Russ’s mother liked blue.
I put the deed, the HELOC, my mother’s note, and Mr. Abernathy’s envelope in a canvas tote, and I put the sugar canister on top, because I had decided it was coming too.
PART 4
Marlene Delaney’s eightieth birthday was in her own backyard — Russ’s childhood backyard — under a rented tent, with twenty-six relatives, a sheet cake, folding chairs, and a banner Janet had ordered that said 80 YEARS OF LOVE.
Russ was already there.
Gray suit.
The reasonable voice, working the tent.
He had, I would learn, spent the morning telling his cousins that “Colleen and I are going through a rough patch — she’s been stressed, she overreacted, there was a misunderstanding with a neighbor — we’re handling it.”
Handling it.
He saw me come in and his face did the thing it did on the lot when a customer walked in with a printout.
Marlene saw me next.
Eighty, sharp, in a lavender blouse, in a lawn chair like a throne.
She had never once, in thirty-one years, taken my side about anything.
She had also never once, in thirty-one years, taken Russ’s.
Marlene took the side of whoever was telling the truth, and she had a nose for it, and Russ had spent his whole life keeping a certain distance from that nose.
“Colleen.
Sit.”
I sat.
Janet sat beside me, which surprised Russ, and Dale sat on the other side, which surprised him more.
Russ stood up to toast.
“Eighty years.
Mom.
You taught us what family means — ”
“Russ,” said Marlene.
“Sit down.
Colleen’s got a bag.”
The tent went quiet.
“Mom, this isn’t — ”
“I’ve been eighty since Tuesday.
I’d like to hear what’s in the bag before I’m eighty-one.”
I stood up.
I did not raise my voice.
Twenty-six Delaneys had never heard me raise my voice, and I saw no reason to start.
“Marlene.
Happy birthday.
