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He approaches her with a smile and holds out a hand. Mostly these days she greets people with a Covid-aware elbow bump, but he’s wearing gloves and she’s wearing mittens (not really necessary on a day this warm, nor is the scarf, but the ensemble makes a fashion statement), so it’s okay.
“What can I do for you this fine mild day?”
Barbara Robinson smiles. “It’s actually your wife I was hoping to see. I wanted to ask her about something.”
Based on the folder she’s holding so protectively to her bosom, he guesses it’s the Writer’s Workshop she’s interested in. He could tell her that she’s probably too young for the program—most of the wannabe writers who attend are in their twenties and thirties. He could also tell her it seems more and more likely that there won’t be a workshop program this fall. Jim Shepard has passed, and few other pro writers have expressed an interest. The department’s current scribbler in residence, Henry Stratton, has also turned down a return engagement. He told English Department head Rosalyn Burkhart that the idea of remote learning in an intensive writing program was absurd. According to Emily, who got it from Rosalyn, Stratton said it would be like making love while wearing boxing gloves.
But let Em give pretty Little Red Riding Hood the bad news; he is just a humble (and retired) biology prof.
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to speak with you, Miss—”
“I’m Barbara. Barbara Robinson.”
“Very nice to meet you, Barbara. Just ring the bell. My wife is elderly, but her hearing is acute.”
Barbara smiles at this. “Thank you.” She starts up the walk to the house, then turns back. “You should do your van, too. My dad had one when I was little, and the muffler fell off on the Interstate. He said the salt ate right through it.”
So she did see it, Roddy thinks. I really have to be more careful.
“I appreciate the tip.”
Would she remember? Did she see anything she shouldn’t have seen? Roddy thinks not. Roddy thinks Little Red Riding Hood, aka Barbara Robinson, is only interested in whatever uncut gems of writing she’s carrying in her folder. Dreaming of being the next Toni Morrison or Alice Walker. But he will have to be even more careful in the future. All the fault of that button in the wrong place, he thinks. Idiotic engineering. My memory is fine.
He turns on the hose and directs it at the side of the Subaru. The salt begins to wash away, revealing the gleaming green paint beneath. He was looking forward to this, but now not so much. The girl, pretty as she is in her red gear, has darkened his mood.
Barbara gives him a final wave, goes up the front walk, and rings the bell. The door opens and Em stands there, looking no more than seventy in a green silk dress, her hair fresh from the beauty parlor that morning. Hair Today is supposed to be closed because of the pandemic, but Helen makes exceptions for longtime customers who tip well through the year and remember her at Christmas.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“I wonder if I could talk to you. It’s about…” Barbara gulps. “It’s about writing.”
Em looks at the folder, then gives Barbara an apologetic smile. “If it concerns the Writer’s Workshop, they are not taking any new applications. The fall-winter program is rather up in the air, I’m afraid. This sickness, you know.”
“No, it’s not that.”
Emily gazes at her visitor for a moment: pretty, sturdy, obviously healthy, and—of course—young. She looks over the girl’s shoulder and sees Roddy looking at them as the hose sprays the driveway. That will freeze if the temperature drops tonight, she thinks. You should know better. Then she returns her eyes to the girl in red. “What’s your name, my dear?”
“Barbara Robinson.”
“Well, Barbara, why don’t you come inside and tell me what it is about.”
She stands aside. Barbara walks into the house. Em closes the door. Roddy continues washing the trim green wagon.
July 24, 2021
1
Holly arrives at Meadowbrook Estates forty-five minutes before the time she and Counselor Emerson agreed on. Holly is early for everything, Uncle Henry liked to say. She’ll be early to her own funeral. For that one she’ll probably be right on time—no choice—but she signed on to her mother’s Zoom funeral fifteen minutes early, which more or less proves Uncle Henry’s point.
She doesn’t go directly to the house but stops on the corner of Hancock Street, keeping an eye on the step van parked in her late mother’s driveway. The van is bright red except for the company name on the side: A.D. CLEANING, in yellow. As the owner and chief sleuth (gumshoe, hawkshaw, dick, and keyhole-peeper are less dignified terms) of a private investigation company, Holly has seen such vans a time or two before. A.D. stands for After Death.
In this case they will only be vacuuming and wiping down every surface with disinfectant (must not neglect the light switches, flush handles, even the door hinges). After violent deaths, and after the police forensic units have done their work, the A.D. crew comes in to clean up blood and vomit, cart away broken furniture, and of course fumigate. The last is particularly important when it comes to meth labs. Holly might actually know one or two members of this crew, but she doesn’t want to see or talk to them. She rolls down her window, lights a cigarette, and waits.
At ten-forty, two A.D. employees come out with their bulky cases slung over their shoulders. They are wearing gloves, coveralls, and masks. Regular N95s, not the gas masks sometimes necessary after violent deaths. The lady in this house died of so-called natural causes, and in the hospital, so it’s strictly a Covid wipedown, easy-peasy, quick in and quick out. They exchange a nod. One of them tapes an envelope—red, like the step van—to the front door. They hop in their van and drive away. Holly reflexively lowers her head as they go by.
She puts her cigarette butt in her traveling ashtray (freshly cleaned that morning but already containing three dead soldiers) and drives down to 42 Lily Court, the house her mother bought six years ago. She pulls the envelope off the door and opens it. The enclosed sheets of paper (only two; following a suicide or murder there would have been many more) detail the services performed. The last line reads ITEMS REMOVED: 0. Holly believes that, and David Emerson must also have believed it. A.D. has been around for years, they’re bonded, their reputation in this less than pleasant but utterly necessary field is impeccable… and besides, what did her mother have to steal? Her dozens of china figurines, including the Pillsbury Doughboy and the leering Pinocchio that used to give Holly the horrors as a little girl?
For a millionaire she lived cheap, Holly thinks. This awakens feelings that aren’t a part of her usual emotional spectrum. Resentment? Yes, but mostly it’s anger and disappointment.
