Page 5 of Too Old for This

What did I forget? What did I miss?

At the airport, I wore a hat, kept my head down to avoid cameras, but did anyone recognize me? And that cabdriver. I had him drop me off at the wrong house, then walked home. Did he see that? Did my neighbors? Does he keep accurate records?

What if there’s some other electronic gadget I missed? Something in her body, perhaps. Don’t they make those now? A chip that was embedded, now reduced to ash, and somewhere in the cloud my house is logged as the final location.

Did I leave anything behind in the car? I wore gloves the whole time, so there won’t be any fingerprints. But what about a stray hair? A fiber? Something on the bottom of my shoes?

No, no, no. I’m being silly. Everything’s fine. It’s fine .

Plum’s ashes are in a metal bucket. I’ve gone through them, picking out the bone fragments and teeth to crush and pulverize. Other than the ashes, the only thing left of Plum is the file. And no one is ever going to see that.

After a few days of this mental merry-go-round, I get a little tired of thinking about Plum. Between her body and the car and the electronics, she has dominated my life. Rush, rush, rush, get everything done.

Now I am stuck in the lull.

It’s sort of like being in the eye of a hurricane. The first part of the storm has blown through—the murder, the body—and now there’s a period of calm until the back side of the storm arrives. Sometimes it never arrives. It all depends on how well I did the first part.

The lull gives me too much time to think.

What about the police? Do they know yet? Has Cole called them? Have they found her car? Will they be able to search flight records? Does that require a subpoena? Do they even know why Plum came to see me? Does Cole?

I’ve never been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, but the lull can make me feel like I have one. My brain becomes a machine that spits out endless questions and worries.

Ridiculous, I know. And I don’t have time for it. I need to get ready for church.

—

Twice a week, I go to First Covenant Church. Sundays are the serious day, and Thursdays are for bingo, a raffle, and a potluck of refreshments. Homemade is preferred. Anything store-bought is frowned upon.

The bingo game has already started when I arrive. Glenda greets me at the snack table. She is our event coordinator, a title she probably made up herself. The garish floral dress she is wearing looks exactly like all her other garish dresses.

Glenda turns her nose up at my dish.

“Spinach dip. Again.”

She places it at the end of the table, near the desserts, in the worst possible place for a dip. The thing about Glenda is she’s so blunt that it’s hard to fault her for it. I accept, and even appreciate, that she is incapable of lying. It’s like she can’t help being the way she is.

I suppose none of us can. Not really.

Sheila and Bonnie like to sit in the middle row near the center aisle, with a view of everyone and everything.

Both are around my age, give or take a few years, though it doesn’t matter at this point.

To the rest of the world, we’re so old we all have one foot in the grave. Strange, since I don’t feel dead.

More than once, someone has asked if Bonnie and I are sisters.

We both have grey hair, pale wrinkled skin, and light eyes.

Sheila has dark skin with fewer wrinkles, brown eyes, and thick white hair.

She is wearing her lucky sweater, a gift from one of her grandchildren, and Bonnie has a new pair of bingo earrings on. They match the pendant around her neck.

I feel a little dowdy in my old slacks, plain blouse, and bulky cardigan. On Thursdays, I usually make a point of dressing up a little and putting on my face. Tonight, I was lucky to remember lip balm. My hair is braided, though. That keeps me from looking too scraggly.

Bonnie grabs my cup of fruit punch, and it disappears under the table, where she keeps her flask.

It’s a beautiful old thing, sterling silver and hand-engraved with her late husband’s initials.

Alcohol is strictly forbidden at church events, a stupid rule considering we are way over the age of consent.

“You’re late,” Sheila says.

“And I brought spinach dip.”

Bonnie hands my cup back and wags her finger at me. “Now you’re on Glenda’s shit list.”

“When am I not?”

The next round of the bingo begins. Pastor Doug is running the game this evening, which is a special treat. Normally, it’s Hector, his assistant pastor, who is much younger and louder. Doug usually stands around near the food tables, making small talk with the parishioners.

“N-33!” Doug yells.

“Hector isn’t here tonight,” Sheila says.

“What? Why?”

“Family issue.”

“B-6!”

Even at church, life moves fast. I’m a little late, and I have already missed some gossip.

“I heard his teenage daughter got into a fender bender,” Bonnie whispers.

“G-51!”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. But apparently they’re having a family meeting tonight.”

A family meeting. I remember those.

My mother loved them. For a while, we had one at least once a month. My father hated them. He never said so, but I saw the way he would clench his jaw or roll his eyes when Mom had her back turned. Once, she caught him, and they had a huge argument. We didn’t have another family meeting.

That was all when I was very young. Things weren’t too bad yet.

“O-68!”

“Bingo!”

“Dammit.” Sheila grabs an eraser and wipes off her cards.

Two more games later and we haven’t won a thing. Sheila came close once. So did I. But close didn’t put any money in our wallets.

Glenda steps to the front of the room and claps her hands, demanding everyone’s attention. As if the floral dress didn’t do that already.

“It’s time for our raffle,” she says. “I hope everyone bought a ticket when they came in, because tonight’s prize is very special. Holey Moley Donuts has donated a gift card for one free donut every week for the next six months!”

Everyone claps, including me, though Bonnie whispers in my ear about the evils of twice-fried dough.

But First Covenant is not judgmental except when it comes to alcohol on the premises.

They don’t judge anything else, including the food we choose to eat, which is one of the reasons why I like this church.

None of us win the raffle. All that fried dough will go to Janice. She jumps up and runs to the front.

“I have news,” I say.

Bonnie holds up both hands. “If it’s cancer, don’t even say it.”

“Not cancer. It’s Archie.”

They both lean in, sensing juicy gossip. And boy, do I deliver.

“Archie’s girlfriend is pregnant, and they’re getting married.”

“Wait,” Sheila says. “Is this the one named after a horse?”

“Morgan, yes. She’s twenty-three.”

“Practically a teenager,” Bonnie says. “And have you talked to his age-appropriate ex-wife?”

“Not yet, no. I’m really trying to let him live his own life and make his own mistakes.”

“Morgan is a big one,” Bonnie says. “But your Archie is still better than my Danielle.”

I can’t argue with that. According to Bonnie, her daughter has always been a handful. I’ve heard some of the stories.

We fall into one of our favorite conversations and debate whose children have screwed up worse.

Not that we keep score. That would be absurd.

It’s more like we’ve come to understand that there is no mother-of-the-year award, and if there was, none of us would win it. I think that’s rather healthy of us.