Chapter 6: What Wendy Knew
Arthur turned on Wendy with the speed of someone who had been waiting for a betrayal and was almost relieved it had finally come.
"Don't," he said.
"Arthur—"
"I said don't."
"She deserves to know." Wendy's voice was unsteady but she didn't look away from Grandma.
"You deserve to know."
Grandma sat down in her armchair — the one that had been turned away from the window.
She turned it back herself, a single firm push, then sat.
"Then tell me," she said.
Wendy set the dish towel on the counter.
Her hands were shaking slightly.
"It started with the business," she said.
"Arthur's company.
About eighteen months ago.
He didn't tell me how bad it was until last spring.
He said we were going to lose everything — the house, the cars, the kids' college accounts." She paused.
"He said the only way out was your property, Mom.
That if we could sell this house and use the equity, we could cover the debt and start over."
"It's not his property to sell," Grandma said.
"I know that."
"Did you know it then?"
Wendy's chin dropped.
"Yes."
The word landed in the room like something dropped from a height.
Arthur moved toward the hallway.
I stepped to the side, not blocking him exactly, but making my presence felt.
"You're not leaving," I said.
"I don't have to stand here and—"
"Arthur." Grandma's voice.
Quiet.
Absolute.
He stopped.
"Sit down," she said.
He didn't sit.
But he didn't leave either.
Dennis Farwell had retreated to the back of the hallway.
I looked at him.
"You should go," I said.
He went.
Grandma kept her eyes on Arthur.
"How much is the debt?"
Arthur said nothing.
"How much?"
"Three hundred and forty thousand," Wendy said.
Arthur's head turned toward her.
The look on his face was not anger anymore.
It was something colder.
"You had no right—"
"She has every right," Grandma said.
"This is my house.
You were going to sell it without my knowledge or consent, and you arranged to have me placed in a facility so I couldn't object." She paused.
"That is not a misunderstanding, Arthur.
That is a plan."
Arthur finally sat.
Not because he'd been asked.
Because something had gone out of him.
"I was going to pay you back," he said.
"From what?"
He didn't answer.
"The business is gone," Grandma said.
It wasn't a question.
Wendy nodded.
"And the money from my accounts.
The fifty-five thousand."
"It went toward the debt," Wendy said.
"Some of it.
The rest—" She stopped again.
"The rest," Arthur said flatly, "is gone."
Grandma looked at her son for a long time.
I watched her face.
Whatever she was feeling, she was keeping it somewhere deep and still.
"I want you both to leave my house," she said.
Arthur looked up.
"Mom—"
"Tonight.
Now.
Take what you came with and nothing else."
"You can't just—"
"Ivan." She looked at me.
"Call your attorney friend.
The one you mentioned last Christmas.
The one who handles elder law."
I already had my phone out.
"His name is Marcus Webb."
"Call him."
I stepped into the kitchen and dialed.
Marcus picked up on the third ring.
I gave him the short version.
He asked four questions.
Then he said: "Tell her not to let them remove anything from that house.
I'll be there in forty minutes."
I came back to the doorway.
Arthur was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
Wendy was standing near the window.
She was crying silently, in the way of someone who had been holding it for a long time and had simply run out of room.
"Marcus Webb is on his way," I told Grandma.
She nodded.
Then she looked at Wendy.
Not with warmth, exactly.
But not without it either.
"Sit down, Wendy," she said.
"And don't touch anything."
Wendy sat.
Arthur didn't move.
And then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Something shifted in his face — a flicker of something that might have been hope.
He answered it.
"Yes." A pause.
"Yes, I understand." Another pause.
May you like
Longer.
"What do you mean the account is frozen?"
