Read The Three Weissmanns of Westport for Free Online Page B

elderly divorcee; she knew her fortune, and it was dark.
    I have an idea.
    Annie heard Miranda announce that she had an idea the way she heard the sound of traffic. It was ceaseless, and so it barely existed. Annie heard her sister, and she did not hear. She continued mentally adding up the retirement funds that Joseph had long ago put in her mother's name for tax purposes. Betty could take out enough of a distribution to pay for some of her food and gas. Even the new Josie with his brain tumor--there really could be no other explanation for his ugly behavior--would continue to pay for the AARP supplement to Betty's Medicare. And the car insurance was all paid up for the year. She had checked with Josie's secretary, who, though loyal to her employer, was not unsympathetic to Betty's plight. If Annie and Miranda helped out, Betty might be able to just scrape by.
    "Mmmhmm," Annie said to Miranda.
    She would pay for the movers with her tax rebate. A shame to dismantle her mother's beautiful apartment. She wondered how much of Betty's furniture would fit in the little house.
    "We'll all move to Westport," Miranda said.
    The chairs from the living room would probably work. The image of those chairs in a new setting suddenly made her angry.
    "That's my idea," Miranda was saying.
    Annie said, "Oh, Miranda," as she so often did.
    But Miranda had it all worked out by the time they reached their mother's apartment building, and when Betty heard the plan, she was ecstatic.
    "I know you're not serious," Annie said.
    "It's so practical, dear," Betty said. "You girls sublet your places and make lots of money on them."
    Miranda's cell phone was ringing. She looked at it but did not answer. One of the publishers who were suing her. That seemed to be the reason she had no money, or so her lawyer had tried to explain. Everything was tied up until the lawsuits were settled. She was living on credit cards. She had always lived on credit cards, though in the past she had employed a business manager to pay off the credit cards. Now there was no money to pay the business manager to pay off the credit cards. "Lots of money," she said, echoing her mother's words hopefully.
    "Mom," Annie was saying, "you just called us girls . We're women in our fifties. You guys are having one of your fantasies."
    "I'm forty-nine," Miranda said. "And I'm not a guy."
    "It will be like the Great Depression, when everyone lived together," Betty said. "Oh, I can't wait."
    Annie knew that voice. It was the picnic voice. "This is not a picnic," she said desperately.
    Betty looked at her, stricken. "That's what Josie always says." Her eyes filled with tears.
    "A hideous experiment," Annie said to her son Charlie when he called a few days later. "Three grown women grafted onto the memory of a nuclear family. Like Frankenstein's monster. There will be mobs of violent peasants. And torches."
    "You don't have to go, you know."
    "If you think you and your brother can get out of taking care of me when I'm old by giving me permission to abandon my mother in this her hour of need, you have another think coming."
    He laughed. "What about your job?"
    "I'll commute. I'll buy a gray flannel suit."
    But Charlie was too young to get the reference.
    "Right," he said uncertainly.
    "I can't believe I let them talk me into this," she said.
    "Aunt Miranda could talk anyone into anything."
    The packing was what delayed them, though at first Betty was willing to leave with nothing but a toothbrush. After all, what was keeping her? What was left?
    "Your life?" Annie ventured.
    "My life is over."
    "That's very dramatic, Mother."
    "Just some saltines for the trip," Betty said. "And a cardigan."
    But one sweater led to another, which led to matching skirts and trousers, jackets, shoes, and handbags. "And of course I'll need these," Betty said, gathering photos and several large paintings. "And something to sit on. And sleep on. And cook in. And plates and the teapot . . . And I'm certainly not