11

For the second time in two days, Muriel was threatened with a gun. But it was the first time she actually saw the weapon. It took her breath away. Oh, my goodness, what will Natalie think?

Her only hope of keeping her predicament out of the range of Natalie’s criticism was to not tell her. That meant she’d better not get shot. Natalie didn’t take kindly to someone else’s mistakes. Especially her mother’s.

Muriel remembered a Saturday just after Howard died. She had to take over his job of bringing the morning newspaper in from the curbside box. She’d thrown a trench coat over her nightgown and enjoyed the short stroll in the fresh morning air. It wasn’t until she climbed back up the stairs, newspaper in hand, and tried her doorknob that she’d realized she’d locked herself out of the house. What would Natalie think? That was the first thought that came to Muriel’s mind. Because it would be Natalie whom she’d have to call for help. Natalie had the emergency key. But first Muriel needed a phone. If only Roxanne weren’t visiting her sister in Florida. Her neighbors’ shades were all drawn, the curtains closed, the time not even 6:00 AM.

Hours later, the neighbor across the street came out to get his paper. He invited her into his house, made her sit with his wife at their kitchen table, served her coffee, let her use their phone. His hospitality was such a contrast to Natalie’s disgruntlement.

Natalie sped up to the house in her fancy, foreign sedan, slammed on the brakes, banged the car door shut, stomped up the neighbors’ steps, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. She couldn’t quite believe all the trouble her old mother was causing. She dropped hints about Alzheimer’s as she apologized to the neighbor for the extraordinary inconvenience of hosting a neighbor for less than forty-five minutes.

Three days later, Natalie let herself in Muriel’s front door without the courtesy of ringing the bell. She brought five copies of Muriel’s house key on five different key rings, all cheap, gaudy plastic, each one with a diaper-sized safety pin attached. She made a show of pinning one key into the pocket of each of Muriel’s coats and jackets, sighing loudly all the while, as if pinning keys was the most irksome task anyone could possibly imagine.

What would Natalie think if she saw her mother standing in Vernon’s yard with a shotgun aimed at her chest?

Vernon raised his eyebrows. “So, pretty lady. You thought about me, didn’t you? I knew you’d be back. I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep away. I could see it in your pretty eyes.”

“My grandson. He’s back by the car. He’s having a seizure. We can’t get our car started. You have to help. Please.”

Vernon’s mouth fell open. “I’ll get my keys.” He ran inside, ran out, slammed his front door shut, and then climbed behind the driver’s seat of the truck. There he sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, hurry up.”

Muriel pulled the heavy passenger door open then put her left foot on what seemed like a perilously high runner. She held onto the back of the passenger seat with her right hand to steady herself, her butt conspicuously pointing in the direction of the windshield. By the time she settled into her seat and snapped the rusted seatbelt into its lock on her fifth try, the truck had already rattled down the hill where Roxanne’s car was parked.

Kevin was walking around in a daze. His right foot dragged just the tiniest bit.

“Your grandson ain’t having no seizure now.” Vernon glared at Muriel.

He thought she was lying. “He was having a seizure when I left. He was lying on the ground, shaking from side to side. He still doesn’t look normal. See how his foot is dragging?”

“I am too normal! And don’t talk about me like I’m not even here.” Kevin’s speech was slurred.

Muriel moved a step closer, hand outstretched. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. What’s it to you?”

“You let your grandson talk to you like that?” Vernon shook his head. “No wonder you city folks think it’s fine to use my field without asking. Ungrateful jerks, the both of you.”

Muriel addressed Kevin again. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four.”

“And now?”

“Three. I’m not blind. I’m not stupid. I can count.”

Vernon joined in. “OK, son. There’s no need to be rude. Just bear with us. Seems like you bumped your head. That could be serious. We just want to make sure you’re all right. Do you know what year it is? Do you know who the president of the United States is? Just answer us. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

Kevin scowled. “If I could just get my pills, I’d be OK. I haven’t taken my pills for a long time. I’m supposed to take one every night. My father was right. I should have listened to him. I need to go home and get my pills.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” said Vernon. “Just get in the truck. Both of you.”