Twelve
HELEN BLINKS AT MY statement. “How do—?”
“Tom?” I turn to see a distinguished looking man about my age walking towards me. On his arm is a voluptuous redhead, about fifteen years younger than he is, not so much walking as strutting through Mom’s living room as the crowd parts to let her pass. Her dress is black, but a little too revealing for a funeral. She’s wearing a black cloche hat with a black ribbon wrapped around the crown. As she gets closer, I’m hit with the scent of magnolia blossoms and rose petals.
I notice something else too. She has a small rose tattoo on her left—
I feel a slap on my shoulder. I start and turn to Helen. Leaning forward, she whispers. “Eyes up, Father. Oh, and here’s a napkin for that bit of drool.”
I take the napkin and flash an awkward smile, wh
