“I didn’t sell it to the county,” Arthur said, finally looking up. His eyes were red around the rims, the small veins in the whites standing out dark and angry. “I sold it to Helen’s father. Or rather, Helen’s father bought out my share to keep the creditors from seizing it and dragging our family name through the local paper. It was supposed to be a quiet transaction. A bridge loan disguised as a sale, with an option to buy back once things stabilized.”
“And things never stabilized,” I said, the pieces clicking together with a cold, sickening clarity.
“They didn’t,” Arthur said. “Construction bottomed out, the subprime mess hit two years later, and I lost my truck, my savings, and my marriage all in the same eighteen-month stretch. Helen took what was left of her personal accounts and moved three states over to live with her sister in Missouri. I never saw her again. I figured the land was gone forever, swallowed up by her family out of spite.”
“Except it wasn’t,” I said, tapping the yellow paper against my palm. “Mom kept paying something. Or Mom made sure the option stayed open.”
“Mom didn’t have that kind of money,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “She was living on her social security and a tiny pension from the school district.”
“Mom lived in the same three-room ranch house for forty years without ever buying a new car or taking a vacation that didn’t involve a Greyhound bus to visit our cousins,” I said. “She didn’t spend money on herself, Arthur. Ever.”
Before Arthur could reply, the heavy double doors pushed open and the first wave of card club members walked in, stamping the wet slush from their boots onto the rubber mats by the entrance. Mrs. Gable hurried over with a tray of paper coffee cups, and we had to drop the conversation right there, smiling through tight lips as old Mrs. Higgins offered her condolences and patted my arm with a hand that felt like dry parchment.
For the next two hours, we went through the motions of a rural community center memorial. People drank lukewarm coffee from Styrofoam cups, shared stories about Mom’s fierce competitiveness during Friday night pinochle tournaments, and spoke in hushed, polite tones that echoed strangely off the high gym ceiling. Arthur played the part of the grieving, attentive son, shaking hands and accepting sympathy cards with a grave, steady expression that gave away nothing of what was sitting in my coat pocket.
When the last of the guests filtered out around two in the afternoon, leaving behind a faint smell of damp wool and instant coffee, Arthur looked at me across the empty room.
“We need to go to her house,” he said.
