All That Work and Still No Boys

Gratitude

13 0 Gratitude Gwen Rattle looked good when she opened the door, better than Mabel expected. She was in a black skirt and high-collared blouse. Her dark hair was bobbed short and pinned on one side with a silver clip. Mabel had tucked her own thinning hair under a small felt hat. She must have a job, thought Mabel, or family. Mabel tried to see past her shoulder. Curtains, pictures, a well-lit room. Even Mrs. Rattle had a place to call home. “Where’s Mr. Fong? Didn’t he come with you?” Mabel hadn’t told her on the phone that C.K. was gone. She knew it wasn’t quite nice to let Mrs. Rattle think that help was at hand, but it was only a twenty-four hour lie. Mabel had told lies that lasted far longer than that. She had told Wendell, for instance, that he could do G r a t i t u d e 131 anything he set his mind to, when she knew by the time he was eight that there were many things he couldn’t do. He chose sales, thank goodness, and managed that just fine. “How do you do, Mrs. Rattle. May I come in?” Mabel smiled politely. They sat in Gwen’s kitchen; she didn’t offer a cup of tea. “My son is coming home from school in twenty minutes. I don’t want him to hear us talking about his dad.” “Doesn’t he know his father’s in—?” She almost said “the joint,” and suppressed a laugh. Too many American movies late at night! C.K. had loved to watch them, sitting upright on the living room couch when he should have been struggling, like Mabel was, to fall asleep. His favorites were the old prison films about corrupt wardens and wrongly accused men. Mabel would scold him, importune him to come to bed, remind him of his morning appointments. The next day when she called to make his apologies , she would keep her voice low so that C.K. could sleep. She looked again at Gwen Rattle sitting stiffly in her chair. She knew something of that pride. Cheer up, Mrs. Rattle, she wanted to say, I’m not really here to help. “He knows,” said Gwen. “Is your husband going to take Robbie ’s case?” “I’m sorry, but my husband can’t help you. He died six years ago,” said Mabel. She had thought Gwen might be a hairdresser or a waitress, but her hands looked as smooth as chicken breast cut from the bone. Gwen stared. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday, when you called?” “I didn’t want to say so on the phone.” “For God’s sake.” Gwen stood. Mabel’s veiny hands were in her lap; she gave Gwen another glimpse of her modest expression. An old Chinese lady, no harm in that. “It’s not like Robbie isn’t always getting slammed by the lawyers he writes to for help anyway.” “Oh, does he send a lot of those letters?” Mabel was disappointed for C.K. Gwen sat back down. “Yeah, I tell him not to waste the stamps. They got him in there now, why let him out early? Most of those guys he writes to don’t even bother to write back. They see it’s jail mail and throw it away.” 13 2 G r a t i t u d e “What did he do?” asked Mabel. “He’s accused of mugging a guy, taking him down with The Club.” She shook her head. “We don’t even own a car.” “C.K. never practiced law, but he had legal training and many good ideas,” said Mabel. “For God’s sake. Your husband, who’s dead, never handled a case? Why did you bother to come?” “I was curious,” admitted Mabel. Gwen laughed. “That’s so bizarre, even Robbie might think it’s funny.” Smiling, Gwen didn’t look so tired. A cup of tea would bring color. A bowl of rice, white cabbage, an egg, or a little meat. She was thin but strong. Her hands were now like Mabel’s, resting like birds in her skirted lap. She looked at the kitchen clock. “Dewey will be here in five. You better go.” “Do you see your husband?” asked Mabel. “Every other month. Robbie wants me to come more often, but I’ve got Dewey. I don’t like a...