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.”
It sounded crazy. It probably was. But I needed the money, and something in me wanted to believe her.
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.
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