Free Poison Heart by Mary Logue Page B

the shirt in half. She wasn’t half the housekeeper her mother, Florence, had been. Her mother hadn’t made a wasted movement, and she put things back where she found them as soon as she was done with them. Her pies had been the best in the county, and she had the blue ribbons to prove it. She’d sewed a tidy stitch and set a perfect table. Margaret had tried to learn all these important country lessons, but her mind often strayed.
    Since she’d begun struggling with menopause, she found it harder than ever to stay constant. In the midst of a chore, she would find herself a million miles away.
    Margaret remembered how her mother would say to her when she was young, “Come back here, Margie, before I send the dog to fetch you.”
    Now she felt as if she had failed her mother. Not because she couldn’t keep a house as clean, but because she had let all her mother’s valuable keepsakes go to a stranger. She hadn’t been able to save her mother; now she couldn’t even save what was left of the remnants of her life.
    Margaret remembered one of the last conversations she had with her mother after moving her to Lakeside Manor. Her mother hadn’t taken to her new residence. Her level of paranoia increased. The doctor said that was part of the Alzheimer’s. She was having trouble remembering who people were. Once or twice she had called Margaret “Angie,” her aunt’s name. Margaret didn’t argue. It only made it worse.
    On this particular morning, when Margaret walked into her room, her mother had thrown a carton of milk at her.
    “Mom, what’s the matter?”
    Her mother looked right at her and said, “That woman is stealing my mind.”
    “What woman?” she had asked.
    “The one that smiles all the time. The one that’s really a deep monster.”
    “A deep monster?”
    Her mother pointed out the window. “From the lake. She’s come from the bottom of the lake.”
    At the time, Margaret had assumed her mother was fussing about one of the nurses. Now she wondered. Who had her mother meant? What had she thought was happening?
    Claire would arrive any minute. Margaret took off her apron, slicked at her hair in the mirror, and ran outside carrying her purse in her arms like a baby. She hollered at Mark, “I’m leaving,” not really caring if he heard.
    Running to the end of the driveway, she saw, with relief, the squad car coming down the road, Claire Watkins behind the wheel. Claire slowed, and Margaret hopped in.
    Claire handed her a large manila envelope. “You can have the pleasure of delivering it.”
    Maybe they’d get there before the auction started. Before one item of her parents’ lives was lost.
     
    Patty Jo had set up a chair for herself in a prime location, about fifteen feet in front of the auctioneer’s podium. She wanted to be able to watch every item be sold. That way she could keep track of the money. She had planned a long time for this moment, and she was going to enjoy every second of it. As each piece of furniture and each lace doily was sold, she would feel herself become freer. Nothing to hold her down. More money to do what she wanted.
    She had put her umbrella on a folding chair to save the seat for herself. It was a warm day for September, in the high seventies. While everyone else was looking around at all the stuff to be auctioned off, she had wandered around looking at the people. She found it easier to be pleasant to all her neighors since she knew she’d soon be leaving them behind.
    Lucille Clowder stopped her by the floral-print sofa. “This looks like such a nice sofa, Patty Jo. Why are you selling it?”
    “I want to start over.”
    “I suppose it has sad memories,” Lucille murmured.
    Patty Jo didn’t bother to correct her. These last few months, she had played the dutiful wife with as much dignity as she could muster. Let them think what they would; she would be gone soon.
    “I hear you already have an offer on the house?” Lucille pushed.
    “It looks that