And yet.

Who’d triumphed? Who was happy? Who was happy right now? Was Alma? She didn’t look very happy.

She, Debi, was happy.

Happy in this moment, just as it was. Wind picking up, clouds dark over the Rec, left heel out of her slipper: all perfect.

Game, set, match: Debi.

Life was harsh, people said. But no. She disagreed. Life was wise. Life compensated. The love of your life broke it off, and many years passed, and your kid ran off, and that about killed you, but then, laid low, you were forced to take stock, see what had been good in your life, see what had been best, and when your answer was “Paul, Paul was the best thing that ever happened to me,” you drifted back to him, sought him out, sort of lured him back into it, into you, and what did you get? The happiest year of your life. Of both your lives. He said so. “I’ve never been so happy. That’s the truth.” His exact words. So she had that. Then he died. Just her luck.

She couldn’t exactly show up at Chasen-Winney for visiting hours, so she’d snuck out to the grave a few days later, bawling her eyes out. Then here came Alma. As always. The Interferer, the Truncator. In that sweet red Granada that Paul had just bought her. For her birthday. Ouch. Off she, Debi, had scurried, through the woods, ruining her new black pumps, because (who knew?) there was a swamp back there, eventually stumbling out, like some sort of dispirited ghost, at Wendy’s, where she’d had a milkshake, clay-red mud pooling around her wrecked shoes, that mopping kid looking over at her, like: Lady, it’s weird that you’re crying in Wendy’s. Please leave, so I can clean your shit up.

And then she’d had to call Cal from work to drive her back to the graveyard to get her Dart.

The end.

Alone ever since.

Swep.

· · ·

“Ma, jeez, wave back,” Pammy said. “You’re acting nuts.”

I don’t believe I will, Alma thought.

“She’s just some old lady,” Pammy said. “Why hurt her feelings? Anyways, that’s what I think.”

“That’s because you don’t know shit about anything,” Alma said. “Look at you. What have you ever done?”

The breeze was suddenly cold, and leaves were skittering around.

Oh, great. Now Pammy was mad. Boo-hoo. Pammy was touchy. Dainty. Who knew why? She’d always treated Pammy-Putt square.