We'll Meet Again

70

Marta Jones knew that only Wally would ring her doorbell with such persistence. When the ringing began, she was upstairs, straightening out the linen closet; with a patient sigh, she hurried down the stairs, her arthritic knees protesting every step of the way.

Wally’s hands were jammed in his pockets, his head was down. “Can I come in?” he asked, his voice flat.

“You know you can come in anytime, dear.”

He stepped inside. “I don’t want to go.”

“Where don’t you want to go, dear?”

“To California. Mom is packing. We leave tomorrow morning. I don’t like to be in the car a long time. I don’t want to go. I came to say good-bye.”

California ? Marta wondered. What is that about? “Wally, are you sure your mom said California?”

“Yes, California. I’m sure.” He fidgeted, then grimaced. “I want to say good-bye to Molly too. I won’t bother her, but I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye. Do you think it’s all right if I say good-bye to Molly?”

“I certainly don’t see why not.”

“I’ll go see her tonight,” Wally muttered.

“What did you say, dear?”

“I have to go. Mom wants me to go to my meeting.”

“That’s a good idea. You know you always enjoy those meetings, Wally. Listen, isn’t that your mother calling you?” Marta opened the door. Edna was standing on the steps of her house, her coat on, looking for her son.

“Wally’s in here,” Marta called out. “Come on, Wally.” Curiosity made her run across the lawn without bothering to get a coat. “Edna, is it true you’re driving to California?”

“Wally, get in the car,” Edna Barry pleaded. “You know you’re late.” Reluctantly he obeyed, slamming the passenger door behind him.

Edna turned to her neighbor and whispered, “Marta, I don’t know if we’ll end up in California or in Timbuktu, but I know I’ve got to get out of here. Every time I turn on the news I seem to hear something else bad about Molly. The latest is that there’s going to be a special meeting of the parole board on Monday. The prosecutor wants her parole revoked. If that happens, she’ll have to serve the rest of her original sentence for killing Dr. Lasch.”

Marta shivered. “Oh, Edna, I know. I heard that on the news this morning, and I think it’s just terrible. That poor girl should be in an institution, not in a prison. But you mustn’t get so upset about it that you let it drive you away from here.”

“I know. I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

When she got back to her house, Marta was chilled and decided she needed a cup of tea. Once it was ready, she sat down at the table, sipping it slowly. Poor Edna, she thought. She’s feeling guilty about quitting her job with Molly, but of course she had no choice. Wally has to be her main concern.

When you think about it, she reminded herself with a sigh, it just goes to show that money doesn’t buy happiness. All that Carpenter family money behind her couldn’t keep Molly out of a prison cell.

Marta thought of the other prominent and wealthy Greenwich family that had been in the news this morning. She had read about Natasha Colbert, who had been in a coma over six years. She had finally died, and her poor mother, prostrate with grief, had suffered a heart attack, and it looked like she might not survive. Maybe God would be doing her a favor if he took her, poor woman, Marta mused, shaking her head. All that grief…

She pushed back her chair and went back upstairs to finish tidying the linen closet. As she worked, a nagging feeling of worry would not leave her. Finally she realized what was causing it. Edna would have a fit if she knew that I told Wally that it would be all right for him to say good-bye to Molly Lasch, Marta thought. Oh well, she decided, it was probably just rambling, like he does so much of the time. Anyway, tomorrow he’ll be gone. No use upsetting poor Edna by mentioning it to her. She’s got enough on her mind as it is.