Standing on the front porch is a little bright-eyed wren of a woman with a nimbus of untamed white curls; she’s wearing a black dress that has seen better days.
“My deepest condolences, dear. Amanda was a very special friend, and her loss is incalculable,” says Sarah Lincoln to the woman who answers the door. “I’m one of her friends from the book club. And you must be the beautiful daughter Jennie she bragged so much about.”
“No, I’m Melanie, Joshua’s wife. Please come join the visitation.”
Stepping in, the old woman beams, “The one with the twins! They delighted her so.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Melanie says as she ushers the woman toward the living room where thirty or so mourners, family members, and friends are gathered in quiet groups or around a potluck spread laid out in the adjoining dining room.
“My name is Helen McAdams,” is Sarah Lincoln’s well-rehearsed reply.
“Helen? I don’t remember her mentioning –” She trails off as she catches the flash of disappointment in the woman’s eyes, adding, “I didn’t know she was in a book club.”
The older woman confides, “Our guilty secret. We read trashy romances and call ourselves ‘Nine Shades of Gray’ and –” Her voice catches. “Now it’s just eight. Poor Amanda!” Blinking away tears, “And I’m worried about Jenny Endrich. She looked so frail at the last meeting.”
“Yes, so sad. Thank you for coming.” Melanie is saved from further book club drama by the bell. “I need to get that, er –”
“Helen,” Sarah Lincoln reminds her.
“Yes, Helen. Join her other friends and family, and please help yourself to something,” gesturing toward the food.
“Oh, I will. I will. Could you please point me to the bathroom first?”
The doorbell chimes again, and Melanie points to a side hall. “Two doors down on the right.”
Once locked in the bathroom, Sarah washes her face and touches up her minimal makeup, appraising herself in the mirror for a moment. How did it come to this: the vibrant, daring, live-for-the-moment hippie chick devolved into a decaying crone whose life now consists of funeral after funeral? She frowns as she opens the medicine cabinet. Then she smiles.
There’s a partly filled prescription bottle of Eliquis, retailing for up to $500 without insurance, and another unopened bottle! Those go in her handbag first. They’ll fetch probably $300 at a good nursing home. And look, a full 90-day supply of Oxy. She can get $15 apiece for them on the street. She tucks these down in her purse, too.
Leaving the bathroom, she checks the hallway. It’s clear, so she moves down to the largest bedroom. A quick scan tells her that, unbelievably, no one in the family seems to have grabbed up the good jewelry yet. There is a gold ring with a sizable sapphire and some ruby and pave diamond studs in the jewelry box; those she tucks into a small pocket hidden along the seam of her dress. She takes the pearl necklace, too, though her fence gripes the resale market for pearls is shit. If nothing else, she can wear them to the next funeral, add some pearl-clutching cred to her front.
Looking as if she lost her way, she wanders back to the dining room, but no one is paying attention. The solitary superpower of being an old gray woman: invisibility.
She loads up a plate with her first meal of the day. She can afford to be a bit picky in her selections; the newspaper’s obituary for Peter O’Donnell says the wake starts at five, so there’ll surely be something for supper along with the drinks and speeches. She nods and murmurs condolences to the few mourners circling the table, but mentally, she’s running through the details she gleaned from the O’Donnell listing.
Three sons. Ten grandchildren. Wife predeceased. Donations in lieu go to the Humane Society.
So, I’ll be Helen from the Humane Society.
She suppresses a smile. Then, grab the goods and I’ll be Helen Gone. She never tires of that joke.
Once her plate is full, she finds an overstuffed chair to sink into. Eat, rest her feet for ten minutes – it was a long bus ride and walk to get to the visitation, and another coming up in a few hours. She’ll be Helen Gone from here before anyone starts missing loot, though.
Besides, she’s going to be stuck in a chair plenty tomorrow, sitting Shiva at the Rosenfeld home. Very tony neighborhood. Art collector, according to the write-up. Should be some treasures to be found there.
Between bites of marinated mushrooms, she sighs, thinking again for the umpteenth time: It’s criminal how hard you’ve got to work to be retired.
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