At six twenty-six, Fred and Ethel left. Cal trailed along with them. Margery and Helen heard two cars start on the parking lot. They waited another half hour to make sure the trio didn’t come back. Then they crossed the yard and went up the steps to 2C.
Fred and Ethel’s apartment was a furnished unit, done in wicker and seashells. “She keeps the place clean, I’ll say that for her,” Margery said.
The living room was tidy, except for the wicker couch. It was covered with stacks of newspapers. The coffee table had a pile of torn-out restaurant ads, mostly for family restaurants.
“The next victims,” Helen said.
The kitchen table had been turned into a desk. A laptop and laser printer were set up on it. “Bet that’s where they do their fake emergency room receipts,” Helen said.
Next to the printer was a pill box.
“Wonder what drugs they’re taking?” Margery opened the pill box. “My, my. Fred and Ethel figured out how to turn base metal into gold. These aren’t pills. They’re metal slivers. Ethel probably carried some in her purse and slipped them in her food. And what’s this?”
She opened a small brown paper bag and pulled out a package.
“Fake-blood capsules,” Helen said. “The kind kids use on Halloween. See, the package says, ‘Bite me for that vampire look.’ ”
“ ‘Bite me,’ ” Margery said. “That’s how Ethel had blood running out of her mouth. She used fake Halloween blood.”
“ ‘Not harmful to humans or animals,’ ” Helen read from the package. She slipped one blood capsule into her pocket, and put a pinch of metal slivers in an envelope.
“Those cheap bastards. That’s really cruel, scamming little restaurants for cash,” Margery said.
“And free dinners,” Helen said. “This routine could be pretty lucrative. Hit two restaurants a week, and they’d make eight hundred dollars in cash, tax free. They pick mom-andpop places that are afraid of lawsuits. These little restaurants are happy to pay four hundred cash and avoid big legal bills.”
“If we can catch those crooks in the act, they’re outta here,” Margery said. “And I know how to do it. Fred brags how often he takes Ethel out to dinner. ‘I don’t want my Ethel slaving over a hot stove,’ he says. ‘I’m retired, so she is, too.’ “I’ll find out when they’re eating next at one of these little places. We’ll go there and catch them.”
Helen felt a huge weight lift from her spirit. She was going to get back her tropical nights by the pool.
Margery was nearly dancing with glee. “I can’t wait to throw out Fred and Ethel. By the way, why did you think there was something wrong in the first place?”
“I don’t trust a woman who doesn’t like bread pudding, Helen said.
Chapter 19
Mother Nature made a mistake. Helen should have had Margery for a mother.
Helen admired her landlady’s courage, her candor and the way she held her liquor. She liked Margery’s purple shorts and sexy shoes. She was touched when Margery defended and protected her.
But Helen already had a mother, and though she tried to deny it, Helen loved her. She thought her mother’s problems started with her name: Dolores. That name would make any woman sorrowful.
Dolores was small and fearful. She lacked the courage to sin, but lived in terror that she would lose her soul. Helen thought it might slip away, like an escaped mouse.
Dolores never made it into the twentieth century, much less the twenty-first. She disapproved of Helen’s corporate career.
“A woman’s highest calling is a wife and mother,” she said.
Dolores told Helen she had a duty to take back her unfaithful husband, Rob. “If you hadn’t spent so much time at work, he might not have strayed. Men are different.”
“Only because we let them get away with it,” Helen said.
Her mother burst into tears, making the conversation even more dolorous.
Dolores believed what the old priests told her: Birth con-trol was a sin. Wives should endure their husbands’ faults, from alcoholism to adultery. Catholics who divorced and remarried would burn in hell. Helen was on the path to perdition.
Each month, when she hung up on her tearful, fearful mother, Helen told herself this was the last call. But thirty days later, she called her mother again.
Helen had a ritual to help her through it.
She took her old Samsonite suitcase out of the closet, crammed with rump-sprung cotton panties and circle- stitched Cross Your Heart bras that were gray as grandmothers. Thumbs jumped up on the bed and began playing with a dangling bra strap. Helen tossed her cat off the bed. She was in no mood for frivolity.
Helen had bought that snake-tangle of old lady lingerie at a yard sale, hoping it would scare away any thief. Underneath it, she hid her remaining money, a little over seven thousand dollars. She also buried a cell phone bought under a fake name in Kansas City. Helen had sent her sister Kathy a thousand dollars to pay the phone bills. She only used the cell phone once a month to call her mother and her sister.
Each month, Helen hoped her mother would miraculously become a strong, independent woman who believed in her daughter. But in case that didn’t happen, Helen also brought out a piece of pink cellophane from a gift basket.
Helen always called her mother on the same day at the same time: seven P.M. She dreaded this one call more than a whole day in the boiler room.
This time, Helen got a recording, one she heard a dozen times a day. “The number you are calling does not accept unidentified calls. If you are a solicitor, please hang up now.”
My own mother has blocked me out, Helen thought.
“Helen, is that you?” her mother said. Dolores sounded frailer than the last time.
Helen could see her: a withered woman wearing a luxuriant brown wig. Helen wanted to rush home and fold her small, faded mother in her arms. But she knew that was hopeless, too. Dolores would turn Helen over to the court and send her back to her cheating ex-husband.
“Helen, I have good news,” her mother said.
If the news was good, why did she sound so tentative?
“I’m seeing Mr. Lawrence Smithson.”
Lawrence? Helen flashed on a bandy-legged old man in baggy shorts and a flat yellow cap, mowing his lawn at six A.M.
“You’re dating Lawn Boy Larry?” Helen said. “The guy who trims his lawn with nail scissors? I can’t believe you’re going out with that geezer.”
“Don’t call Lawrence that,” Dolores said.
“That’s what Dad called him,” Helen said. “My father was a real man.” A real unfaithful man, but no one ever questioned his virility. “Lawn Boy just wants to get his hands on your dandelions.”
What’s wrong with me? Helen thought. Why do I care who my mother dates, if he makes her happy? It’s none of my business. My father’s been dead for ten years.
“I have no one to talk to,” her mother said. “Your sister Kathy has Tom and the children. You’re living God knows where. You won’t even tell your own mother.”
“It’s better that way.” Rob would charm the information out of Dolores. She still saw him.
“Lawrence has been so helpful,” Dolores said. “He fixed my tool-shed. He mows my lawn every Wednesday. He cleans my gutters.”
“Does he grease your griddle and haul your ashes?”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m happy that you have a romance.”
“It’s not like that,” her mother said. “I’m too old for romance.”
“You’re only seventy, Mom.”
“I won’t live much longer,” her mother said. “I want you to come home.”
