Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“Look at the Christmas dinner from two years ago,” Mason said, pointing a finger at a glossy four-by-six print. “She is right there next to my mother, laughing.”
I turned the page to the section from last Thanksgiving, then the Easter portrait, and finally the summer barbecue we hosted in July. Maribel was missing from every single one, her place at the table empty or occupied by a folded jacket.
“She said she was just tired, Clara, but she would not even look at me,” Mason said, rubbing his collarbone.
“Well, she has never missed a family event in thirty years, Mason,” I said, rolling my gold engagement ring around my finger.
Mason closed the album, the heavy cardboard cover making a dry slap against the wood. He stared at the blue box, then got up to check the lock on the back door.
The next morning, I drove back to Elm Street with a wicker basket containing four blueberry muffins from the bakery down the street from the library. The kitchen door was unlocked, as it usually was when Maribel was expecting the mailman. I stepped inside, the smell of lavender soap mixing with the faint scent of old floor wax.
