Have You Seen Luis Velez?(53)

“No.” Her tone was wry, as was the angle of her eyebrows. And the rest of her face. “It’s not.”

“So what’re you doing here?”

“I could ask much the same question of you.”

“No, seriously. What’re you doing here?”

She placed her hands on her hips, elbows wide. That was never a good sign.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but somebody at work wrote me a check, and I thought I’d cash it at their bank, because then it’s just like cash, you know? Not like income, like the IRS’ll ask me why I didn’t pay taxes on it if I ever get audited. Okay. Your turn.”

Raymond opened his mouth to speak. But just as he did, Patty called to him.

“Raymond! Raymond, honey, she needs you back now. We’re all done.”

His mother’s eyebrows did that wry thing again. Or maybe still, only more so.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He walked to the teller window to fetch Mrs. G. He reached out for her hand as he always did, and placed it on his upper arm. Then, having located the arm, she slid her own arm through it. And they walked together.

“Where did you go?” she asked. “It’s not like you to take off while I’m at the window. Not that I wasn’t okay there. I just wondered.”

“My mom is here.”

A lot came through in those simple words. He heard it in his own voice, and he knew Mrs. G heard it, too.

“I would love to meet her,” she said, leaving the subtext alone.

“Good. Because that seems to be where things are headed.”

He led her up to his mother and stopped a couple of steps away. It hit Raymond that the bank was only open for a couple of minutes more, and that his mother might not get her banking done at the rate they were going.

“Mom,” he said, “this is Mrs. Gutermann. She lives in our building, on the second floor. She needs help getting to the bank, so . . .” But he didn’t go on to finish his thought.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Mrs. G said to fill the silence.

She held out her hand. But his mother hadn’t said anything yet, or made any noise. So the hand ended up about thirty degrees to the right of its intended target. Raymond took hold of it and steered it closer to his mother, who reached out her own hand to take it.

They didn’t shake hands, exactly. It was more a gesture in which Mrs. G squeezed his mother’s hand, and his mother allowed it.

“You must be very proud of your wonderful son,” Mrs. G said. Her voice was glowing, if such a thing were possible. “He has been such a good friend to me. He helps me to do so many things that I don’t know how I would do on my own. And always with such a gracious attitude. I don’t know exactly what would go into raising such a caring and thoughtful young man, but you’ve obviously done your job well.”

Raymond’s mother turned her eyes to his face. She had caught on now, and realized she could do so without Mrs. G observing. So she questioned him with her eyes. And as she opened her mouth to answer Mrs. G, she never took her eyes off Raymond’s face.

“That’s all very interesting. How long has he been so helpful to you?”

“Oh, many months now. Since October, I believe. We have become very good friends. Haven’t we, Raymond?”

“Definitely,” Raymond said, the skin of his face feeling hot under his mother’s unwavering stare.

Raymond’s mom mouthed the words “many months.” Then she reached out and pinged Raymond hard in the middle of his forehead with one snap of her index finger.

“Ow,” Raymond said.

“Are you all right, Raymond?” Mrs. G asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing. It was just . . . nothing.” Raymond shot his eyes up to the clock. “Mom. The bank closes in, like, two minutes. If you don’t get up there and cash that check right now you’ll have come down here for nothing.”

“Good point. We’ll talk at home. Nice meeting you, Mrs. . . .”

“Gutermann. But Millie is fine. It was lovely meeting you, too.”

Then Raymond’s mother walked around them and was gone. And Raymond could breathe deeply again. He led Mrs. G to the door, where another customer, this time a young woman, held it open for them.

They stepped out onto the street together. For a time, they didn’t talk.

The weather was cool spring, the traffic noisy with the end-of-the-day commute. People pushed past them, sometimes jostling Raymond’s shoulder in their hurry to get by.

“So I never told her about helping you,” he said after a time.

“I sensed that.”

“It’s kind of hard to explain why.”

“You don’t need to. It’s all right. I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“It’s not a thing a boy brags about, having an old woman as a friend. It’s not exactly a point of pride.”

“I’m not ashamed of you. Not at all. It’s almost the opposite.”

They walked another half a block in silence. Another pedestrian nearly slammed into Raymond’s shoulder from behind in his hurry to get home.

“That you will have to explain to me, then,” she said. “Because I am not managing to imagine it on my own.”