Part 1
He was sitting in a lawyer’s office in front of Ms. Rhode’s niece. Every few seconds, she looked at me like she was dirty glued to her shoe. The lawyer cleared his throat, opened a file and began reading with a monotonous and detached voice.
“The house on Willow Street will be bequeathed to the Charity of St. Matthew’s Scope.”
I blinked, perplexed.
What? “
He continued reading without looking at me.
“Your personal savings will be shared between St. The Church of Matthew and various charities. She is bequeathing her jewelry collection to her niece.”
I stood still, waiting for my shift. Mrs. Rhode had promised me everything. He had told me that if he took care of her during her last years, everything she possessed would be mine after her death. But the lawyer turned the last page, closed the file and searched.
“The reading is over.”
I looked at him.
“Is that all? But she promised me…”
The words dried up in my throat when a terrible thought went through my mind. Did Mrs. Roda lie to me? I stood up and left before I was seen crying. When I arrived at my small rented apartment, my chest hurt. I went in, closed the door and collapsed on the bed without taking off my boots. First, I felt anger. Then the humiliation.
Then came that familiar, old shame of realizing that I had been fooled by a story that everyone else had discovered before me. But deep down, there was something worse: distress. Because, at some point, I had started to believe that the lady cared so much. Rhode like she did to me.
I grew up in foster care, so maybe I should have known. My mother abandoned me when I was a baby, and my father spent my childhood in prison. I learned from the beginning that adults can make empty promises. I learned to pack quickly, keep my important belongings together and avoid crying in front of strangers.
When I reached retirement age, I went with two bags of clothing and no plan. I ended up in this town because the rent was low and no one asked too many questions. I took on a number of jobs for even worse bosses, until I went into Joe’s Diner during the breakfast fever and asked if they needed help. A waitress had just quit, and Joe looked at me.
“Have you ever worn three plates at a time?”
“No.”
She shrugged.
“You have ten minutes to learn.”
That’s Joe: rough, straight, built like a fridge, and yet one of the most honest people I’ve ever met. At the end of his long workdays, he would put a burger and chips in my mouth while complaining.
“Eat before you collapse and do the paperwork for me.”
Sometimes I stayed after I closed the time to clean the counters while complaining about suppliers, prices, broken freezers and customers who were ordering eggs… let’s say… unusual ways. Mrs. Rhode arrived every Tuesday and Thursday morning at precisely eight. The first time I served him, he squinted when he saw my nameplate.
“James. You seem so tired that you could eat my waffle.”
“The busy week.”
She sniffed.
“Try to be eighty-five years old.”
That’s how it all started. After that, he always asked me to see me. She was lively, difficult and impossible, in a way that, the more you were around her, the more almost fun she became. One morning, he looked at me in the cafe.
“Do you ever smile, son?”
“Sometimes. “
“I doubt it.”
Another day, she frowned when she saw my hair.
“They get worse every time I see you.”
“Hello to you, too.”
“Hm. Better. You almost look alive today.”
He wasn’t exactly friendly, but he had a good eye for details. And when you’ve spent your whole life feeling invisible, being noticed can feel dangerously close to love.
Part 2
One afternoon, I would go home with my arms loaded with shopping bags when Mrs. Rhode stopped me behind her fence.
“You live, James? »
I stopped.
“A few houses further away. »
She looked at me carefully.
“You want to make some money, son? »
I hesitated.
“Do what? »
She opened her door and told me to come in.
“Come help me. We will agree on a price. I’ll explain it to you with a tea. »
Inside, I poured a tea with a taste of boiled weeds and went straight to the point.
“I die. »
I almost drowned.
He looked up at the sky.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m eighty-five, not twelve. The doctor says I may have a few years left, maybe less. I need help shopping, medicine, travel and small repairs. I have no confidence. »
“And what do I gain? »
He stared at me for a moment.
“When I’m gone, everything I have will belong to you. I’ll bequeath everything. »
I looked at her.
“You mean it? You barely know me. »
“I know enough. »
This seemed absurd, even dangerous. But I needed money, and a part of me, alone, I was hoping she would say the truth. Then I reached out to him.
“Contract concluded. »
At first, everything went according to plan. He took her to his appointments, bought, kept his pills in small plastic boxes, repaired a closet hinge, changed the bulbs, cleaned the gutters and took out the garbage. She has repeatedly complained.
“You’re late. »
“It’s been four minutes. »
“Always late. »
I told him it was impossible, and he replied:
“And yet you always come back. »
Slowly, without one of us realizing it, things have changed. She started inviting me to dinner. Her kitchen was infected, but she was personally offended when I told her. Once, he made a meatloaf so dry that I had to drink three glasses of water to swallow it.
“That’s horrible. »
She pointed her fork at me.
“Then starve to death. »
Some nights we watched TV games together. He shouted at the candidates as if they could hear it. She told me about the fragments of her life, and I began to entrust to her things that I had never told anyone: host families, learning about detachment, the absence of projects beyond the next rent, because hope seemed insidious to me. One night, she cut off the sound of the TV and looked at me.
“You only think about surviving next month, James. You don’t have dreams? »
I shrugged.
