Vera found the pattern in a glove box a week after the burial. Gas receipts from the east side, Sundays, a cluster. She sat in the driveway with the receipts in her lap. Keisha came out and did not ask what. She looked. She said, “That’s the number.” Vera said, “That’s the map.” They did not drive the map. Driving the map would have been a second visit. The first had been enough. Vera put the receipts in the guest-book drawer. Paper with paper. She locked the car. The car was just a car again. It took a day.
Ruth stayed ten days and then had a flight. At the airport she said, “If you want me to hate her for you, I can.” Vera said, “Hate is a second job. I have the house.” Ruth said then keep the house. They hugged. The hug was late and correct. Keisha drove home the long way so they would not pass the funeral parlor. The long way added twelve minutes. Twelve minutes was a tax. Vera paid it without comment. Commenting was how a town became a story. She did not want the town’s story. She wanted her kitchen. The kitchen still had his mug. She put the mug in a box. The box was not the locket. The box was dishes. Dishes she could decide.
Nadine did not go to the grave. Loretta asked. Nadine said the widow had told her to leave and the grave was not a loophole. Loretta said that’s more manners than he had. Nadine said don’t. The don’t was protection of a man who was dead and of herself. She went to work. She answered emails. She did not say his name. A coworker asked if she was all right. She said a funeral. The coworker said sorry. Sorry was a lid. She used it. At home the locket stayed in the box. She did not open the lake. The lake could stay paper. Paper was what Vera had in a drawer. They had that in common and nothing else they would ever say.