Ruth listened without performing shock. She had been a teacher. She knew the difference between a child making a mistake and a man building a corridor out of a mistake. "He may not sell it," she said. "People say things to men like that to feel large."
"He signed something with his sisters," Evelyn said. She had not known this; she had only suspected. Now, saying it, she found she did know. She had seen the magazine page weeks ago when Helen's purse spilled in the hall — a hearing-aid advertisement, three signatures, her address in her daughter's handwriting — and she had put it back like a woman who was not ready to have seen it. "They have agreed to erase whatever I write."
Ruth was quiet. The clock ran fast. "Then you can write nothing. Let the old will stand. Let them have the fight they have already scheduled."
"The old will splits it three ways," Evelyn said. "Which is what they want, so they can sell it. Samuel said not to sell it while I was in it. He did not say what to do when I was no longer a reason." She looked at her hands. The wrist ached when it rained, a small, faithful reminder. "If I leave it to them, they will turn it into a check. If I leave it to you, they will say I was captured. If I leave it to Lydia, they will say I played favorites and she will spend the rest of her life paying them back in guilt. I have arranged a lovely set of failures."
"You could ask them," Ruth said.