HAZEL HAD two more official days of her much-longer-than-customary-at-this-office vacation, and only a few more things to attend to…before she had to come to some sort of decision…about what to do…now that everything had changed. Everything in her life was now different. Changed. The old had gone and the new, the “now,” wasn’t here just yet, but it certainly was about to arrive.
Hazel hoped she would be ready for it.
Her mother’s house had been broom-swept, and then some, in accordance with the Realtor’s request, and the windows had been professionally cleaned by a van’s worth of workers, each carrying a bucket, a rag, and a squeegee—perhaps clean for the first time in decades. Her mother’s eyesight at the end had been failing, so a smudgy window was the least of her worries.
A landscape crew had come in and spruced up the small lawn, trimming shrubs and edging around trees and beds. They had planted two new shrubs by the end of the walk and placed flowers into two large terra-cotta pots on either side of the front stoop. Hazel had had the front door repainted.
The house appeared as nice as Hazel could recall ever seeing it. But it was empty, and her steps echoed as she made one more pass through.
I could have painted a few of the rooms…
The Realtor had waved off her offer.
“This paint is okay. A little faded, and that’s not bad. People will repaint anyhow. Everyone wants to make a fresh start when they move in.”
There were no tasks remaining in her mother’s soon-to-be former house, nothing left for Hazel to do, so she locked the front door and drove to the cemetery. Cemeteries are quiet places, maybe more so on Thursdays, she thought.
Unless there’s an active funeral taking place.
She drove to where her mother’s grave was located, stopped the car, and walked slowly over the grass to the recently set headstone.
She stared down at the marker.
She read and re-read the Bible verse.
Maybe those plans God had were for me, she thought.
Then she looked up, cleared her throat, and narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t get it, Mother. This money could have been yours. And it was almost lost. I didn’t know it was there. You could have told me.”
Hazel folded her hands and prayed, one of her standard prayers, for peace and wisdom and for God to be merciful to her mother.
She looked up into the clouds.
“She did the best she could, God. She tried her best. And she was a good person. I told her about you. I did. Like I was supposed to. She listened. She nodded at the right times. She said she understood. She did. She said she understood. That means she believed, right? I suppose she could have just been humoring me, but God, this is all I have to hang on to. Those few nods. A smile. I thought she understood.”
Hazel could feel a tear forming. The first tear always came from her right eye.
“I don’t know if that’s enough for you, God. But it is all I have. If you’re merciful, she’s there with you now. She really did do the best she could.”
She looked down at the stone.
“And Mother, you could have told me about the stocks,” she said aloud. “You could have least hinted at it. Now, all of a sudden, I’m rich.”
She took a deep breath.
Over the crest of the hill to the west, she caught the reflection off the windshield of a hearse as it slowly made its way into the cemetery. Only a single car followed.
She looked back down at the headstone.
“So what do I do? Really, Mom, what do I do now?”
Wilson and Thurman stood on the front step as Emily and Gretna drove away. Wilson offered a half-wave and Thurman barked—twice.
Wilson sighed loudly and Thurman looked up at him, a puzzled look on the dog’s face.
“It’s hard, Thurman, that’s all. I don’t know what she wants me to do. I don’t know what I want to do.”
Thurman appeared to nod in agreement, then he shook his head, his ears making flapping noises as he did so. Then he growled up at Wilson.
Hungry.
Wilson stared back at the dog.
“You know, I am simply projecting all this talking onto you, right? You know that, right? You know you can’t talk. I know you can’t talk. Let’s be honest here, Thurman.”
Thurman smiled and nodded again, or looked like he nodded. Then he growled again.
Hungry.
Wilson stared for a moment, as if waiting for some spark of clarity, or understanding. None occurred. So he shrugged and entered his house, Thurman a step or two behind, his nails clackering on the wooden floor. Wilson measured out a generous serving of kibbles, poured it into Thurman’s dish, and made a second cup of coffee as Thurman nibbled, with great canine daintiness, at his evening meal.
Wilson sighed again and Thurman interrupted his eating to walk over to him and gently butt his head against his thigh. Without growling, without saying anything, he stared up at Wilson.
Wilson reached down and patted at the dog’s head. Thurman smiled and returned to his dinner.
After a few minutes, Thurman had finished eating. He sat down, facing Wilson.
Hungry.
Wilson shook his head.
“No. We do this every night, Thurman. I even called Dr. Stansing about this.”
