What I Thought Was True(103)

So many moments of Mrs. E.’s are laid out on the table, like silver fish resting on ice at Fillerman’s. I wonder if Henry even knows the stories. And if he does . . . how can he possibly sell them?

“Guinevere? Where’s Mother?” His brow draws together.

He straightens, somehow seeming to make himself taller. “I’d assumed she was napping, but there was no sign of either her or you.”

“At Abenaki with the ladies,” I say flatly. God, I’m suddenly so tired. I could sit at the blue enamel painted chair, rest my head on my arms, just go to sleep. Except that I’d have to move aside the silver first.

357

357



“You left my nearly ninety-year-old mother on the beach.

With a bunch of eighty-year-olds to watch over her. This seemed like a responsible choice to you?”

He’s peering over his reading glasses, literally looking down at me.

It isn’t until I shove my hand into the pocket of my jean skirt and hear the crackle of paper that I remember what it is. Dad’s had extra loads of laundry lately. This was my one clean skirt. I didn’t think twice when I put it on this morning.

I pull out the check that Henry Ellington gave me, holding it out of sight.

I took it, that day Henry offered it. I don’t need to open it again to see the amount, scrawled firmly in blue ballpoint pen. I haven’t deposited it. But I didn’t tear it up either. I never threw it away.

“Do you have an answer for me, Guinevere?” he asks.

Last night, I finally asked Mom why she named me Guinevere, after a woman no one admired. We were eating ice cream on the porch, passing the spoon back and forth, nearly over our heads to avoid the hopeful, slightly toothless leaps of Fabio.

“Really, Gwen, honey? I always liked her. She wasn’t a wimp or a simp like that Elaine. Not helpless, asking someone to res-cue her. Knew she loved them both. Mr. Honorable and Mr.

Heroic. Arthur and Lancelot. I always thought she was the star of her own story. At least she knew what was really going on.”

Which, of course I do.

So yes, I do, in fact, have an answer.

I smooth the check out on the kitchen table. Next to the fish knives. The silver ashtrays. All the stories. Henry Ellington looks down at it, his face showing nothing at all.

358

358



The day Dad gave me his “she’s loaded and she’s losing it”

advice, I never thought it would actually apply to me, and defi-nitely not like this.

I take a breath.

“Mr. Ellington,” I say. “You told me you were giving me this because I deserved a little extra. I don’t think you meant that.

I don’t think you admire my work ethic. I don’t think you like me or value my service. I think you expect my silence.”

His face crumples for a moment, the lines of his cheeks, his eyes, all contracting, freezing. Then he holds out a hand, palm outraised, like my words are traffic he’s stopping. “I don’t think you understand my position here, Guinevere. I’m protecting my mother. A helpless old woman.”

Helpless old woman, my ass.

“Mr. Ellington.” I close my eyes. Another deep breath. Open them. “Does she really want . . . does she really need . . .

your”—I raise my fingers to form air quotes—“protection?”

Henry’s face flushes crimson. “It’s my job,” he says. “My mother is . . . elderly. Not in full possession of her . . .” He darts a look out the window, as though making sure we won’t be overheard, even as his own voice rises. “Damn it, why am I explaining this to you? Mother’s getting older, times have changed, and she just won’t make allowances for reality. When she goes, I’m going to have this entire estate to deal with, all of her promises, her debts of honor that don’t matter anymore.

Her special bequests to schools she hasn’t been to for seventy years, to people like Beth McHenry, who cleaned the house— cleaned the house, scrubbed the toilets, and changed the sheets, while I was spending all my time working in a job to support 359

359



this summer home”—he says “summer home” as though it’s an expletive—“a place I barely get the chance to visit, a life-style that’s run its course. Yard boys and night nurses and summer help, cooks and cleaners, you, and that damned expensive end-of-the-summer party she always has. Her finances, all of our finances, have taken a hit in the market. But try telling my mother that! She’s never even had to balance a checkbook!”

He crosses over to the bar, splashes some amber liquid into a glass, goes to the freezer for ice. Instead of taking the time to smash the pieces with his little hammer thing, he just drops them into the sink, hard, then picks up the shattered bits and dumps them into the glass, tips it back, swallows.

“All this . . . drama . . . would upset her,” he mutters.

Don’t upset your mother. Dad’s refrain from that summer with Vovó.

“I can’t tell her,” he repeats.

Can’t. Won’t. Are afraid to?

I know all about all three.

“Have . . . have you tried?” The words seem to catch in my throat, it’s so hard to say them. Just a job. Not my place. But . . .

He doesn’t answer. Takes another sip.