Page 8 of Too Old for This

Sheila’s house is in a newer subdivision, and it’s younger than both of us. I show up at her door with two bags of groceries, ready for a day of experimental cooking in her modern kitchen. The perfect distraction to get out of my head.

Once you go down memory lane, it’s not always easy to get out. I spent much of last night pacing in front of my fireplace, berating myself for being so stupid. Not my finest moment.

The inside of Sheila’s house smells like coffee and cinnamon, with a hint of some other spice, and it doesn’t come from a plug-in. She has a platter of cinnamon rolls waiting for me.

“I couldn’t make them completely sugar-free,” she says. “But they’re low sugar.”

Two cookbooks sit on her table, each one opened to a different recipe. When I called and asked her about making something more elaborate than spinach dip for Thursday night, Sheila turned it into a project. I knew she would. Projects are her thing.

“Come see my newest idea,” she says.

I follow her down the hall. Sheila is dressed in an outfit of her own creation, a pair of flowy slacks with a matching blouse; both are mint green. Her slip-on comfort shoes are dyed to match.

Her craft room is a sight to behold. The walls are lined with shelves, and they’re all filled with baskets and drawers.

Everything is color-coded and labeled. A sewing machine is in the corner, right next to her high-grade color printer.

In the center of the room, she has a large worktable.

Today, it’s covered with miniature cornucopias.

“I’ve been working on some new table decorations for church.” Sheila picks one up and hands it to me. “I could fill it with mini stalks of wheat and tiny pumpkins. Maybe some dried leaves, too.”

“For fall?”

She gives me a strange look. “Obviously, for fall.”

It’s not even summer yet. “I think these are incredible. I just don’t know how you do this kind of thing.”

Sheila smiles and starts grabbing things out of all those small drawers and compartments. She knows exactly where everything is. I’ve seen Sheila get into her car and forget where she was going, but she always knows where the hot glue is in her craft room.

Twenty minutes later, we make it back to the kitchen.

Sheila is amped up and ready to tackle our cooking project.

We each pick a recipe, get to work, and start gossiping.

It begins with the fashion from last Sunday at church and moves on to her kids.

Sheila has two daughters, one works in tech and lives in Portland, the other lives here and works for the city.

Eventually, our conversation gets around to my grandson.

“Noah’s birthday is coming up, and I want to send him something he really likes. And wants,” I say.

“A gift card.”

Sigh. “Yes, I know. Of course he wants money. But I also want to send something personal. Especially after everything that’s happened with his parents…” Another sigh. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my grandkids. They’re teenagers, both have much better things to do than talk to me.

“What does he like?” Sheila asks.

“Video games and skateboarding. And he’s been in trouble twice for smoking marijuana.”

“Hold on. Let me call my sister in Houston. She’s got grandkids like that.” Sheila picks up the phone and has a fast, almost nonsensical conversation. That’s how strong her Texas accent gets when she talks to family down there. I concentrate on my chicken roll.

“Here.” She slides her phone across the counter. The screen shows a picture of what looks like a battleship. The title is Mutiny . “Sandra said all the kids are going crazy for this game, and it just came out last week.”

“I wonder if he already has it.”

“Even if he does, he can sell it, right? Win-win for Noah.”

Right.

Sheila holds up a mini lamb kebab. The meat and vegetables are still raw; this is just her prototype. “You know, I have better sticks for these. Something with a decoration on the end, like a wreath.”

“Forget it. Glenda will know it was you.”

Sheila smiles. “You may be right.”

“Let’s just keep it simple but good. And unique.”

She takes a deep breath, squashing down whatever feeling she has about that description. Simplicity drives her around the bend.

What drives me around the bend is the smell of meat cooking.

I don’t know why it bothers me. It shouldn’t, because the smell of my stuffed chicken roll isn’t anything like the stench of burning Plum. But she’s the one I think of.

And let’s be honest, I’m no rookie when it comes to burning bodies.

I have been retired for a while, though. I didn’t use to call it that because it wasn’t a paid job. I had one of those, too. For most of my life, I worked at a bank. First as a teller, then as a personal account manager. Never got promoted beyond that, because I didn’t go to college.

Seven years ago, I retired, and they threw me a lunchtime party with a store-bought cake. My colleagues talked about traveling and fun things I could do, and all I could think was, How the hell would I afford that? I couldn’t even replace the plumbing in my old house.

My other retirement began over a decade ago. Every time I felt the urge, I remembered all the work involved. The cleanup, the body, the lull, the anxiety about when or if someone would show up at my door…

Exhausting. It sounded exhausting.

The same thing happened when I was young. I used to go out all the time, always in the bars and nightclubs, staying out late and getting very little sleep. It was worth it until it wasn’t.

Years later, after moving to Baycliff with a new name, I started dating again. Every new date was a new opportunity, the chance to find love or a relationship or even a nice companion. But I didn’t. My enthusiasm waned, and one day it was gone altogether.

This was the same. Like so many other things, murder began to feel like a chore instead of a joy.

So I stopped. And I hardly ever thought about it, except in that nostalgic kind of way. Like when I thought about Archie as a small child or my first real apartment. I didn’t want to go back, but I enjoyed the memories.

And then Plum forced me out of retirement.

—

After the first round of kebabs and the stuffed chicken roll, we conduct a taste test and critique.

Sheila adds rosemary to the kebabs, and I switch up the stuffing, using breadcrumbs instead of rice and adding a hint of hot sauce.

Not too much. We don’t want to give our fellow parishioners more acid reflux than they already have.

“Anything more from Archie about the wedding?” Sheila asks.

“I got a text last night. Morgan has an aesthetics wall.”

Sheila’s eyes light up. For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to. “You mean for the wedding?”

“Yes. Morgan is deep into the planning already.”

“Well, you have to be these days. With social media and everything, you can’t half-ass it.”

Again, I forgot who I was talking to. I hand Sheila my phone, showing her the picture, and listen to her critique Morgan’s choices.

“You might want to tell her that shade of orange is a touch too red,” Sheila says. “And snapdragons would look lovely in her bouquet.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are you brushing off my advice?”

“No. I’m brushing off the fact that this wedding is happening,” I say. “Now let’s taste.”

I pull the second dishes out of the oven. We each take a bite, then another.

“They’re both so good,” Sheila says.

“You know what? You make the kebabs for Thursday, and I’ll make the stuffed chicken.”

“Glenda might fall over from the shock. Should we risk it?”

“Yes. Should we tell Bonnie?”

“Definitely yes. Otherwise, she might show up with those peanut butter cookies with the fork design.” Sheila shudders.

Bonnie is the baker of our little group, and she deserves a heads-up that we’re bringing fancier food this week. She’ll probably make truffles or something equally ornate.

“I almost forgot.” I dig into one of my bags and take out a large cookie tin. “I used my fireplace over the weekend. I brought you some ashes for your lawn.”

“God, I miss having a wood-burning fireplace. You’re a lifesaver. Or a lawn saver, I should say.”

I smile. “Anytime.”