DARK WORK. Barbara Rush

had always seemed sterile. It was simply a place Liz stayed when she was not gone. After buying the house a few days before an extended business trip, Liz set a budget and hired a decorator. The decorator selected drapes, furniture, rugs, even plants and decorative items while Liz was in Berlin for the summer. Because she wasn’t involved, the house reflected the personality of the decorator, not Liz. It never seemed to Erin that it was fully Liz’s house. Erin had never told her mother, but when Liz wasn’t home, the place had all the warmth of a large, impersonal suite in a nice hotel.

      A great contrast existed between this place and the house Erin lived in while growing up. She smiled at the memory. Liz had decorated their hold house with furniture from junk and antique stores and eccentric items she picked up at flea markets. Sprinkled into the mix was furniture from the 1920s through the 1950s. The house was around 1,000 square feet, the home where Liz had grown up long before Erin was born. It was in a section of town that unfortunately had deteriorated over the years. Liz had kept the house as an investment, planning to remodel and rent it. But it was now in a bad neighborhood, and Liz didn’t want the kind of tenants who would gravitate to that section of town. So it was empty. Liz installed iron bars over the windows and doors and set it up with a sophisticated alarm system that was loud enough to raise the dead if anyone dared to break in. For the past decade, the house had just sat there. Once Liz had to replace some of the wood siding which had been inexplicably riddled with bullets. Even after that, Liz kept saying, “I just can’t sell it. I just can’t. That’s where we lived when you were born. Maybe the neighborhood will turn around one day.”

      Liz remembered the house as Erin did, with expansive green lawns, trees, white fences, dogs and children playing on the sidewalks, an ice cream truck crawling through the neighborhood playing “Turkey in the Straw,” neighbors gathered in front of their houses chatting or calling out to each other over the back yard fence. There was another thing Erin would have to take care of. What would she do with her grandmother’s house? She made a mental note to talk to Dan about it.

      Erin threw off her blanket decisively and sat up. Lydia said to call and she’d come back to help again today. Why not call her? On the other hand, cleaning out the house was something she and Kristy could do. They could call some of their other friends to help with the heavy lifting and the hauling of boxes to the Goodwill center or Salvation Army. She needed someone to take part of Liz’s shoes and clothing to the place where Liz always donated clothing, the Women’s Shelter from Church On The Wall.

      She pushed back her short blond hair distractedly, reached for the phone, and called Kristy.

      Kristy was up, and sounded like she’d been crying. ”Oh, Erin, I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I’ve been up since 3:00. I wanted to come over, but —”

      “Well, I’m ready for you, friend. Do you think you could get Gina and Todd to come over later on with their truck, and take some of this stuff to the Goodwill?”

      “Yeah, I’ll give them a call. Sara has been wanting to help. Should I call her too?”

      “Yes, call Sara. We need some help getting the stuff out of the basement.”

      “I’ll be right over. How about some bagels?” Kristy was still concerned about Erin’s lack of appetite. She had barely eaten any of her dinner last night.

      “I don’t want a bagel, but bring whatever you want to eat,” Erin said.

      No sooner had she hung up the telephone than it rang. It was probably Kristy again. Erin picked it up.

      “Good morning, Erin.” It was Lydia Knox.

      “Oh, hi, Lydia. I was just talking to Kristy.”

      “Poor Kristy. She must be exhausted,” Lydia said, her voice infused with sympathy.

      “Kristy? Exhausted?”

      “Well, she’s grieving over Liz, and worried about you. We need to keep an eye on her. I’ve seen many best friends winding up worse off than the person they are trying to help.”

       What a warm, sensitive person. I hadn’t even been thinking about Kristy; I’ve been too absorbed with my own problems. Kristy said she’d been up since 3:00 and I just ignored her.

      “That’s one of the strengths of Good Grief,” Lydia continued. “We are outsiders, so we can absorb some of the emotional fatigue that might otherwise fall on the friends you love.”

      “I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish. I wonder if I should tell Kristy not to come over here today.”

      “That might hurt her, to feel like she’s being left out,” Lydia said. “Here’s a suggestion. Why don’t you let them all come over for a few hours. I’ll be there with you, and drop the hint that you need some rest. When they’ve left, we’ll continue. Better yet, you can rest after they leave and I’ll continue.”

      “Can I ask you something, Lydia?”

      “Sure. I’m here to help.”

      “I know you were at Church On The Wall. Did you know my mother?”

      Lydia paused for just a second. She had anticipated this question. Evidently Erin hadn’t understood that Lydia was from a separate agency.

      “Oh, sure, I knew Liz Griffin.” I have a thick file on her. I have her bank account numbers and I know her underwear sizes. And I need you to help me get into her safety deposit box, and soon. “She always looked for me when she came to church, so we could sit together.” People did that, didn’t they? Sat together at church?

      Erin relaxed. A friend of her mother. A connection to her mother. A part of her mother’s life. She felt that she had gotten a tiny part of her mother back.

      “I’m glad you’re here for me, Lydia. Come on over.” Now that I think of it, Lydia dresses like Mom.

      “Be right there,” Lydia said. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll sort through all this together.”

      The woman stubbed out her Marlboro and walked to the window to survey the hotel parking lot again. I can never be too careful. Today she would pack up her things and move to another hotel. Rule No. 1 was simple: Don’t stay in one place too long. A fixed constellation of simple rules had kept her alive so far. That, and a good assortment of driver’s licenses and passports in various names. She wasn’t stupid enough to carry any extra identification. Just what the current project required.

      She checked to make sure her silver “heart” necklace was in place. It had become a ritual for her, checking every few minutes to make sure she had it, and that the secret compartment in the back was firmly shut. It wouldn’t do to lose that particular cargo, and that’s how she thought of it—as cargo, not cyanide.

      She closed the draperies and headed for the shower. Time to become Lydia again. She was starting to hate “Lydia.” Meaning, of course, that Lydia’s character and her nauseating “goodness” were about as close to perfection as they would ever get. She was bored.