“You are seventy-three, Ellen, and living alone in that drafty place is simply foolish,” Margaret said, her tone sharpening. “The deed of transfer needs to be finalized this week, or the taxes will eat up what little Father left us.”
I touched the edge of the blue folder containing the estate documents, which sat beside my tea cup.
“Father died three years ago, Margaret,” I said. “The taxes have not changed since then.”
“You are being stubborn, as usual,” she said, and then the line went flat with a sudden, metallic click.
I held the receiver to my ear for several seconds, listening to the dial tone before setting it back on the cradle.
My sister had always been protective, managing our family affairs with a firm hand, but she had never hung up on me before.
The walk to the Oakhaven Methodist Church took twenty minutes, the damp spring air smelling of wet earth and early clover.
The church basement smelled of damp concrete and floor wax, the low ceiling trapping the hum of the ladies’ auxiliary committee.
I paid my one dollar and fifty cents for a cup of weak black tea and sat down at the end of the long folding table.
Mrs. Halloran, our childhood neighbor from Maple Street, sat opposite me, her fingers curled tightly around her wooden cane.
“You look pale, Ellen,” she whispered, her voice dry and rustling like dry corn husks.
“I am fine, Mrs. Halloran,” I said, stirring a spoonful of sugar into my cup. “Margaret is just anxious about the estate.”
Mrs. Halloran tapped her cane twice against the green linoleum floor, a rhythmic, impatient sound.
“Margaret has always been anxious about what does not belong to her,” she said, leaning closer until I could see the tiny blue veins in her eyelids.
