Free Retirement Plan by Martha Miller Page A

table.
    “Thanks.” Ruby blew her nose and said, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
    Sophie sighed. “So you’re getting out soon?”
    Ruby nodded, the soaked tissue wadded in her hand. “I’m up for parole in three months. I need a place to go to start out.”
    “What about a halfway house or something?”
    “I did that last time, remember? I had a friend, a cellmate, who went to one last year. We were planning to get a little place together and try to live right. But she’s using again, and I’m afraid if I take that path I’ll be doomed,” Ruby said. “I’ve been going to college here, and I want to keep on. I’m in the Gateway Program, and I want to stay sober. I want to find a job. You guys will be the first people I pay back—I want it that way. I really mean it this time.”
    “You didn’t mean it last time?”
    Ruby shook her head, then met Sophie’s eyes. “No. I don’t think I did.”
    “How do I know this isn’t another one of those times?”
    “You don’t, I guess.”
    People were starting to gather their things and leave. The visiting hour was over.
    Sophie said, “I’ll have to think about this. And, of course, I’ll have to talk to your mother—although I think that should be your job.”
    “She won’t talk to me.”
    “I know.” Without ceremony Sophie stood and, holding on to the picnic table, she awkwardly climbed over the attached bench.
    Ruby said, “Can I get a hug?”
    Sophie seemed to stiffen, but at length she held out her arms.
    Ruby wrapped her arms around the old woman’s neck and squeezed. She could feel Sophie’s rigidity, but it didn’t matter. She smelled the familiar soft-powdered scent and remembered how fiercely she loved her. She couldn’t recall a time in her childhood when Sophie hadn’t been there playing good cop to her mother’s bad cop. Now here she was counting on that again.    

Chapter Six

    Lois had gone alone the last time. They’d been watching the latest subject for a while now. It had been October and Indian-summer weather, windy and warm. They’d mapped out Smallwood’s routine. The two best places for the hit were also the worst. He went to a neighborhood park around noon and sat on the same bench watching the same small children play, and then in the afternoon he stopped at the schoolyard.
    The client had told them that he prowled around at night, and Sophie and Lois worked out a plan to follow him. Sometimes he used his car and sometimes he went on foot. But the destination was always the same, Carpenter Park. They’d watched him from the far reaches of the parking lot. Usually alone, he’d sat on the bank smoking cigarettes. A few times another man joined him. Twice it was a female—a young female—probably a prostitute. After money changed hands, she’d quickly gotten down to business. They didn’t observe a pattern with the girl. Sometimes she was there, sometimes she wasn’t.
    Because they couldn’t count on him being alone, Lois had to wait for the right moment. She’d gone out there twice with the rifle and returned with it unused. Sophie found the change of pace, the mystery and intrigue of their new business, stimulating.  Lois found it less so.
    Several days after the kill, Lois said, “We need to talk.”
    Sophie looked at her carefully then. Lois appeared tired. Historically, whenever Lois said, “We need to talk,” the news was not good. “Let’s sit in the kitchen,” Sophie said. “I’m hungry.”
    Only after Sophie had poured two glasses of milk and set a half-empty package of Fig Newtons on the table did she ask, “What is it?”
    Lois left the milk untouched, folded her hands in her lap, and nodded. “The last job. There’s a complication.”
    “What?”
    “He wasn’t alone.”
    “And you shot him anyway?”
    “I didn’t know it,” Lois said. “I waited for over a half hour and he just sat on the bank and smoked one cigarette off the end of the other. I was positive no one was