U Is for Undertow

for the album, it was nowhere to be found. Tasha got very snippy and now Cornelia blames me.”
    “When you say Cornelia, I assume you’re talking about Grand.”
    “Your grandmother, yes. Tasha thinks Cornelia’s just being stubborn, refusing to hand over the album because she’s so possessive about the family history. The two got into quite a tangle.”
    “Why didn’t Aunt Susanna speak up? She’s the one who sent me the album. If she wants it back, all she has to do is ask.”
    “Oh no, dear. Susanna didn’t send the album. I did.”
    “ You did?”
    She nodded. “Last April.”
    “Why would you do that? You don’t know me from Adam.”
    “Cornelia told me to. I argued until I was blue in the face, but she ordered me to send it to you and that’s what I did. Of course, now she’s forgotten the entire incident. She turned the house upside down in search of the album and when she couldn’t lay hands on it, she accused me of sneaking it to Tasha behind her back. That’s when I decided I’d had enough.”
    I squinted at the woman, trying to figure out what she was talking about. I understood what she’d said, but I’d never met Grand and I had no idea why she’d send me the family album. “Are you sure about this?”
    “Oh my, yes. You don’t have to take my word for it. I have the proof right here.”
    She opened her purse and pulled out a green postcard that I recognized as a return-receipt request. She passed it to me and I glanced at the notations that indicated the date and time the parcel was sent and provided a line for the person who’d signed for it. I recognized Henry’s writing. He often signs on my behalf if I’m gone, as long as delivery isn’t restricted. There was also a note that the package had been mailed from Lompoc, all of which coincided with what I knew. Why would the woman lie? How would she know about me or the album if she hadn’t mailed it in the first place?
    “Why would Grand order you to send it to me?”
    “I have no idea. None of us dare question anything she does. Now that she’s forgotten, there’s no point in quizzing her.”
    Well, that was a comforting thought. Sending the album was the only gesture my grandmother had ever made toward me. Now not only was she taking it back, but she’d erased the incident from her mind. Here I’d been feeling all warm and gooey about Aunt Susanna and that illusion was gone now as well. Not that Bettina was at fault. She was looking at me plaintively.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “Is there any way I might take advantage of your facilities?”
    “You need a bathroom.”
    “I do.”
    “Why don’t you come in?”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
    “I can make you a cup of tea while you’re here,” I said.
    “Really, dear. That would be lovely.”
    Bettina followed me through the gate and around to the rear where I unlocked my front door and ushered her in. My studio’s perpetually tidy, so I wasn’t worried about disgracing myself with dirty dishes in the sink. I worried I was out of tea bags and my milk would be old enough to smell like spit-up. I suggested she use the downstairs bathroom to “freshen up,” which is old-people talk for pissing like a race-horse after a long drive.
    Once the door closed behind her, I scampered into the kitchen to check on my supply of tea bags. As I opened the cupboard door, a little white moth flew out, which was either an evil omen or evidence of bugs. I opened the tea canister and discovered I had three tea bags left. A quick look in the refrigerator revealed that I was out of milk altogether, but I did have a lemon, the juice of which I’d intended to mix with baking soda to clean the inside of a plastic storage container that was dark with tomato stains. This was a tip from my Aunt Gin, who was famous for household remedies with little or no application to problems in the real world.
    I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, turned on the burner under it, and sliced the lemon. I got out cups and saucers, placing a tea bag and a paper napkin neatly beside each cup. When Bettina emerged we sat down and had tea together before returning to the subject at hand. By then I was reconciled to handing over the album, which was sitting on my desk. I had no real claim to it and from what she’d said, my returning it was as good as saving her life. That issue out of the way, I thought I might as well pump her for information.
    I said, “What happens when you put the