There Was an Old Woman

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 into 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.