Free The Lost Choice by Andy Andrews

in now. We let-tin’ my heat out.”
    As they entered, Dorry said, “Mrs. Bounds, I’m Dorry Chan—”
    â€œHold on, baby,” interrupted the old woman. “Firs’ of all, I’m Mae Mae.Mrs. Bounds is my mama and she been dead for eighty-seven years. So you and the police call me Mae Mae.”
    Dorry’s eyes were wide again. She stole a look at Mark who appeared on the verge of laughter again after the “police” remark. Mae Mae had pronounced the word “PO-leese.”
    â€œSecond thing is,” she continued, “I already know who you are. You are Dorry, and you”—she smiled at Mark— “you the police! But I’m gon’ call you Mark. Now get on in here.” And with that, she turned and shuffled into her small living room.
    â€œSit down right there, baby.” Mae Mae directed Dorry to a couch.“Mark,you go in the kitchen—right through that door—and get this little girl whatever she wants to drink. Get me a cup of coffee. I like it black. Pot’s on the stove.”
    Dorry smiled up at her husband from the couch. “I’ll have coffee too, Mark,” she said and thought his eyebrows might merge with his hairline—he appeared to be that surprised. But meekly, he mumbled a “yes, ma’am” and went through the door Mae Mae had indicated.
    Dorry watched as the old woman eased herself into the same rocking chair she had seen in the newspaper. Next to the rocking chair was the source of brutal heat, an old gas heater. Oblivious to the temperature inside the house, which Dorry judged to be almost eighty degrees, a plain white sweater was draped across her shoulders.
    Dorry was surprised—almost to the point of shock— that a woman as old as Mae Mae didn’t appear to be as decrepit as she’d imagined. Her face was wrinkled, but not to an extreme, and her posture, though somewhat stooped, seemed excellent. Even the skin on her hands was devoid of the age spots afflicting Dorry’s own mother, who was still in her sixties, and Mae Mae’s hair, though bone white, was thick and healthy. It was braided and rolled into a bun on the back of her head. Dorry had also noted that her movements were slow, but not those of a person tormented by arthritis or rheumatism.
    Directly behind her was the bookcase, including the object that had prompted the trip. Dorry had spotted it the minute she walked into the room. The relic was propped on a tiny framing easel and—something the newspaper photograph had not revealed—was attached to a stiff leather cord. “You have a nice place, Mae Mae,” Dorry began.“How long have you lived here?”
    â€œThis Christmas, it’ll be forty-one years,” she answered. “My husband built this old house with his brother. Jus’ the two of ’em. It was a pretty place. Jerold passed on not long after that . . . seventy years old . . . still a young man. Lord, I loved that Jerold.”
    â€œDo you have children?”
    â€œNo, baby. We never did. Mae Mae got no family a’tall. All Jerold’s people . . . an’my side too—they gone. But the folks in Fordyce see after Mae Mae. This house paint—my pretty porch—tha’s all the sweetness of this town. They’s a little white boy even come cut Mae Mae’s grass.”
    Mark entered with a cup of coffee in each hand and presented one to the old lady, then to Dorry, and accepted their thanks.
    â€œMrs. Bounds,” Dorry began.
    â€œMae Mae,” the old woman said.
    â€œMae Mae . . .” Dorry was suddenly nervous again. “When we saw your picture in the paper,we were curious about that . . . thing.” She pointed to the object on the bookshelf.
    Mae Mae twisted in her chair and, with a questioning glance, picked up the item her guest had indicated.“This?” she asked, holding it up for them to see.
    For the next few minutes,