That left her with a small fortune, particularly after the second war. She didn’t seem to need us, and she was getting “sot” in her ways and hard to get along with. So little by little, we began visiting her less and less. I was the nearest, working in Des Moines, but I had my own life, and she seemed happy and capable, even at well past seventy. We’re a long-lived, tough clan.
I sent, her birthday and holiday notes—or at least Liza sent them for me—and kept meaning to see her. But my oldest boy seemed to go to pieces after the second war. My daughter married a truck driver and had a set of twins before they found a decent apartment. My youngest boy was taken prisoner in Korea. I was promoted to president of the roofing company. And a new pro at the club was coaching me into breaking ninety most of the time.
Then Mother began writing letters—the first real ones in years. They were cheerful enough, filled with chitchat about some neighbors, the new drapes on the windows, a recipe for lemon cream pie, and such. At first, I thought they were a fine sign. Then something in them began to bother me. It wasn’t until the fifth one, though, that I could put my finger on anything definite.
In that, she wrote a few words about the new teacher at the old schoolhouse. I went over it twice before realizing that the school building had been torn down fifteen years before. When that registered, other things began connecting. The drapes were ones she had put up years before, and the recipe was her first one—the one that always tasted too’ sweet, before she changed it! There were other strange details.
They kept bothering me, and I finally put through a call. Mother sounded fine, though a little worried for fear something had gone wrong with me. She talked for a couple of minutes, muttered something about lunch on the stove, and hung up quickly. It couldn’t have been more normal. I got out my clubs and was halfway down the front steps before something drove me back to her letters.
Then I called Doctor Matthews. After half a minute identifying myself, I asked about Mother.
His voice assumed a professional tone at once. She was fine—remarkably good physical condition for a woman of her age. No, no reason I should come down at once. There wasn’t a thing wrong with her.
He overdid it, and he couldn’t quite conceal the worry in his voice. I suppose I’d been thinking of taking a few days off later to see her. But when he hung up, I put the clubs back in the closet and changed my clothes. Liza was out at some civic betterment club, and I left a note for her. She’d taken the convertible though, so I was in luck. The new Cadillac was just back from a tune-up and perfect for a stiff drive. There’d also be less chance of picking up a ticket if I beat the speed limit a little; most cops are less inclined to be tough on a man who’s driving one of those cars. I made good time all the way.
Matthews was still at the same address, but his white hair gave me a shock. He frowned at me, lifting his eyes from my waistline to what hah-1 had left, then back to my face. Then he stuck out his hand slowly, stealing a quick glance at the Cadillac.
“I suppose they all call you A. J. now,” he said. “Come on in, since you’re here!”
He took me back through the reception room and into his office, his >eyes going to the car outside again. From somewhere, fye drew out a bottle of good Scotch. At my nod, he^mixed it with water from a cooler. He settled back, studying me as he took his own seat. “A. J., heh?” he commented again, sounding a sour note here, somehow. “That sounds like success. Thought your mother mentioned something about your having some trouble a few years back?”
“Not financial,” I told him. I’d thought only Liza remembered it. She must have written to Mother at the time, since I’d kept it out of the papers. And after I’d agreed to buy the trucking line for our son-in-law, she’d finally completely forgiven me. It was none of Matthews’ business—but out here, I remembered, doctors considered everything their business. “Why, Doc?”
He studied me, let his eyes sweep over the car again, and then tipped up the glass to finish the whisky. “Just curiosity. No, damn it, I might as well be honest. You’ll see her anyhow, now. She’s an old woman, Andrew, and she has what might be called a tidy fortune. When children who haven’t worried about her for years turn up, it might not be affection. And I’m not going to have anything happen to Martha now!”
The hints in his remarks too closely matched my own suspicions. I could feel myself tightening up, tensing with annoyance and a touch of fear. I didn’t want to ask the question. I wanted to get mad at him for being an interfering old meddler. But I had to know. “You mean—senile dementia?”
“No,” he answered quickly, with a slightly lifted eyebrow. “No, Andrew, she isn’t crazy! She’s in fine physical shape, and sane enough to take care of herself for the next fifteen years she’ll probably live. And she doesn’t need any fancy doctors and psychiatrists. Just remember that, and remember she’s an old woman. Thirteen children in less than twenty years! A widow before she was forty. Lonely all these years, even if she is too independent to bother you kids. An old woman’s entitled to whatever kind of happiness she can get! And don’t forget that!”
He stopped, seeming surprised at himself. Then he stood up and reached for his hat. “Come on, I’ll ride out with you.”
He kept up a patter of local history as we drove down the streets where corn had grown when I last saw this section. There was a hospital where the woods had been, and the old spring was covered by an apartment building. The big house where we had been born stood out, sprawling in ugly warmth among the facsimile piano-boxes they were calling houses nowadays.
I wanted to turn back, but Matthews motioned me after him up the walk. The front door was still unlocked, and he went in, tilting his head toward the stairs. “Martha! Hey, Martha!”
“Jimmy’s out back, Doc,” a voice called down. It was Mother’s voice, unchanged except for a puzzling lilt I’d never heard before, and I drew a quick breath of relief.
“Okay, Martha,” Matthews called up. “I’ll just see him, then, and call you up later. You won’t want me around when you see who I brought you! It’s Andrew!”
“How nice! Tell him to sit down and I’ll be dressed in a minute!”
Doc shrugged. “’Til sit out hi the garden a few minutes,” he told me. “Then I’ll catch a cab back. But remember—your mother deserves any happiness she can get. Don’t you ruin it!”
He went through the back door, and I found the parlor, and dropped onto the old sofa. Then I frowned. It had been stored in the attic in 1913, when Dad bought the new furniture. I stared through the soft dimness, making out all the old pieces. Even the rug was the way it had been when I was a child. I walked into the other rooms, finding them the same as they had been forty years before, except for the television set in the dining room and the completely modern kitchen, with a pot of soup bubbling on the back of the stove.
I was getting a thick feeling in my throat and the anxiety I’d had before when the sound of steps on the stairs brought my eyes up.
Mother came down, a trifle slowly, but without any sign of weakness. She didn’t rest her hand on the banister. She might have been the woman to match the furnishings of the hoflge, except for the wrinkles and the white hair. And the dress was new, but a perfect copy of one she’d worn when I was still a child!
She seemed not to hear my gasp. Her hand came out to catch mine, and she bent forward, kissing me on the cheek. “You look real good, Andrew. There, now, let’s see. Umm-hmm. Liza’s been feeding you right, I can see that. But I’ll bet you could eat some real homemade soup and pie, eh? Come out in the kitchen. I’ll fix it in a minute.”