Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

As for my losing my marbles, it just wasn’t so. True, I can’t remember as well as I used to, but at eighty-two one has to let some things go, and I’d just as soon forget about the present — it’s dull and rather frightening. Much more interesting to remember the past, to filter out the warm, exciting, happy things and hold them close. Since I had pneumonia six months ago I haven’t been able to manage the stairs even with my cane, so my days consist mostly of eating, taking the medicine Dr. Stanhope prescribes, reading, and watching TV. Of course I have occasional visitors and phone calls from old friends, and then there’s Harold, who comes once a week. I really look forward to that.

I’m very fond of him, and he seems to return the sentiment. He takes care of my affairs and, most important, he still treats me as if I were an interesting person, one he really enjoys visiting with, not just an old nuisance. I gave him power of attorney right after Tom died ten years ago, so I don’t have to worry about anything — except these little spells of confusion that come over me now and then. I suppose that’s why Rhoda thinks I’m losing my mind. I break out in perspiration first, then everything gets confused and sometimes I fall. I guess I must say some rather strange things because when I begin to clear up I notice that Rhoda’s face is longer and more disapproving than ever — if that’s possible — and Maria, who’s cooked for me for eighteen years, pats my arm and says tenderly, “Pobrecita, pobrecita.” It hasn’t happened very often, and otherwise, except for occasional lapses of memory, I’m in pretty good shape. I only use glasses for reading and I can hear as well as ever.

I don’t know why Rhoda wants to make out that I’m getting senile. Maybe she thinks that somehow she can get hold of some of my money. I’m a rich woman. Tom made a lot and we never had any children. I’d have liked children, but it didn’t happen and, after all, I had Tom, who made up for everything.

Thursday afternoon Harold came as usual. He’s always prompt, the dear boy. Of course he’s not a boy any more except to someone my age. He’s fifty if he’s a day; still handsome, but a lot fatter than he used to be and beginning to gray a little at the temples. He’s always very carefully dressed, and he smokes far too many cigars, cutting the ends off with a little gold cutter I gave him once for Christmas. I tease him sometimes about not being up to the minute — mod, I think they call it — and he always laughs and admits that he’s a square from way back. “If I have to go barefoot and dirty and wear my hair like a King Charles spaniel, why then I’m content to be out of fashion,” he says comfortably.

He climbed the long marble stairs to the second floor and came into my room, puffing a little. He leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“How are you, Aunt Tess? Still as pretty as ever. You look younger than most of my contemporaries,” he said flatteringly.

“It’s good to see you, Harold. I always look forward to Thursdays,” I said, patting his arm.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, sitting down at the table and putting his briefcase down.

“Oh, I’m fine, just fine.”

“Now, you come sit over here by me at the table,” he went on, helping me to a chair and seating me.

I like these little attentions from men. That’s where I think these women’s lib people are wrong. What’s the matter with a little politeness between the sexes? It does grease the wheels of communication, I think. Unless, of course, your idea of communication is yelling at each other.

I got out an ashtray from the table drawer, and he opened the briefcase and took out some papers.

“Now, Aunt Tess, I thought it advisable to get rid of your Merriwell stock and put the money into bonds. There have been some rather disturbing rumors about Merriwell lately and I thought it better to be on the safe side. Oh, I realized a nice profit for you — Tom bought them so long ago,” he explained, and then launched into a disquisition on the market in general and Merriwell in particular.

He’s nice about pretending that I understand what it’s all about, and I listen intently and try to ask a few reasonably intelligent questions. I trust him implicitly, but even if he were robbing me, as Rhoda implies, I wouldn’t really care. Most of it is going to be his one of these days, and I know he’ll keep me living in the way I prefer as long as possible. He even offered me a home with him and his wife, who’s a dear too, right after Tom died, but I wouldn’t consent to that. This is my house and I intend to stay here as long as I can.

When he had finished with that and returned the papers to the briefcase, I said, “I want to talk to you about Rhoda. You were right and I was wrong.”

He listened attentively while I told him about the hamburger and the gardener, and then he exclaimed, “But that’s absurd. I give her five hundred dollars a month to run this house. I’ll talk to her.”