OLIVER HAD FINISHED HIS ROUNDS and Mattie had finished her audit. The lobby was mostly quiet as they hung around her desk talking about nothing in particular. Oliver was trying hard not to think about her alleged criminal past when Mattie picked up the phone and began to dial. “Guess I’d better check my messages. See if anyone’s interested in leasing my apartment yet.”
She dialed and listened, her pen poised over her Hello Kitty stationery. Apparently no one called because she didn’t write anything down. When she hung up, Oliver said, “I should probably do that too.”
“What? Lease my apartment?”
“Check my messages.”
“Give me the number,” she said. “I’ll dial it for you”
He recited his phone number along with the access code, secretly enjoying the intimacy but trying not to show it. When she offered the receiver, he waved her off. “Go ahead, you can listen for me.”
“Sounds like two messages,” Mattie said. “One from a place called Shady Grove, someone named Betsy, and she wants you to call her back. And the other one sounds like a wrong number.”
She scribbled the words “Shady Grove” followed by the name “Ida” and slid it across her desk to Oliver. He was staring at Betsy’s name in Mattie’s handwriting, feeling oddly guilty for the small crush he used to have on the friendly receptionist.
“What’s this Shady Grove place?” Mattie asked.
“Kind of an old folks’ home,” Oliver said. “My mother lives there, although she’s not really that old.”
“I was planning to change the subject.”
Mattie crossed her arms and stared. She used the non-blinking one.
“Okay.” Oliver sighed, collected his thoughts, and plunged in. “My mother was arrested several years ago for assaulting a couple of cops. At some point a police shrink claimed she had suicidal tendencies, so they sentenced her to a minimum-security nut house. She was in there for a couple of years until the new governor started making budget cuts and talking about overcrowding. I was afraid they were going to move her across the state, but then I got a call one day from a doctor named Strahan who runs Shady Grove, asking if he could move my mother into their new facility. It took about ten minutes of walking the grounds for me to agree.”
“Guess that explains your moonlighting. Those places are typically pretty pricey.”
“Oh, I’m not paying for it. Frankly, I was so happy to get her out of the dingy jailhouse conditions, I never really thought to ask about the details.”
“Okay, so now I know where she lives, but nothing about your actual mother.”
“There’s not much to tell, really. She never finished high school, but she’s convinced she’s a nurse. She claims she had an affair with a famous novelist from New England. And the last time she actually recognized me was more than five years ago.”
“That explains it,” Mattie said.
“Explains what?”
“Why you like to hear your name so much.” Oliver opened his mouth to respond—to deny or excuse or maybe even defend himself—but ended up closing it again when Mattie grinned at him and said, “So, Oliver … is your mother sick?”
“It’s mostly self-inflicted. I used to think she just checked out, that she chose to drink herself into oblivion.”
“And now?”
“It seems more complicated than that. A lot of bad choices about bad men, some feeble self-esteem, a rickety batch of genetics.”
“How much do you blame yourself?”
“What about today?”
“Today, I’m hungry. I try not to do guilt on an empty stomach.”
“How about breakfast instead?” Mattie asked. “My treat?”
“Why do I sense there’s a catch?”
“What’s that lady’s name again? Edna?”
“Ida.”
“Have you ever talked to her?”
“Not on purpose. But apparently there was a locksmith named Clifton who used to rescue Ida when she locked herself out of her car, her house, her tool shed, probably her high school locker. I’ve tried to explain to her that whoever she’s trying to reach has moved or changed their number or gone out of business. But she always ends up saying, ‘Just tell Clifton I called.’”
“So let’s call her back.”
“What? Who?”
“The lock lady.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
But he knew she wasn’t. It took some goading, but Oliver eventually recited the number. As Mattie dialed he said, “By the way, you didn’t see my notebook lying around the hotel, did you?”
“Yep, you left it on a table in the lobby the night Max came by.”
“Really? Do you know what hap —?”
Mattie shushed him. She handed the phone to Oliver and started dialing.
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Tell her we’re going to come look at her locks for her.”
“You know how to fix locks?”
“I know how to google it. Come on, Oliver, how hard can it really be?”
The phone rang in his ear.
“What if we get there and it doesn’t work? All we end up doing is getting this lady’s hopes up.”
“If we can’t actually fix it, we’ll call a real locksmith. Or maybe just buy her a new set of locks and have them keyed like her old ones. It’s not like her key ring will know the difference.”
“Just like that?” The phone rang again. “Just buy her new locks?”
