Gussie tugged at the envelope clenched between Willadeene’s fat fingers, thinking the foolish woman’s ends would meet just fine if her son stopped robbing the neighborhood. She could feel Min leaning against her back, fighting to quell her laughter. They had stood in the exact same pose a year ago at the side of Herbert Rutherford’s gilded casket lined with scarlet crushed velvet.
After the passing of Willadeene’s husband, Gussie and Min had paid her a visit only to find the woman did not have time. She cut them off at the door when the Bell Funeral Home van pulled into her driveway. Motioning for Gussie and Min to step aside, she’d instructed the three young men charged with the delivery of the casket to put it on the picnic table in the backyard.
“Herbert was too good a man to go down in the earth in just anything,” Willadeene had explained to her neighbors. “Now, you all have to excuse me. I must go and pick up a special order of gold paint.”
Over the next several days, between writing and rewriting the eulogy, ordering the flowers, selecting the perfect hymn, and placing the announcement of Herbert Rutherford’s “Homegoing Celebration” in the Providence Journal, Willadeene Rutherford primed, painted, and appliquéd plastic gems on the once plain coffin. Gussie and Min would stand tippy-toe on their back porch, craning their necks to see over the silvery Andorra shrubs as the busy widow transformed her backyard into Designer Coffins “R” Us.
Now Willadeene dabbed at her brow. “Fifty dollars is all I can spare.”
“Thank you,” Min replied over Gussie’s shoulder.
As soon as Willadeene had departed, Gussie remarked, “Guess you’re satisfied. You gave a wino permission to go into our toolshed and pawn the snowblower.”
*
On an errands spree the week before Christmas, Min and Gussie huddled close with Maudetha Blake as she recounted a scene in the parking lot of Whole Foods.
“Last summer I was having a good time at WaterFire—just standing there watching the street performers, getting excited by the craft and food vendors, and who did I happen to see riding by on my grandson’s ten speed? I tell you, R.C.’s nothing but the devil. Nothing but.”
Min reminded Maudetha of her high blood pressure, but Gussie commiserated: “Let him keep on stealing from folks. It’s bound to come back on him. You mark my words. Can’t do wrong but for so long before the sin finds you out.”
Maudetha admired Min’s fur coat, told her she just looked “delicious” in it. Gussie rolled her eyes because she hated what was coming. Min didn’t know how to give a simple thanks for a compliment. On the way to the car, Gussie said, “Maudetha didn’t ask you how old you are. Anybody who stands still long enough and you have to blurt out, I’ll be seventy-four in such-and-such days. You ought not to carry on so, as if getting old is something to be proud of. Any fool can do it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure . . . with these police going off half-cocked,” Min said.
*
The late-December moon waxed full at half past eleven several nights later and Gussie couldn’t sleep. She blamed the insomnia on Min’s cooking—the evening’s fish cakes and tasty jag called to her.
She was carrying the cod cakes into the den when Min entered the kitchen and picked up the large bowl of grapes she’d left uncovered on the counter, a vain attempt to encourage her partner to snack healthfully. When Gussie brought her first forkful to her mouth, Min reached over her and snatched away the Tupperware dish.
“Shiiiit! You like an old sneaky cat, woman,” Gussie hissed, accepting the bowl of grapes Min handed to her.
“Scoot over. I can’t sleep. And I’d appreciate it if you’d find a decent picture for us to watch. None of that Jimmy Fallon or other foolishness.”
They were settling into the worn sofa and All About Eve when a knock thundered on the wooden frame of the door, startling Gussie. Min looked at her and wondered if this was the woman she would know for the rest of their lives—so nervous, so jumpy all the time.
“Who makes a social call at this time of night?” Min said.
Under the porch light stood R.C. Rutherford. Min didn’t know what to say.
“I know it’s late. I been away. Just come back to town. My own mama don’t know I’m back yet. I feel mighty bad about what I did to you and Miss Gussie.”
“Min?” Gussie called out in a frail voice.
“Yes?”
“Who is it?”
“R.C.” Min stared into his eyes in search of truth, and thought she saw some.
“Now, I know what you thinking, Miss Min. You wondering why you should listen to a thief.”
Gussie entered the kitchen and listened from behind the door.
“You don’t have to tell me, I know I’ve split my britches with everybody on Larch Street—wait a minute. Here, I brought you something.” He dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. “Please take it. I want you to buy a new snowblower.” The hand clutching the envelope trembled a little; with his other hand, he reached out and grabbed the handle of a shovel propped against the house. “Wish I could get you one of those snowblowers you ride around on.”