The Last Secret by Mary Mcgarry Morris

really thought much about Texas or Helen, and it is with increasing bitterness that he must now. Her first mistake was the lie, claiming to be a wealthy widow, when she was really divorced and on the dole. Half the time her alimony checks never came. Withered, bleached old bitch, her K-Y Jelly tube under the bed, holding out her arms through the camphored darkness one night, then shrieking the next for him to get the hell out, he was nothing but a leech, a loser. And what was she, no class, no taste, desperate not to be old. Edward, she announced at the condo pool to the lizard-skinned crones asleep on their frayed lounges, withtheir mouths sagging open, anesthetized by their lunchtime gin, yes,
Edwahd
, who would be taking her to Mexico as soon as his boat was repainted.
    Lisa reaches into her paper bag. “Want some?” Cheese and peanut butter crackers. Her way of breaking the ice. She peels open the crinkly red cellophane strip.
    “No thanks.” Her uneasiness both amuses him and sets him on edge.
    “You hardly ever eat.”
    “I don't eat to eat, just when I'm hungry.”
    The smell of peanut butter fills the car. He peers at the sign. EXIT TOLOPOS. One mile ahead. Cracker crumbs dot the wide black swath of her pant legs.
    “Are you mad at me?” She touches his arm, and he can barely breathe.
    “Course not.”
    “How come you're so quiet then? I mean, the whole trip, it's been great, we've had so much to talk about. Right from the start I had this feeling … like, we knew each other, you know what I mean? And now I feel … I don't know, kind of funny, like …”
    “Like I've changed?” It's a struggle not to smile. They're all the same. A man, any man, plain and simple, that's what they want. Worse they're treated, hungrier they get. Pathetic.
    “Yeah, like something's wrong. Like, really wrong.”
    “I'm tired, that's all. Just kind of tired.” To keep her calm he pats her leg, forces himself to leave his hand there. She's big, and he's not as quick as he used to be.
    “Let me drive, then.”
    “I'm okay.”
    “I wasn't trying to make you mad before. What I said back there. You know that, right?”
    Barely listening, he nods, turns on the directional.
    “Tolopos. Are you just turning off? Are we heading back?” she asks with some disappointment. She doesn't want the fairy tale to end.
    “I don't know. Just sounds kind of … intriguing. Don't you think?”
    “Yeah it does, doesn't it?” The prospect of his improving mood delights her. “Tol-oh-pos,” she says. “Tol-oh-pos, like an Indian tribe or some kind of rock band. I'll have to tell Liam. He writes all his own stuff Tol-oh-pos, Tol-oh-pos, Tol-oh-pos,” she sings, strumming an imaginary guitar, or maybe a banjo, to judge from her now accelerating rendition. “Tol-oh-pos!” She laughs, continues to strum.
    Here, the road narrows.
    “Look out!” she yells, pointing to the pregnant beagle waddling across the road. “Don't!” she screams and covers her face.
    He gets close as he can, at the last minute jams on the brakes.
    “That's not funny,” she says.
    “Who's laughing?”
    She turns away and looks out the side window.
    Same four small houses: one-story flat roofs but now in each scrubby front yard there is a large satellite dish. This last one, his grandmother's. Where they sent him when his mother got sick. Four kids in that cramped box, him the fifth. With their own litter already jammed into one bedroom, his aunt and uncle stuck him in with Grandma Vernile. Now it's Alzheimer's, but then they said hardening of the arteries, dementia, causing her to sleep enough through the day to wail all night long while he cowered under her musty house dresses, the head of the cot jammed into the closet, the only way they could fit him in. Because it was Vernile's house, they had to do the best they could, until things got better: meaning, her death. His aunt and uncle would inherit the house, a foregone conclusion with the other daughter so