In August, you start asking more direct questions.
Not because you are nosy, but because a person does not get this close to the edge without someone needing to know where the papers are, what the doctors said, who to call, what medicines to bring, which lies have been told to relatives who might appear later wearing concern like borrowed clothing.
Mrs. Mercer resists at first, then relents selectively. There is a lawyer, she says, named Harold Greer. His card is in the kitchen drawer under the coupons. There is a life insurance policy long paid out after Arthur died. The house is hers free and clear. There are some savings, not large. There is also the metal box in the closet, which you are to leave alone unless “the silence becomes permanent.”
You nod without promising anything aloud.
Late one Friday, you get a call from a number you now know by heart.
