Mohawk

thanked her for letting him be a pallbearer, even reminding her that he had owed “Pa” money. She resisted the temptation to tell him that she herself had repaid her father, and that if compelled he could always pay her instead. The postponed move was going to cost more than she could afford, and the money would’ve been a godsend. But Dallas wouldn’t have it, anyway. He looked pitifully cold, and there was no future in being mean to men like Dallas. After all, she had married him out of pity, and that was mean enough.
    At the cemetery gates, the small procession of cars broke ranks, their unity of purpose having dissolved. So, Anne thought, it’s over. She and her mother, alone in the huge back seat of the limo that would drop them off in front of Mather Grouse’s home on MountainAvenue before returning to the funeral home to wait for another death and short drive. When they arrived, the driver got out and helped Mrs. Grouse to the curb before getting back in and driving off. Mrs. Grouse, showing her first signs of distraction in the entire ordeal, stopped at the foot of the porch steps and rummaged through her purse. To Anne, she suddenly looked old. “I have the keys right here,” Mrs. Grouse said, and indeed they could both hear the keys jingling. Neither noticed the man in the black suit standing near the corner at a respectable distance. Only when he was at her elbow did Anne start, and look at him so maliciously that he removed the big cigar from his face and mumbled something about their time of grief. Then the hand not holding the cigar disappeared into a pocket and emerged with a fistful of money, which he thrust at Mrs. Grouse, who backed away as if from a knife.
    “Your husband …,” Mr. Untemeyer said. “The number.”
    But he was no good at talking to women, having had little practice in decades, and quickly gave up. “It’s yours, damn it,” he said gruffly.
    But Mrs. Grouse continued to retreat up the porch steps. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”
    Untemeyer was clearly nonplussed, having absolutely no experience of people refusing money. This struck him as unnatural, even perverse. He turned to Anne, who was only slightly less confused than her mother. Was there some grotesque Mohawk lottery that her father had won by dying on a certain day? “My father was just buried,” she told the man. “Won’t you please go away?”
    In fact, Untemeyer looked as if there was nothingin the world he would’ve liked better, but he stood his ground, fanning the thick wad of bills like playing cards. “
It’s yours
,” he insisted. “Your old man hit the goddamn number. It ain’t my fault.”
    To Anne’s surprise, her mother stopped backing up and confronted her husband’s accuser. “There is some mistake,” she said. “My husband was no common gambler.”
    The bookie was prepared for this defense. He never went anywhere without his slips, and Mather Grouse’s, which he had been carrying around for a week, was right on top, handy. “See?” he said, showing Mrs. Grouse her husband’s clearly printed name. “See?”
    But the good woman was firm. “I’m
very
sorry,” she said.
    “Jesus Christ, lady,” said Untemeyer. But realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere, and after one more futile thrust of the money, he returned it to his own pocket and stumped off, still shaking his head.
    Once they were safely inside, Anne noticed that her mother, who was peering between the blinds as if she expected him to return, was crying quietly. “Why are there such horrible people in the world,” she asked, as if she really wanted to know and thought perhaps her worldly daughter might be able to explain. Still gazing fearfully out the window, Mrs. Grouse then said something even more surprising. “You won’t go now, of course. You won’t go anywhere. You’ll stay right here.”
    Anne understood her mother perfectly. By “now” she was not referring to Mather Grouse’s death, but rather to what had just happened. It was the man who had so rudely pushed money at her that had forcedMrs. Grouse to look squarely at an uncertain future. She was afraid, perhaps for the first time since her wedding day.
    “Of course not, Mother,” Anne heard herself say. “We’ll stay as long as you want.”



29
    Harry Saunders looks around the Mohawk Grill and considers that life is change, an idea that occurred to him only recently and has given him little comfort. Indeed he had always embraced the