People liked seeing him carry in groceries. They liked watching him sweep her porch and bring her mail inside. Mrs. Bell from across the road told me it was reassuring to know someone was looking after Marjorie.
“Young people don’t usually make time for the elderly anymore,” she said. “That one was raised right.”
I wanted to agree. I almost did.
When I asked Marjorie about him, she just smiled.
“He’s helping me with a few things.”
That should have been the end of it.
She was an adult. She had lived independently longer than I had been alive. I told myself she did not owe me explanations simply because we shared a fence and exchanged pie plates.
Instead, little things started bothering me.
The curtains were always closed now.
Marjorie had loved sunlight. She used to say a house needed fresh air and brightness or it would “start feeling sorry for itself.” Yet every window was covered, even during the warmest part of the afternoon.
