everybody warning me I shouldn’t inform all and sundry where I kept my cash. So I took it out of the flour bin and I moved it elsewhere. Well, I’ll tell you where: I moved it to the pocket of my winter bathrobe. Then I just … I don’t know; I must be getting senile. I forgot! I looked inside the flour bin and I saw there was no money and I forgot I’d moved it! I hope I don’t have Alzheimer’s. Do you think I might have Alzheimer’s? I went along for weeks not recollecting, and then this morning when the weather turned I was getting some of my woolens out of the cedar closet and I saw my winter bathrobe and I said, ‘Oh, good heavens above. That’s where I moved my money to!’ I’ve been a fool, children. I’ve been a forgetful old fool.”
“It could happen to anyone,” I told her. “Don’t give it another thought.”
I looked over at Sophia, waiting for her to chime in, but she had this flat look on her face. “Right, Sophia?” I asked.
“Hmm?”
“We’ve all done things like that, right?”
“Oh, yes …”
“So if you’ve got Alzheimer’s, Mrs. Glynn, I guess all the rest of us have it too.”
Mrs. Glynn tried to smile, dangerously swelling the spoonfuls of tears. I said again, “Right, Sophia?”
“Right,” she said after a moment.
“Well. That settles that,” I said, and I stood up. “No need to show us out,” I told Mrs. Glynn.
“To shout?”
“No need to show us out, I said.”
“Oh.”
I wanted to get going before she could bring up my work hours again. (I wasn’t totally forgiving.) But Sophia stayed on the couch, still wearing that flat expression. At the door I said, “Sophia?”
She rose, finally, and so did Mrs. Glynn. They didn’t kiss goodbye. “Well, Aunt Grace,” was all Sophia said, “I hope next time you won’t be so quick to accuse an innocent man.” And she hoisted her purse strap onto her shoulder. Mrs. Glynn stood straight as a clothespin, her hands knotted tightly together.
I would have expected Sophia to act more gracious. But I felt sort of pleased that she didn’t.
In the car I said, “So! Turns out you were right about why she wanted to see us.”