Nine
Joan’s home was something to behold.
The “structure,” as Frances was thinking of it, because “house” didn’t seem to fit, was surrounded by snapdragons, irises, sunflowers.
They entered through a mudroom, crowding in together while Joan returned her mother’s rifle to the gun safe.
From there, they stepped down into a large, sun-drenched room, the light coming from a wall of crank-case windows that were opened to the forest beyond. The house was deeper than it was wide.
A grandfather clock ticked noisily in a corner, and an assortment of crystals hung in one of the windows.
Thick, woven rugs covered the Saltillo tile floor, and near the back door, a freestanding stove for warmth.
There were cases stuffed with books along one wall and before them, two worn armchairs arranged with a table between them, on which more books were stacked.
A worn leather couch was situated across from the chairs, and two black cats were perched on the back of it, watching them all curiously.
The walls were covered in art. But a particular kind of art—scenes done in ink in the crosshatch style. Tiny lines that, together, formed a scene. Frances knew that was all Joan—she was an artist.
The other notable thing about the great room was the overpowering scent of marijuana.
Behind the couch were several plastic bins, filled with clothing, shoes, knickknacks. “Are you moving?” Frances asked.
“Now why would we be moving? That’s the dumbest question I’ve heard all day,” Mrs. Harris said.
Frances had not endeared herself to Joan’s mother, clearly.
“That’s Mama’s hobby. She goes to the Goodwill bulk sale in Colorado Springs, then sells anything of value on eBay.
Have a seat,” she added as her mother shuffled through the room and a door at the other end.
“I’m going to help Mama get started.” She followed her mother but paused and glanced back at them.
“Don’t touch anything. Just … stay put.”
Irene waited until they had left the room, and glared at Frances. “Great. She thinks we’re going to steal from her.”
“Well? We kind of have a history. And what is going on between you two? I’ve never seen you act so shy.”
“Nothing!” Irene said, her face reddening. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
Joan was back in a few moments. “She’s gone down to one of the outbuildings to whip up a batch of her ginger beer,” she said, glancing quickly over her shoulder. “It is the vilest thing you will ever taste, but you will drink it, and you will be happy about it. It’s got a mushroom base.”
“Pardon?” Frances asked, confused.
“Just drink it. It’s the only way to get her out of the room so I can talk to you. For all I know, Edie is going to jump out from behind a tree next.” She paused and looked from Irene to Frances. “Is she?”
“She’s not here. And if she was, she wouldn’t jump out from a tree,” Frances said. “She never liked that kind of thing, remember?”
“Mm-hmm,” Joan said dubiously. She moved to a floor pillow and sank down, cross-legged, with the ease of a child. “All right, what’s this all about? You need money?”
“No,” Frances said, appalled.
“Hold on,” Irene said. “How much you got?”
“I’ve done okay for myself,” Joan said.
“We don’t need your money, Joan,” Frances said.
“Then what do you need?”
“Tell her, Franny,” Irene said, gesturing at Frances to speak.
“Oh,” Frances said. She sat up a little straighter. “I’m not sure where to begin. Okay, my husband died after a long illness a few years ago. My son is grown, living in Omaha. He’s married, and he has two precious daughters. Both A students.” She reached for her phone. “Do you want to see?”
“Not just this moment, Fran,” Joan said. “Maybe we start a little closer to now—my mom will be back soon.”
“Right.” Frances slid her phone back into her pocket. “My son wants me to move into senior living.”
“Yikes. But what has that got to do with me?”
“I’m getting there. He’s getting more insistent, and I honestly don’t know how long I can put him off.
But I’m not ready for someone to put me in a La-Z-Boy and hand me a remote for the afternoon, you know?
I just … I can’t leave the earth that way.
” She paused and rubbed her head where it always hurt now, either from the cancer or the nagging prospect of death constantly eating at her.
They both caused the same sort of dull pain.
“I’ve really missed you all, and I hate the way things ended.
I thought maybe after all this time, it would be great to put aside our differences, forget what happened, and … ” She hesitated.
“And what?” Joan asked.
“Pull off one more spectacular heist? For old times’ sake, you know, before we’re all old or dead.”
Joan’s eyes widened with alarm. “That’s what you want? Are you out of your mind, Fran? At our age?” She looked at Irene, presumably hoping she’d agree with her.
“Why not?” Irene asked. “I never say no to money. I don’t have as much as I’d like.”
