“Do you know, Leda?” Nora laid down a 7. “I can’t even remember what that was all about.”
Leda played the 4. “I know what you mean. I wish Ab felt that way about it.”
A 6. “Seventeen. You say that, but you’re young, and you’ve got Ab.”
If she played a 3, Nora could take it to 31 with a face card. She played the 2 instead. “Nineteen. I’m not young.”
“And five makes twenty-four.”
“And three. Twenty-seven?”
“No, can’t.”
Leda laid down her last card. “And three is thirty.” She advanced a hole.
“Five,” and Nora took her hole. Then, at last, came the contradiction Leda was waiting for. “I’m fifty-four, and you’re, what? Forty-five? It makes all the difference.” She spread her cards beside the Queen. “And another crucial difference—Dwight has been dead for twenty years now. Not that I haven’t had my opportunities now and then—Let’s see, what have I got? Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, and a pair is six, and two runs is six, is twelve.” She jumped the second match-stick forward. “But now and then is not the same thing as a habit.”
“Are you bragging or complaining?” Leda spread her own cards.
“Bragging, absolutely.”
“Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, and a pair is six, and two runs, it’s just the same as yours, look—twelve.”
“Sex makes people crazy. Like that poor fool on the steps. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m well out of it.”
Leda plugged her matchstick into a hole just four short of game. “That’s what Carney said about Portugal, and you know what happened then.”
“There’s more important things,” Nora maundered on, undeterred.
Here it comes, Leda thought, the theme song. “Oh, count your crib,” she said.
“There’s only the pair you gave me. Thanks.” She went ahead two holes. “The family—that’s the important thing. Keeping it together.”
“True, true. Now get on with it, my dear.”
But instead of taking the cards and shuffling, Nora picked up the cribbage board and studied it. “I thought you said you had twelve?”
“Did I make a mistake?” Sweetly.
“No, I don’t think so.” She moved Leda’s matchstick back two holes. “You cheated.”
23. Len Rude, continued (2024)
After his initial incredulity, when he realized she really did want him to move in, he thought: Arggh! But after all, why not? Being her lodger couldn’t be much worse than living in the middle of a mother-fucking marching band the way he did now. He could trade in his meal vouchers for food stamps. As Mrs. Hanson herself had pointed out, it didn’t have to be official, though if he played his cards right he might be able to get Fulke to give him a couple credits for it as an individual field project. Fulke was always bitching at him for scanting case work. He’d have to agree. It was only a matter, really, of finding the right ribbon to tie around it. Not “Problems of Aging” again, if he didn’t want to be sucked down the drainhole of a geriatrics specialty. “Family Structures in a Modicum Environment.” Too vast, but that was the direction to aim in. Mention his institutional upbringing and how this was an opportunity to understand family dynamics from the inside. It was emotional blackmail, but how could Fulke refuse?
It never occurred to him to wonder why Mrs. Hanson had extended the invitation. He knew he was likable and was never surprised when people, accordingly, liked him. Also, as Mrs. Miller had pointed out, the old lady was upset about her son marrying and moving away. He would replace the son she had lost. It was only natural.
24. The Love Story, continued (2024)
“Here’s the key,” and she handed Amparo the key. “No need to bring it up here, but if there’s a personal letter inside—” (But mightn’t he write to her on office stationery?) “No, if there’s anything at all, just wave your arms like this—” Mrs. Hanson waved her arms vigorously and the dewlaps went all quivery.
“I’ll be watching.”
“What are you expecting, Grummy? It must be awfully important.”
Mrs. Hanson smiled her sweetest, most Grummy-like smile. Love made her crafty. “Something from the MODICUM office, dear. And you’re right, it could be quite important—for all of us.”
Now run! she thought. Run down those stairs!
She took one of the chairs from the table in the kitchen and set it by the living room window. She sat down. She stood up. She pressed the palms of her hands against the sides of her neck as a reminder that she must control herself.
He’d promised to write whether he came that night or not, but she felt sure he’d forget his promise if he didn’t intend to come. If a letter were there, it could mean only one thing.
Amparo must have reached the mailboxes by now. Unless she’d met a friend of hers as she went down. Unless she— Would it be there? Would it? Mrs. Hanson scanned the gray sky for an omen but the clouds were too low for planes to be visible. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, willing Amparo to come round the corner of the building.
And she was there! Amparo’s arms made a V and then an X, a V, and an X. Mrs. Hanson signaled back. A deadly joy slithered across her skin and shivered through her bones. He had written! He would come!
She was out the door and at the head of the stairs before she recollected her purse. Two days ago, in anticipation, she’d taken out the credit card from where she kept it hidden in The New American Catholic Bible. She hadn’t used it since she’d bought her father’s wreath, when, two years ago? Nearer three.
Two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and even so it was the smallest he got. What the twins must have paid for theirs! It had taken over a year to pay it back, and all the while the computer kept making the most awful threats. What if the card weren’t valid now!
She had her purse and the list and the card were inside. A raincoat. Was there anything else? And the door, should she lock it? Lottie was inside asleep but Lottie could have slept through a gang bang. To be on the safe side she locked the door.
I mustn’t run, she told herself at the third landing down, that was how old Mr.—I mustn’t run, but it wasn’t running that made her heart beat so—it was love! She was alive and miraculously she was in love again. Even more miraculously, somebody loved her. Loved her. Madness.
She had to stop on the ninth-floor landing to catch her breath. A temp was sleeping in the corridor in a licensed MODICUM bag. Usually she would only have been annoyed, but this morning the sight affected her with a delicious sense of compassion and community. Give me your tired, she thought with elation, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. How it all came pouring back! Details from a lifetime ago, memories of old faces and old feelings. And now, poetry!
By the time she was on one the backs of her legs were trembling so she could barely stand up straight. There was the mailbox, and there, slantwise inside it, was Len’s letter. It had to be his. If it were anything else she would die.
The mailbox key was where Amparo always left it behind the scarecrow camera. His letter said:
“Dear Mrs. Hanson—You can set an extra plate for dinner Thursday. I’m happy to say I can accept your kind invitation. Will bring my suitcase. Love, Len.”
Love! There was no mistaking it, then: Love! She had sensed it from the first, but who would have believed—at her age, at fifty-seven! (True, with a bit of care her fifty-seven could look younger than someone like Leda Holt’s forty-six. But even so.) Love!
Impossible.