“Try to think of it as an investment in character.”
When Ida finally answered, she sounded more suspicious than grateful, and kept insisting to speak to Clifton. Eventually Mattie commandeered the phone, claiming to be Oliver’s supervisor, and promised Ida that they would be there within the hour to solve her doorknob problems.
They stopped by Home Depot on the way, where Mattie picked out three identical boxes of the most expensive lockset in the store before proceeding to the self-checkout line. As she scanned items and swiped her card, she said, “So how’s the comedy career coming?”
“Good,” he said, trying to sound casually professional. But it sounded childish and proud in Oliver’s ears. “I even have a manager now.”
The machine kept beeping and asking Mattie to swipe her card again. “Yeah?” Mattie sounded distracted, bordering on frustration. “Who is it?”
“A guy named Barry.”
“Not Barry Sherman, I hope.”
“Well …”
“Good luck with that,” she said. “That man is a snake.”
Oliver was fighting the urge to defend Barry when Mattie jammed her credit card back into her wallet in frustration. “Don’t suppose you could float me a loan?”
He bellied up to the machine, feeling much more heroic than he deserved, and swiped his Visa card.
Mattie alternated between perusing the lockset instructions and giving Oliver directions to Ida’s house. The lady proved to be even more suspicious in person, wanting to know where their work van was, why they weren’t wearing coveralls or carrying clipboards. But Mattie had a soothing excuse for everything. She began twisting locks and inserting keys as soon as she stepped inside. Oliver was struck by the smell—a sickening combination of chicken soup and cough drops—as Ida guided him to the parlor. While Mattie worked, Ida treated Oliver to blow-by-blow descriptions of the diagnoses and treatments of goiters, gout, two failed hysterectomies, glaucoma, hemorrhoid surgery, several bouts of pneumonia, root canals, and various infections caused by dirty instruments and inexperienced doctors. Between anecdotes, Ida offered Oliver a candy dish filled with moldy mints and diseased cashews. She was asking his opinion on plastic surgery (she was thinking of having her eyes done) when Mattie mercifully announced that she was finished.
It took Ida three tries to extract herself from her recliner. Mattie’s pride was apparent as she showed off her handiwork.
“You mean I can use the same key for all three doors?” Ida said.
“Yep,” Mattie said as she began piling all the old hardware into the Home Depot bags.
“Wait,” Ida said. “What are you going to do with those old locks? I mean … I realize they’re forty years old. But they’ve been with me a long time.”
“I understand,” Mattie said, then placed the bag on Ida’s sofa. “Guess we’d better be going then.”
“But what am I supposed to do with all of these?” Ida’s hand shook as she opened her palm to reveal four shiny new keys.
“If it were me,” Mattie said, “I’d keep one in my purse, hide one on the porch, give one to a neighbor, and give one to your favorite relative.”
Ida went so still that Oliver wondered if she’d fallen asleep on her feet. When she looked up her eyes were moist. “Would you keep one for me?”
“I’d be happy to,” Mattie said. She wrapped Ida into a warm, lingering hug as Oliver inspected a hangnail.
When they turned to leave, Ida said, “Wait, what do I owe you?”
“Oh, there’s no charge,” Mattie said. Then she leaned in close and said, “Actually, can I tell you a little secret?”
Ida nodded.
Mattie cupped her hand, motioned toward Oliver, and whispered, “This is his first day on the job.”
Ida looked scandalized. “You mean he’s never done this before?”
“A total rookie,” Mattie said. “So it just wouldn’t be right to ask you to pay for his education.”
• • •
Back in the car, Mattie said, “Guess we’ll have to eat breakfast at the hotel later.”
“I’m not sure I can wait twelve hours for breakfast.” That’s when Oliver looked at the dashboard clock and realized they’d been at Ida’s house for over two hours. Moldy mints and decaying nuts never seemed so appetizing before.
Mattie motioned toward her purse and shrugged. “You take rain checks?”
“I guess I have no choice.”
“You know,” Mattie said, “you should put some of those Ida stories in your act. She was pretty hilarious.”
In truth, Oliver had been logging away potential material all evening. But most of his attention had been focused on the adorable philanthropist who decided to forgo dinner and impersonate a locksmith, not the old lady with her funky party favors and faulty locks.
It wouldn’t dawn on Oliver until days later, as he watched the simulcast version of Mattie roaming various hallways of the Harrington, that maybe there was a reason she was so proficient with locks. It also made him wonder what Mattie had planned for Ida’s spare key.