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She was kneeling in the dirt, tilling with a gardening trowel, when she heard someone call out.
She put down her trowel and stood up, brushing the dirt off her oversized gloves.
A small, older woman was crossing the street, coming toward the gate. She was dressed in dark-washed jeans and a white sweatshirt that had been bedazzled to read: WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA. Her black hair had a skunklike streak of stark white along the part, and framed a round, apple-cheeked face with a pointed chin.
“Oh,” the woman said, stopping abruptly. “It’s you. ”
Dorothy peeled the gloves off and tucked them into her sagging waistband. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she walked to the fence line. She was about to say, I don’t know you, when a memory struck.
I’m lying on the sofa, spread-eagled, with a mound of weed on my stomach. I try to smile at the do-gooder who has just walked into the house, but I am so high all I can do is laugh and swear. Tallulah is bright red with embarrassment.
“You’re oven-mitt-girl’s mom,” Dorothy said quietly. “From across the street. ”
“Margie Mularkey. And yes, to my daughter’s horror, I sent her over here with a hot casserole in about 1974. You were … indisposed. ”
“High. And probably drunk. ”
Margie nodded. “I came to see what was going on over here. I didn’t know you’d moved in. The house has been empty for a long time. I should have noticed, but … we’ve had a tough year. Been gone a lot. ”
“I could keep an eye on the place for you. Collect your mail. ” The moment the offer slipped out, Dorothy felt exposed. A nice woman like Margie Mularkey, who welcomed neighbors and probably quilted, would never accept help from someone like Dorothy.
“That would be nice. I’d appreciate it. There’s a milk box on the porch. Maybe you could put the mail in there. ”
“I could do that. ”
Margie glanced away. She was looking down the empty road, staring right into the sun through her big tinted glasses. “The girls used to sneak out at night and ride their bikes on this road. They thought I didn’t know. ” At that, her legs seemed to give out on her and Margie crumpled to the ground.
Dorothy opened the gate and went to the woman, helping her to stand. Holding on to her elbow, she guided the woman down to the patio area in the backyard, and into a dirty birchwood chair. “I … uh … haven’t cleaned the outdoor furniture yet. ”
Margie laughed dully. “It’s June. Summer just started. ” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Dorothy sat cross-legged on the weed-choked cement patio, watching a tear slip down the woman’s round cheek and splash on her veiny hand.
“Don’t mind me,” Margie said. “I’ve been holding this in too long. ”
“Oh. ”
“Katie, my daughter,” Margie said, “has cancer. ”
Dorothy had no idea what people said at a time like this. I’m sorry seemed pathetic and obvious, and what else was there?
“Thank you,” Margie said into the silence.
Dorothy breathed in some of the secondhand menthol smoke. “What for?”
“Not saying, ‘She’ll be fine,’ or, worse, ‘I’m sorry. ’”
“Bad shit happens,” Dorothy said.
“Yeah. I didn’t used to know that. ”
“How’s Tully?”
“She’s with Katie now. ” Margie looked up. “I think she’d like it if you went to see her. She just quit her TV show. ”
Dorothy tried to smile but couldn’t. “I’m not ready. I’ve hurt her a few times too many. Don’t want to do it again. ”
“Yes,” Margie said. “She’s always been more fragile than she seems. ”
