Free My Husband's Sweethearts by Bridget Asher Page B

out the front door. One of the EMTs is packing up. The
neighbors' house across the street is lit up. The Biddles—
Jill and Brad—shift behind their bay windows, watching.
The next-door neighbor, Mr. Harshorn, is bolder. He's
standing in his front yard, his arms crossed against his
chest. He waves to get my attention, but I ignore him.
    My mother is still standing there next to John Bessom,
but neither is speaking.
    When I approach them, I can tell that my mother's
been crying. Her makeup has shifted to a blurry version of
what it normally is, but John is stoic.
    "I'm the son," he says, "in the father's deathbed scene?"
    My mother looks at John and then at me with the same
expression—pained sympathy. "One of the paramedics
told us he's alive."
    "Yes, he's alive. It was a false alarm." I'm not sure if
John's angry or not. I don't know how to read him. "I
wanted you and Artie to talk. He's dying to see—" I stop
myself short.
    "I'm very sorry about your husband," he says, shaking
his head. "But I don't need to get to know Artie
Shoreman."
    "Okay," I say, "I understand," even though I don't.
    "I'll call a cab. I'll have someone come back for the
mattress tomorrow."
    "I'll pay you for the mattress."
    "You still want it?"
    "No, but we can't return it. We've strapped it to a car.
It's damaged goods. I insist on paying."
    "I couldn't accept your money. Someone will come
and take it away tomorrow."
    "I'll call. I'll keep you updated on Artie, if you want . . ."
    "I'm sure he's a good person." He shrugs, shoves one
hand in his pocket, almost smiles. We stand there awkwardly
for a moment. He pulls out his cell phone. "I'm
going to call a cab." He hesitates. "Artie Shoreman was always
good to us financially. And I'm thankful for that, but
there isn't anything else between us. It wouldn't be right
to . . . Well, I'm not sure what to say." He's beautifully
sad. A gust of wind ruffles his shirt, his hair.
    "I'm not sure what to say either," I tell him.
    "I'm glad it was a false alarm," he says. "In the car, you
said you weren't finished. I don't know what wasn't finished,
but maybe now there's time—for you and Artie?"
    I'd forgotten I'd said this. I didn't want Artie to die so
soon—we still have so much to sort through. "You're
right," I say. "Things are complicated between us. And
there's time for you and Artie, too, to get to be together."
    "I didn't know him, really, other than a name on a
check, and I don't know that I need to now," he says, and
he walks toward the sidewalk and flips open the phone,
which lights up, a blue glow in his hands.
    *
    My mother follows me back to the porch. "Are you
okay?"
    "Everything's fine!" I say, but my tone is overly cavalier.
I barely believe myself. I grab my mother by the elbow
before we head inside. "Did you let some woman
named Eleanor into the house?"
    "Don't get me started on Eleanor," my mother says as
if she has known the woman all her life. "She has to go."
    "Really?" I say. Eleanor's take on Artie runs through
my mind. I hear her say: Wouldn't it be wonderful if Artie were able to make peace with his past—all of it—before he died? And how there was something menacing, but ultimately
true, about that.
    As my mother and I head into the house, my mother
says, "I'll get rid of Eleanor. Don't worry."
    We walk into the kitchen and Eleanor is gone. "Well,
there you go," I say. "She's found her way out."
    My mother walks to the French doors that open to the
pool patio and points. "Not so lucky."
    There's Elspa, sitting on a lounge chair, and there, sitting
across from her, is Eleanor. She's listening intently.
They seem deep in conversation—about what? I can't
imagine these two have much common ground. Would they
discuss, for example, the blue abstract sculpture of Artie's
prick? Maybe. What do I know about Eleanor anyway?
    "What are we going to do?" I ask my mother, both of
us staring through the glass door.
    "I don't know," she says,