Chương 4
“I assumed you weren’t dressed like this for me.”
“It was for the hospice foundation.”
“I know.”
“They put his photograph on the program.”
“I know that too.”
“Of course you do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you know everything I do before I do it.”
“Because he was my son.”
“And he was my husband.”
The words settled between them again.
Corinne pulled a chair out and sat.
“I spent eighteen months watching him wake up at three in the morning to check reservation numbers because he thought if one dining room filled up, everything would be fixed. Then he got sick. Then the treatments cost money the insurance didn’t cover. Then he couldn’t work, and he still wouldn’t close the second restaurant because he said seventy people had jobs because of him. Every time I tried to make him choose what we could actually save, he said he needed another month.”
“You could have told me.”
“He told me not to.”
“You listened?”
“Sometimes.”
Eulalia almost snapped back.
Instead she touched the edge of the tissue.
One spot of blood had dried brown.
“Did you tell him to take my house?”
“Yes.”
The answer was quiet.
No excuse followed it.
Eulalia felt something inside her settle and harden.
Corinne’s honesty did not make the act smaller.
Perhaps that was why it hurt more.
“You told him.”
“I told him that you had more house than you could maintain and we had debt we couldn’t survive. I said putting the title with him would let us borrow enough to keep the businesses operating until we sold one.”
“You said I wouldn’t understand.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did you think I wouldn’t understand?”
“That he was failing.”
Eulalia looked toward Neftalí’s photograph.
Corinne continued.
“He couldn’t stand you seeing him fail.”
“He was allowed to fail.”
“He didn’t believe that.”
“I never told him otherwise.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The accusation was delivered so softly that Eulalia almost missed it.
She turned back.
Corinne met her eyes.
“You thought he could fix everything. He thought so too.”
“That is not my crime.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re making it sound like one.”
“No. I’m telling you why he lied to you.”
“You’re telling me why you think he lied.”
“Yes.”
At least Corinne corrected herself.
That small concession annoyed Eulalia more than a fight would have.
She rose carefully.
“I’m sleeping here tonight.”
Corinne’s mouth tightened.
“The house is being shown at ten tomorrow.”
“Cancel it.”
“The buyer is flying in.”
“Then let them enjoy the airport.”
“I signed a listing agreement.”
“And I signed away half my house while chopping onions.”
Corinne flinched.
Eulalia picked up the box.
The movement sent pain along her ribs.
Corinne saw it.
Neither mentioned it.
“Your room isn’t made up.”
“I know where sheets are.”
“Most of your linens are packed.”
“Then I’ll unpack them.”
“Eulalia.”
She turned.
Corinne looked suddenly exhausted. The effect was strange against the red satin.
“If you challenge the deed, the sale stops.”
“Yes.”
“The creditors won’t stop.”
“Not my problem.”
“It becomes your problem if the house is tied up.”
“That is what attorneys are for.”
“And what do you think the letter does to Neftalí?”
Eulalia felt her grip tighten on the box.
Corinne glanced toward the urn.
“He admits it himself. He deceived you. He used your property as collateral. If you challenge the transfer, that letter won’t only hurt me.”
“He told me not to protect him.”
“He’s dead.”
“That doesn’t make him innocent.”
Corinne looked at her in surprise.
Eulalia was surprised too.
For thirty-nine days she had treated every criticism of Neftalí as a desecration.
That reflex was still there.
But something else had appeared beside it.
A memory of yellow signature tabs.
She climbed the stairs slowly.
No one stopped her.
Her bedroom smelled like cardboard.
Corinne had not exaggerated. Almost everything was packed. The mattress remained, stripped bare beneath a plastic cover. Two lamps sat unplugged on the floor.
Eulalia opened the closet.
Empty hangers clicked together.
She stood there until her legs hurt.
Then she found the bin marked EULALIA—CABIN.
Inside were flannel pajamas, hiking socks, an old flashlight, three sweaters, a wool cap, and the paperback mysteries she kept at the mountain place.
Corinne had packed for permanence.
That mattered more than whether she had remembered the electric bill.
Eulalia found a fitted sheet in another tub.
Making the bed took twenty minutes because bending hurt.
Halfway through, she sat on the mattress and stared at the wall.
The room had once been Neftalí’s.
After he left for college, Eulalia had waited four years before repainting it. Even then she kept the tiny pencil marks inside the closet door where her husband had recorded their son’s height.
At fourteen: five feet six.
At fifteen: five feet nine.
At seventeen: six feet.
Neftalí had become six feet one and never stopped reminding his father that the final inch had gone undocumented.
Eulalia opened the closet door.
The marks were still there.
She touched the highest one.
Then she saw something on the floor.
A white adhesive square where a real-estate photographer had marked tripod position.
She peeled it up and threw it away.
Downstairs, drawers opened and closed.
Corinne was probably changing out of the gown.
For a moment Eulalia pictured going downstairs and continuing the argument until morning.
Instead she finished the bed.
The next day began badly because everything hurt more.
Her face had darkened overnight. Both eyes were swollen. She discovered a bruise across her left hip the size of a dinner plate. Her cardigan smelled faintly of the cabin, wood dust and old smoke.
She considered changing.
Then she decided not to.
Corinne was in the kitchen when she came downstairs, wearing black pants and a cream sweater.
Coffee had been made.
A mug sat at Eulalia’s usual place.
“You think coffee fixes fraud?” Eulalia asked.
May you like
“No. I think you drink coffee.”
Eulalia sat.
