Page 37 of Too Old for This

The long drive gives me plenty of time to think. The scenery is beautiful, yes, but not as beautiful the second time around. The thought of driving back and forth twice a week to church is not appealing.

And who knows how long I will be able to drive. That’s one more thing I don’t want to think about.

When I’m back home, I sit down with my computer and start putting everything together.

On principle, I would never make a spreadsheet, but I can make a price list for Oak Manor, Serenity Village, and Tranquil Towers.

First, the cost of an individual unit, then the monthly cost for all the amenities.

I add in four more columns—for the amount I can comfortably pay if I live for five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years.

The numbers on the screen remind me why I hate spreadsheets. Nothing good comes from looking at information this way.

My other option is dropping dead here, in this house. If I’m lucky, it will happen when I’m in bed. It could also be in the bathroom, the garden, the kitchen, or in my recliner. But the worst is probably the laundry room. Imagine dying while separating lights from darks.

I get up to stretch and walk around the house. So much of what I own would have to be sold, thrown out, given away. Those small condo units don’t hold a lot. Unfortunately, my furniture isn’t valuable, and I don’t own much jewelry.

In the dining room, I have a formal painting of a woman.

She is wearing a nineteenth-century ball gown in pale blue satin.

The artist spent a lot of time capturing the texture and folds of that fabric; it looks real enough to touch.

The woman’s blond hair has been swept up into a fancy updo of curls and twists.

The choker around her neck is a mass of pearls and aquamarines, matching the dress, and she has delicate pearl studs in her ears.

Everyone thinks it’s my great-grandmother Rosalyn. Even Archie believes that. But I have no idea who the woman is. Found the painting at a garage sale.

I could bring the painting with me, along with my bedroom furniture and the couch, recliner, and end table for the small living room. The dining table is too big. Since I can only afford a one-bedroom unit, everything in the guest rooms will have to be given away or donated.

Other than my clothes, toiletries, kitchen stuff, and a few random knickknacks, that’s about it.

I head into the garage. My freezer is not the first one I bought. The original broke and had to be replaced. This one has been here for about twenty years. Plum was the last person to be in it.

The first was back in 2003. One evening after work, I went out with some friends to dinner and then a movie. It was quite late when we got out, but I stopped at the grocery store anyway.

The man behind me in line was a bank customer, someone I had talked to many times, yet he looked right through me. I was fifty-four years old then. Not elderly, but old enough to be invisible most of the time.

He was impatient. Big sighs, shifting his weight back and forth, rolling his eyes. When I asked a question about a coupon, I heard him mutter under his breath, “Stupid cow.”

I walked out of the store with a cart full of bags, but I didn’t put them in the trunk. The parking lot was deserted. I took my time, got ready, and waited for him to come out of the store.

“Excuse me,” I called. “Could you help me for a minute?”

He glared, then walked over to my car.

“I really appreciate this,” I said. “I know you’re probably in a rush.”

“It’s fine.”

The tire iron was propped up against the side of the car. He couldn’t see it, but I could reach it. I waited until he leaned over to put down a bag.

“Not so stupid after all,” I whispered.

I caved in his skull. He fell forward, the top half of him bent over, and his head thumped against the spare tire.

The parking lot was still empty.

Half of his body was already in the trunk, and it didn’t take much to get the other half in. Back then, I was younger and stronger, and I’d been moving bodies for a long time.

He wore awful brown pants with a plaid shirt, and he smelled like corn chips. Chuck Warwick—that was his name. I didn’t remember until he was at my house, in the freezer, and I opened his wallet.

His phone was already gone, dumped in a trash can in the parking lot, though it probably didn’t matter. Smartphones didn’t exist yet.

Simpler times.

—

Sometimes when I call Archie, it takes a while for him to get back to me.

I don’t know what keeps him so busy, but then I’ve never asked and he doesn’t talk about it.

Corporate law must not be very exciting.

Now if he were a criminal attorney or a divorce lawyer, that would be more interesting to hear about.

Archie lives north of the Bay Area, in a place that’s only a bit more affordable than San Francisco. Stephanie got the house in the divorce, and they share custody of Olive and Noah. Archie had to buy another house for Morgan and the new baby.

Maybe that’s what keeps him so busy. Too many mortgages to pay.

I get online to look at real estate in his area and see what’s available. I don’t know if I can afford it, but it doesn’t hurt to look.

Except it does. The prices make my eyes bug out.

I haven’t talked to Archie about selling the house and moving. That’s a conversation I’ve been avoiding. Would he invite me to move down to California, to be closer to him and the grandkids? Or would he not? Do I even want to do that?

I’m not ready to know yet, so I haven’t called. Is anyone ever ready to ask their children for help? I bet not. I bet every parent avoids that conversation until they’re incapable of having it.

A knock at the door interrupts that cheerful thought.

Another knock at the door, I should say. Over the past month, my house has become the hottest spot in town. Under any other circumstances, that might be a compliment.

I get up, hoping Tula has returned with news about Norma having some kind of mental breakdown. I could use a bit of good news.

No such luck.

Norma is standing on my porch.