The Home Jar: Stories: Stories

If A Then B Then C

If A Then B Then C 1. Three years ago i was making a living as a realtor. The market was on fire. even a newcomer like me could move houses. All i had to do was pull up to the curb in my car, pose in the yard by the For Sale sign and await my clients. other potential buyers would usually be leaving as my home-hunters arrived. i simply waited for the bidding war to begin. it got so easy for those few months that i stopped dressing for success in high heels and a suit. one day towards the end i stood on the sidewalk in jogging pants and a t-shirt. More unsavory, my t-shirt was still wet with perspiration (i had decided to jog the mile to the showing). i was pinching it away from my throat, shaking it out to dry, when Charlotte rode up on her bicycle, followedbyanotherwomanandthenaman.itookpityonCharlotte. i helped her through the closing, cutting down on my commission because this was her first house, it was shaving her dry, she’d gotten a loan she really shouldn’t have qualified for. She was very pretty, very royalty even on a bicycle with a handbell. Then there was the matter of Charlotte’s ex who wasn’t quite an ex. After the fight he put up over dowager’s rights, i’m sure i ended up losing money. 2. i was out of the real estate business. i had left the game right before the fall with what appeared to be foresight on my part. in 100 i F A t H e N B t H e N C actuality it was my short attention span. Another failed relationship plummeted me like the market. When i looked up, i was managing a fitness chain. Now i was encouraged to dress in sweats. i didn’t. i was a very tall woman. i looked like a basketball coach. one Saturday during a membership drive Bea Suffolk called me at theclub.Howsheknewwhereiwasworkingididn’tknow,butBea Suffolk was a digger. She had been the agent for the owners who had sold their house to Charlotte. i said — the words a complete shock to me — “This is about Charlotte, isn’t it? She’s dead.” “i wish,” Bea said. i was five minutes early for the Sunday lunch i had agreed to. Bea was already there, fingering the stem of a wine glass. She was always early, always prepared. She was a digger. i was shocked when i saw her. Bea believed realtors should have a signature style. They had a specific territory; why not a specific style? Her signature was suits that were almost too tight. She was single, a career woman, and stayed looking much younger than her age by utilizing various self-improvement programs during those ample hours stolen from mothers and married women. The suit jackets she wore were usually fastened by a single oversized brocaded button. They gripped her waist before flaring out. They ended short, never covering her rear end. She was always pushing her single button, then tugging on the jacket’s truffled hem. in the three years since i’d last seen her, she had aged an additional fifteen. “You can say it,” she said after i greeted her and sat down. “Say what?’ She almost smiled, sipped on her wine. Before my glass arrived, i heard about her South American parasite, leishmaniasis, her failing health, her failure. Her failure, she shrugged. Failure. She had not bothered to color her hair; the too brassy hue (also a 101 Nancy Zafris signature) had faded to dullness and was rooted in a wide furrow of white. Now for her confession. i grabbed the wine from the waiter’s tray and took a healthy swallow. She had been Charlotte’s sugar mommy. Charlotte had betrayed her. Charlotte was out there somewhere. She could see from my face i hadn’t known. “i thought you might have guessed,” she said. “No.” “too busy softening up the almost ex-husband in that house mess.” “too busy losing my commission.” “i’m sixty-eight years old,” Bea told me. “And i’m pretty sure i’m dying.” When i didn’t respond, Bea snapped her fingernail hard against my wine glass. “Hey. Do you understand what i’m telling you?” “i had no idea you were gay,” i said. 3...