“Really?” Frances said, surprised by her revelation. “You’re a scam artist. That doesn’t pay?”
“Not as well as you’d think,” Irene admitted.
“Oh my God,” Joan muttered.
“She’s running a Tantric yoga scam in Florida,” Frances added. “And defrauding old people.”
“Will you stop bragging about me? It’s embarrassing,” Irene said. “Let’s back up here.” She turned back to Joan. “What about you? What have you been doing all these years?”
Joan smiled. “Taking care of business.”
“Not gonna lie—that sounds a tiny bit nefarious,” Frances said.
“Maybe it is,” Joan agreed.
“Irene said you were selling weed.”
“And how does Irene know so much about my business?” Joan asked, looking directly at Irene. “I don’t remember including you in the memos.”
“I guessed,” Irene said. “Frances left that part out. I told you I keep tabs on people. Why is everyone so surprised by that?”
“Well, are you?” Frances pressed. “A drug dealer?”
“Am I a … No, Frances, I am not a drug dealer,” Joan scoffed.
“I mean, I am but not like you’re thinking.
I have a business. I have my farm. I grow weed legally.
And we’ve been dabbling in mushrooms, which is very lucrative.
My mother lives with me, my siblings come to visit occasionally, but mostly, I just work.
Nothing nefarious. And excuse me, we were talking about why you two just showed up at my door after forty, fifty years and how you have apparently lost your damn minds.
” She glanced at the door, then, leaned forward, and whispered, “Have you forgotten that we were literally minutes from federal prison the last time, or has the dementia gotten to you?”
“We weren’t that close,” Frances said, in a lame attempt to downplay how seriously close they had come to losing their liberty.
“Maybe not for you, rich white girl, but for us?”
Frances winced. She couldn’t argue.
“We didn’t get caught,” Irene reminded Joan. “And it’s been a long time since then. We’ve all been forgotten, no one is looking for us anymore. Fran is right—it could be fun. We were so good together, remember?”
“I remember,” Joan said. “But I’m not a girl anymore. I have officially entered my muumuu era. Bra off by six, in bed by ten. I like my quiet life. I don’t see leaving that for some spur-of-the-moment ill-advised heist.”
“Where is your sense of adventure?” Frances asked. “We’re only seventy.”
“I’m seventy-three, Fran. That makes you seventy-four, and Irene here—”
“Old, we get it,” Irene said.
“Okay,” Frances conceded. “But is this really the way you want to live the next thirty years? On a farm with no company but your mother?”
“Yes!” Joan said. “I am perfectly happy. I have my place, my art—”
“Your mother,” Irene interjected.
Joan groaned. “But she is my mother. She has to be with someone.”
“I don’t know. Looked like she was taking pretty good care of herself to me,” Frances said.
“Really? Because she was two seconds from shooting your face off,” Joan responded. “And I haven’t even told you that I’m deaf in one ear. I’m no good to any job now.” She turned her head so they could see the tiny aid in her ear. “Lab experiment gone wrong.”
“Hearing loss is not a season-ending injury,” Frances argued. “A season-ending injury would be like losing a leg. Or your mind.”
“And you’re wearing martial arts clothes. With a black belt,” Irene pointed out.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t still kick ass.” Joan pressed her lips together. She glanced over her shoulder again, as if she thought her mother would burst through the wall, Kool-Aid Man–style, any moment. “What’s the heist, anyway?”
Irene sighed. “Typical Frances—drags us into this but doesn’t have anything set up.”
“Hey,” Frances said, a bit miffed. “I told you, I wanted to see if anyone was interested before I picked a mark.”
“You just proved my theory that some things never change,” Joan said, eyeing Frances warily.
Frances was trying very hard not to be offended, but they weren’t wrong.
She wasn’t as clever as they were. She could come up with the idea, but they’d always seemed better at execution.
At least she’d done this—no one else had tried to get the gang back together.
“Apologies for not being as smart as you two. But I’ve had some pretty good ideas in years past, and honestly, what is the point of coming up with something if no one is going to help me?
Come on, Joan. Aren’t you even a tiny bit interested? ”
“Not really,” Joan said. She got up from the floor and went to a bookcase.
She lifted the lid of a red-and-blue ceramic bowl and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, then returned to where they were seated and resumed her seat on the floor.
She lit the joint, dragged on it, then handed it to Irene, who took it without hesitation.
“First of all, I have questions,” Joan said. “What about Edie?”
“We haven’t decided,” Irene said, and passed the joint to Frances.