Ask for Me Tomorrow

From a distance the big white stucco house looked the same. But as she approached, Gilly saw that the paint was peeling off the walls and the window frames. The trees in the courtyard had turned brown from lack of water and were dropping their leaves in the dry birdbath and the empty lily pond. A black cat crouched on top of the wall as if he were waiting for Halloween or for the birdbath to be filled. It watched with green-eyed interest as Gilly walked through the courtyard and pressed the chime of the front door.

This time it was Ethel who let her in.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Violet Smith called to tell me you were on your way.”

“I don’t know exactly what I’m doing here.”

“You will. Come inside.”

“We can talk out here.”

“Are you afraid I’ve arranged some kind of trap for you? How quaint. I assure you I bear no grudges and I have forgiven all my enemies. Come, you’ll want to see the changes in the house.”

Gilly went inside, wondering about the changes and whether the blue silk bedspread had been one of them. Probably the first.

The living room was lavishly furnished, but it had the pervasive chill of a place that was never used. A layer of dust covered everything, like a family curse, the red velvet chairs and marble-topped tables, the gilt-framed portraits of plump gentle women and stiff-necked men. Silver vases for rosebuds, and crystal bowls made to float camellias, were empty. Spiderwebs hung undisturbed across the chandeliers, and there were cracks in the plaster of the ceiling as though the house had been shaken by a series of explosions.

There were matching cracks in Ethel’s face, dividing it into sections like a relief map. She was very thin. Everything about her was thin, her arms and legs, her greying hair, even her skin looked transparent. The blue veins in her temples seemed barely covered.

“It’s rude to stare.” She spoke just above a whisper, hissing slightly over the s sounds. The effect was soft and deadly like escaping gas. “I told you there were changes. I can’t afford to keep the place up.”

“B. J. left you well provided for.”

“He did. But times change — increasing taxes, inflation, some bad investments, a loan to an old friend. No wild extravagances, simply normal living, yet in a few years a house begins to look like this. B. J. would be distressed to see it.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t see it.”

“No? You might be wrong.”

“What makes you say that?”

“ESP, perhaps. Perhaps something a good deal more practical... Gracious, I’m forgetting my manners. Please sit down. The wing chairs by the fireplace are very comfortable, but then, you know that, don’t you? Now, how shall I address you? I don’t believe it would be quite appropriate to call you Gilly or G. G., as B. J. did. B. J. and G. G. How sweet.”

“My name is Mrs. Decker. I prefer to stand.”

“Very well.” She herself sat down in one of the wing chairs and began stroking its red velvet upholstery very gently as though soothing an elderly family pet. “You mustn’t think Violet Smith has been indulging in idle gossip. She felt compelled to tell me certain facts.”

“Such as?”

“That you were attempting to locate B. J. and the trail ended in the Rio Seco jail, where he is believed to have died.”

“And why did Violet Smith feel compelled to tell you all this?”

“Because your facts and mine don’t agree. That loan to an old friend I mentioned a few minutes ago, it wasn’t actually for an old friend.”

“It was for B. J.?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Three years ago. He didn’t die in jail. I paid ten thousand dollars to get him out of there. It wasn’t easy to collect that much extra cash. I sold some of my antiques and borrowed the rest from my sister. I know the money arrived safely. He wrote me a thank you note after his release, just a line or two, without any return address. I didn’t keep it. I guess I was piqued because it was so short, so — almost ungracious. I don’t think he’d ever accepted money from a woman before and perhaps it hurt his pride.” There was a ragged edge of doubt in her voice. “I still have the first letter, though, the one where he asked for the money. That was gracious, oh yes, very gracious indeed. I want you to read it.”

“Why?”

“So you won’t have to take my word for anything.”

“I take it.”

“Don’t you think it would be better if you took his? Here.”

The letter Gilly had received five years before had been written on heavy bond, engraved Jenlock Haciendas, Bahía de Ballenas, Baja California Sur. This one was on a kind of onionskin paper Gilly hadn’t seen since she was a child. It was postmarked Rio Seco and the return address was the Quarry: LA CANTERA, PENITENCIARIA DEL ESTADO.