Not vet, Thurman whisper-growled, almost under his breath, muttering in a dog growl, dismissing Dr. Stansing, but doing so politely.
“I know he’s not a vet. But he has dogs. And he’s a doctor. He should know. He said a cup and a quarter, maybe a cup and a half, is all a dog your size needs.”
Bunkum.
Wilson smiled. The two of them had gone through the very same thing before, holding the same discussion, at least a few times a week.
Wilson decided that Thurman might be intelligent, but he had a problem with short-term memory.
Or perhaps he just liked to repeat things, like a toddler relishing the hundredth time a storybook is read to them. Safety and security in repetition. Wilson recalled that truth from a psychology class he took decades ago.
Thurman looked back at his bowl and snorted, as if finally realizing that it was not going to be refilled. Then he looked back at Wilson and smiled.
Then he growled.
“What?”
He growled again.
“Emily? Is that what you’re trying to say? Emily?”
Thurman grinned and stood and walked to Wilson, raising up and placing his front paws on his thigh.
Pretty.
Wilson shrugged.
“I suppose. But young. Much younger than me.”
Thurman tilted his head as if what Wilson said made no sense.
He growled again.
Pretty.
Then he bounced back to the floor and trotted over to the back door.
Wilson sighed.
“You want to go for a real walk?”
Thurman bounded up and ran to the front door, nails machine-gunning on the floor.
“I could use some time to think,” Wilson said.
Walk, Thurman growled happily. Walk. Walkies-walkies-walkies-walkies.
Emily insisted on walking Gretna back upstairs to her apartment.
“I can manage,” Gretna objected. “Really. I’ll be fine.”
Emily smiled her best long-suffering smile. “I know. But I would feel so much better if I see you get home safe.”
Gretna shrugged in submission.
“I guess taking care of your mother-in-law is hard, isn’t it?” Gretna said. “This is what it’s like, isn’t it?”
Emily’s smile did not evaporate, not really, but it did wither.
“It is. But I don’t mind.”
She pressed the elevator button and it clicked as it lit up.
Gretna let the obvious lie go unchecked. At least Gretna thought it was a lie.
Maybe she doesn’t mind. Maybe she’s okay with it. After all, there are people who want to be podiatrists and urologists. Go figure. Or dentists.
Gretna fumbled with the key, then held it close to her eyes, checking to see which side had the ridges.
“I can do that,” Emily said, gently reaching for and taking the keys, inserting each into its lock before finally opening the door.
“There you go,” she said as she handed Gretna back her keys.
Gretna stepped inside, then quickly turned back.
“You believe in God, don’t you?” she asked, peering a little at Emily’s face, watching her expression.
Emily hesitated only a few heartbeats.
“I do.”
Gretna leaned closer.
“Which one?”
It was obvious that Emily wanted to laugh, and her smile broadened, but she quickly drew herself to a serious look again.
“The only one.”
Gretna remained questioning.
“Not just the Jewish one?”
Emily’s mother-in-law was Jewish and had mentioned once, when she had an episode of clarity, that Emily, who was “such a good daughter-in-law,” had been born in Israel.
Emily reached out and took Gretna’s hand in hers.
“They are actually the same God, Gretna. But I believe in the God of the New Testament.”
Gretna looked down at her hand.
“That’s the same one as me, right?” Gretna asked. “The real one, right?”
“It is.”
Gretna nodded.
“Good.”
Emily’s smile had a wistful, almost sorrowful tilt to it.
“Though there were times…after my husband…when it was hard. It’s still hard. But I believe. I do.”
Gretna pulled Emily closer.
“Then I can tell you this: I think Thurman talks to God. Or maybe it is vice versa. I can’t tell for sure.”
Emily’s surprise was more than obvious.
“He does?”
“He does. And he told me today that you’re not supposed to be worried anymore. That it will all work out.”
“He did?”
Gretna’s nod was firm and decisive.
“It will all work out, he says. For me. For you. And for Wilson.”
Emily’s face bore…well, not a laughing-at-you look, but one of tenderness and understanding. It was apparent that she had faced the same manner of statements from her mother-in-law on more than one occasion.
“I’m glad, Gretna. That makes me feel good.”
Gretna squeezed Emily’s hand.
“Good. We believe in God. And I believe in Thurman. And that settles it.”
Gretna’s door latched with a metallic finality.
And Emily walked back toward the elevator, smiling and shaking her head just a little, obviously exhibiting equal measures of pity and amusement and skepticism, if not downright disbelief.