The Cubicle Next Door by Siri L. Mitchell

from downstairs.
    I yelled back from my room. “What?”
    “Are you there?”
    “What?”
    “Jackie!”
    “What!” Everything about Grandmother was aging gracefully except for her eardrums. They’d already pulled up stakes and headed to Arizona. I went to the top of the stairs where she could see me.
    “You have a visitor.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Odd. Grandmother knew everyone.
    Adele crept up behind Grandmother, put a hand on her arm, and leaned toward the stairs, looking up at me. “It’s a man!” She thought she was whispering, but she wasn’t. And as soon as she said “man,” I knew whom she meant.
    Joe.
    He was the only person in Manitou Springs Grandmother didn’t know.
    And he had to show up on bridge night.
    I used to wonder what God would give me if he ever thought I needed a thorn in my side. Now I knew for sure: Joe.
    “I’ll be right down.”
    I went back to my room and pulled a T-shirt on over my tank top. Not that he was here for sightseeing, but…well…I don’t know.
    I went down the stairs, leaning on the railing as I went so the stairs wouldn’t squeak. I wanted to see what Mr. Congeniality would do with a room full of geriatric belles.
    I tiptoed across the front entry and peered around the corner. He was looking at pictures. Grandmother’s friends had gotten out their wallets and were accosting him with the photos they’d stashed inside. I didn’t have to see them to know what the pictures were. Their granddaughters. They were shameless. All of them.
    And I’d bet money Grandmother thought she had a leg up on the competition because her granddaughter was there, in person.
    “A very pretty girl, Mrs. Robinson.”
    “Thelma. You can call me Thelma. Please.”
    Adele had put her glasses on. She shoved her wallet right on top of Thelma’s. “This is my granddaughter, Lisa.”
    “She looks very nice.”
    Betty actually elbowed Adele in the ribs. And when Adele looked over at her, she took the opportunity to hold her wallet up as far as she could. It barely cleared Joe’s elbow.
    Grandmother spied me. “Jackie!” By the way she was smiling, I could tell I’d pegged her. She looked like a proud 4-H exhibitor at the State Fair.
    Joe had taken Betty’s wallet from her hand and was still looking at it. The photo was probably of her granddaughter, Nikki. She was one of those naturally blond and breezy California girls. And she was kind too. I’d met her the summer she divorced her third husband. She’d come out to Manitou for a break.
    Joe looked over at me and grinned.
    “Can I do something for you?” My plan was to get him to the kitchen and then scoot him out the door as quickly as possible.
    “Yeah. Do you have a ladder I can borrow?”
    The ladies’ eyes were bouncing between us as if they were watching a tennis match. It was making me feel uncomfortable. “If you can come out to the garage…?”
    “Ladies, it was nice to meet you.”
    They twittered and fluttered back toward the card table.
    Joe paused. Then he turned back toward the table. “What are you playing?”
    I started toward him, intending to grab his arm, kick him behind the kneecaps, club him over the head, do anything to make him leave.
    Adele was the one who answered. “Bridge. Do you play? We’re always looking for a substitute.”
    Liar! Maybe they had been ten years ago, when the other half of the original group of eight was still alive. But I was the only substitute they needed now.
    “I play poker.” He made it sound like a question. As if they might want to play. I could guarantee they wouldn’t. Wednesday nights were sacred.
    “Poker? What do you think?” Adele queried the group. Everyone nodded. She turned toward Joe. “You in?”
    “I’m in. Is there an extra chair?”
    Betty headed toward the dining room. She was probably planning on placing Joe’s chair right next to her own. I really should have followed to carry the chair for her, but I was still gaping at the scene