Read The Blue Bottle Club for Free Online Page B

said curtly "Short-term memory loss. Some days she's pretty lucid, and other days—" She shrugged.
    "But I've had a good day today, haven't I, Gert? Haven't I?" Letitia's voice went soft, like a child pleading for affirmation.
    "Yes, honey, today was a good day."
    "We had macaroni and cheese for lunch. I remember that."
    "I know, honey, it's your favorite."
    Brendan listened to this exchange and watched the obvious affection between the two women. "Do you think you could talk to me, tell me about the bottle, and about your friends?" she asked gently.
    "The bottle? Oh, yes, the bottle." An indignant expression washed over the old woman's countenance. "I'm old, child, but I'm not crazy. I might not remember lunch, but I remember 1930 like it was yesterday. I can never forget that, no matter how much I might try."
    She looked up at Gert and nodded. "You go on to the grocery store. I'll be just fine. We'll sit here and have ourselves a little talk."
    "Are you sure?"
    "Of course I'm sure. Brenda here will stay with me until you get back, won't you, Brenda?"
    "Yes, ma'am." Brendan suppressed a smile.
Gert gathered up her purse and car keys. "I won't be long."
    "You take your time, now," Letitia said. "Brenda and I have got lots to talk about, I think. And bring me some of those little cupcakes, please."
    "I always do." Gert came over and kissed Letitia on the top of her head. "There's more coffee in the kitchen," she said to Brendan, "and cookies in the jar."
    "We'll be all right." Brendan smiled up at Gert. Frau Klein wasn't so terrifying after all. The killer Doberman was just a puppy at heart.
    When the front door closed gently behind Gert, Letitia settled back on the sofa. "I get so mad sometimes," she said, clenching her fists in frustration. "Some days everything is so clear, like I was forty again. And other days—" She waved a hand in the air. "Other days aren't so good." She sat up straight and fixed Brendan with an intense gaze. "Don't ever let anyone tell you it's a blessing to live a long life," she said fiercely. "It's a curse, old age—not what you forget, but what you're condemned to remember."
    "And what," Brendan prodded gently, "do you remember?"
    "I remember that bottle. I remember making a solemn promise. And I remember, every day, that I failed to keep that vow. It's my one regret in this life."
    The old woman let out a heavy sigh. "Getting old wouldn't be so bad, I suppose, if it weren't for the loneliness. Except for Gert, bless her soul, I think I'd go mad." She shook her head, and an expression of deep sadness filled her rheumy green eyes. "The hearing fades and the eyesight dims, and the old body just won't obey any longer. But you can endure all of that with grace as long as you have friends." She pointed a shaky finger at the blue bottle. "Friends like that."
    "Do you mind talking about it?" Brendan asked. "It's not my intention to cause you pain."
    "Pain is a fact of life," the old woman muttered. "Besides, I'd think about it whether you were here or not. It's just when you showed up at my door with this bottle, everything came rushing back like a flood." She picked up the bottle from the coffee table and caressed it with arthritic fingers. "The house is gone, you say?"
    "I'm afraid so. It was condemned by the city. I covered the story of the demolition."
    Tears swam in her eyes. "It was a wonderful old house, full of memories."
    "Yes, it was. A landmark. I was sorry to see it torn down."
    "Some of the memories aren't so good," Letitia whispered. "But the memory of that day, that Christmas—" She smiled and closed her eyes.
    Brendan reached into her bag and brought out her notebook, a small tape recorder, and the photocopies of the papers she had found in the blue bottle. "Would you like to read what you wrote and put in the bottle?"
    Letitia shook her head. "I don't need to read it. I know it by heart, every word. I was seventeen that Christmas, and so sure of everything. Sure of the