She had been my neighbor for 26 years. She had held my hand at Roland’s funeral. She understood that sometimes the first thing a person needs is simply another person sitting close enough to be felt. We sat like that for a moment in the early morning cold while somewhere behind the front door I could hear Cynthia’s voice moving through the kitchen rearranging things already.
Margaret Dorothy said finally tell me. So I told her, ‘Not all of it, not yet. Because I was still assembling it myself. The way you piece together the damage after a storm, walking the yard slowly to see what the wind has taken. I told her about the ticket, about the suitcase, about Derek’s face when I had asked him whose name was on it.
Dorothy listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘Did you write your name on that ticket?’ That was the question. I thought back to Thursday, to Garfield’s pharmacy, to Mrs. Garfield handing me the envelope across the counter with the cheerful efficiency of a woman who has done the same thing a thousand times to coming home, setting the ticket on the counter, going to get my tea.