Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [100]
Mr. Gary runs his fingers through his hair, which is even lighter than mine. Nell told me his comes out of a bottle. “The doctors don’t think it’s her heart this time.”
Like she’s been studying Mother’s maroon medical book day and night and is quite the authority, Troo says, “Really? Huh. I thought for sure it was.”
“It must be her tummy then,” I say. I’m sure Ethel already told him how sour his mother’s stomach has been on their every-Sunday long-distance phone calls. “It’s really been botherin’ her no matter how much Pepto she takes.”
Mr. Gary lays down his cards, picks up his whiskey drink and gives Troo and me such a serious look. I am getting the feeling that he didn’t just invite us over here to play Old Maid. “I want . . . I need to ask you two a couple of questions,” he says. “Is that okay?”
The O’Malley sisters can only nod because we’ve got bites of Mississippi brownies in our mouths.
“Have you seen or heard anything unusual going on around here lately?”
I gotta try hard as I can not to see or hear anything unusual going on around here. Things are getting unusualer by the hour, the minute, the heartbeat.
Troo swallows and says, “What do you mean by unusual?”
“You know . . . have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Especially you, Sally. You’re so observant,” Mr. Gary says. “For instance . . . would you say that Ethel’s been doing her usual excellent job of taking care of Mom?”
“A course she has!” I say. “She never even complains about having to wipe drool or puttin’ together strawberry shortcake every week or pushin’ your mom for walks around the block even though her bunions are just killin’ her and she can hear people call her names even though they don’t think she can and . . .” I could go on and on, but listing every single one of Ethel’s virtues could take days.
“The reason I ask is,” Mr. Gary says, “you know I think the world of Ethel, always have, but . . . there’s been some talk about her being negligent. Not giving Mom her medicines or too much of one—”
“No! No! She would never do that,” I say much louder. “She’s so careful!” Mrs. Galecki’s bottles are lined up on the sill above the sink. Ethel takes out what she needs, puts them into a little cup and hands them to her patient every day at two o’clock with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. She even stands watch until she’s sure she’s swallowed them down and doesn’t hide them in one of her cheeks, which she has tried many times.
Mr. Gary says, “And Mom called Jim and me a few times complaining that Ethel was stealing her jewelry. I put that off to old age, but now . . . I don’t know.”
“That’s right. I’m sorry, but you don’t know. You don’t see her every day the way I do. You should go look under your mother’s bed,” I tell him, almost frothing at the mouth. “I bet you find her emerald necklace that’s been missing right off the bat.” I made Troo put it back already when he was up at the hospital.
“And Father Mickey has made quite a few comments to Doc Keller,” Mr. Gary says like he didn’t even hear me.
At the mention of Father’s name Troo and me raise our eyebrows at each other.
“Mickey’s been casting aspersions on Ethel’s abilities. He told Doc that during his visits he noticed that Ethel doesn’t seem up to the task of caring for Mom anymore. That she’s falling down on the job.” And then more under his breath, he says, “Not that I’d take anything he’d say to heart.”
“I don’t know what aspersions are . . . but the rest of it . . . that’s a doggone lie! She never falls down,” I out-and-out shout. “She’s tripped a couple of times on the back steps, but she’s never landed hard. Ever.”
Troo, who is remaining a lot calmer than me for once, says, “Why wouldn’t you take anything Father Mickey says to heart?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Mr. Gary says. “Let’s just say that Mickey and your uncle Paulie were quite the pair when they were kids. They used to lie in wait for me right back there.” He lifts his finger and crooks it toward the alley. “Your uncle would hold me down and Mickey would kick the sh . . . stuffing