I didn't ask Wendell about his house again for a while.
I told myself there was no point in pushing.
We were enjoying each other's company, and I didn't want to turn Sunday supper into an interrogation.
Still, I noticed things.
I couldn't help it.
One afternoon, he arrived with pale sawdust caught in the folded cuffs of his jeans.
It had settled into the fabric as if he'd been kneeling on a wooden floor.
I brushed a little off with my fingertips.
"Have you been doing carpentry?"
He glanced down.
"Just keeping busy."
"Building something?"
"Fixing a few things."
He said it without looking at me.
I let it go.
The next Sunday, I noticed paint on his knuckles.
It was a soft yellow, almost the same shade I'd described from my mother's kitchen.
He'd washed his hands, but the color remained around the edges of his nails.
I took his hand before I thought better of it.
"What's this?"
He looked at his fingers.
"Paint."
"I can see that."
He smiled.
"Then you've solved the mystery."
I gave him a look.
He laughed quietly, but he didn't explain.
I wasn't offended.
Not exactly.
I was curious, and curiosity had always been a dangerous thing in my line of work.
At the hospital, a patient who insisted nothing was wrong could make you pay closer attention.
Wendell wasn't a patient.
But I knew he was keeping something to himself.
The trouble was that I didn't know whether it was something harmless or something I ought to worry about.
One Sunday, I made pot roast.
Wendell arrived looking more tired than usual.
His shoulders sagged, and he moved slowly as he came through the front door.
"You all right?" I asked.
"Long day."
"It's Sunday."
He looked at me.
"Apparently, Sunday can be a long day too."
I smiled and went back to the kitchen.
Dinner wasn't ready yet.
I had potatoes boiling on the stove, and the roast needed another twenty minutes.
Wendell sat in the living room while I finished cooking.
A little later, I went to tell him the food was almost ready.
He was asleep in Dwight's recliner.
Completely asleep.
His head had tipped to one side, and his hands rested open on the arms of the chair.
For a moment, I stood there without moving.
I hadn't seen another person sitting in that chair since Dwight's funeral.
I could still picture my husband in it, wearing his old gray shirt, his reading glasses balanced halfway down his nose.
Seeing Wendell there should have bothered me.
Instead, I felt something loosen inside my chest.
I pulled a blanket from the sofa and laid it across Wendell's knees.
Then I returned to the kitchen.
The roast could wait.
I let him sleep until the potatoes were ready and the gravy had thickened.
When he finally woke, he looked embarrassed.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
"You needed the rest."
"I must have looked ridiculous."
"You looked like a man who'd been working too hard."
He rubbed his face.
I brought him a plate, and he ate quietly.
I wanted to ask what had kept him so busy.
I wanted to ask why his hands were marked with paint and why his jeans smelled of fresh wood.
But he looked so worn out that I left the questions alone.
After he went home, I stood beside Dwight's recliner for a while.
The blanket Wendell had used was folded over the arm.
I picked it up, then put it back.
It was a foolish little thing, but I felt grateful that the chair wasn't empty anymore.
I didn't know how to explain that to my children.
My son, Zach, had already decided Wendell was trouble.
Zach ran an auto body shop in Balch Springs.
He was good with engines, good with money, and convinced that every problem could be fixed if somebody took control of it.
After Dwight died, he'd offered to help me manage my finances.
I had agreed because grief made even ordinary paperwork feel exhausting.
He helped me set up online banking.
He kept track of bills and showed me how to check my account on my phone.
At first, it was useful.
Then he started checking things without asking.
If I bought something he thought was unnecessary, he'd mention it.
If a bill looked different from the month before, he'd call me.
He always had a reason.
"I'm just trying to protect you, Mama."
I knew he loved me.
I also knew that love could become an excuse for treating somebody like they were incapable of making their own decisions.
When I first introduced him to Wendell, Zach barely hid his disapproval.
We were standing in my kitchen after the grief group, and Wendell had stopped by to return a dish I'd sent home with him.
Zach shook his hand.
He asked where Wendell had worked, how long he'd been retired, and how long he'd known me.
The questions sounded polite.
His face wasn't.
Wendell answered each one calmly.
He didn't seem interested in impressing my son.
After Wendell left, Zach followed me into the kitchen.
"How well do you know that man?"
"Well enough to enjoy his company."
"That's not what I asked."
"Then ask what you mean."
Zach looked annoyed.
He said he was worried about me being alone so much.
He said people sometimes took advantage of widows.
I told him I'd spent more than thirty years looking after people who were in no condition to protect themselves.
"I know what a dishonest person looks like, Zach."
He shook his head.
"Nobody thinks they're going to get fooled, Mama."
That ended the conversation.
Or so I thought.
By September, Zach had started coming to Sunday supper regularly.
He brought his wife, Jordyn, and the children.
Before that, they came when it suited them, sometimes twice in one month and sometimes not at all.
I loved having them over.
The grandchildren filled the house with noise, and Jordyn helped me clear the table.
But Zach's visits had changed.
He watched Wendell closely.
He noticed how much he ate, how often he looked at his phone, and whether he offered to help with the dishes.
Once, I caught him studying Wendell's truck through the kitchen window.
I told myself I was imagining things.
Then I noticed that Zach had started asking when Wendell would arrive.
He never asked because he wanted to see him.
He asked so he could be ready.
During one supper, Wendell told a story about a transformer that had failed during a summer storm years ago.
Zach barely smiled.
When Wendell asked about the body shop, Zach answered with a long explanation about business expenses and insurance.
I knew that trick.
It was a way of turning a conversation into a test.
Wendell didn't rise to it.
He simply listened.
After dinner, he thanked me and left.
The grandchildren went into the living room.
Jordyn started gathering plates.
Zach remained seated at the table.
He waited until Wendell's truck had disappeared down the road.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
"Where does that man actually live?"
I stopped stacking the plates.
"Somewhere beyond Ferris."
"You don't know the address?"
I dried my hands on a dish towel.
"No, Zach. I don't have every detail of his life memorized."
He gave a short laugh.
"Have you ever been inside his house?"
I didn't answer right away.
That was answer enough.
He looked at me as if I'd confirmed something terrible.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Son Opened My Bank Account at My Own Dinner Table, and Suddenly I Was the One Who Had to Prove My Good Judgment
My Husband Had Been Gone Two Years, but the First Man Who Made Me Feel Alive Again Had Something He Wouldn’t Explain
Part 2 of 24
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