His Best Friend's Wife

The elderly woman brightened. “I am. Especially since that good-for-nothing reprobate of a husband of hers didn’t come with her.”

Libby sighed. Paul suppressed a chuckle, trying to recall the last time he’d heard the word reprobate used in a sentence. Probably not since twelfth-grade English. “I remember you always were one to speak your mind, Mrs. Potter. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“You go right ahead,” she said. “As long as they’re not too personal.”

Libby closed her eyes, shook her head.

After all these years, still not pulling any punches, Paul thought. The poor woman probably knew things weren’t quite right and she was scared witless. Geriatrics weren’t his strong suit, but for now he would go easy on her, he decided. Depending on what he learned, he might refer them to a specialist in the city.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you feel any of the questions are too personal, then you don’t have to answer them.”

“That seems fair.” But she clung to her daughter’s hand like a lifeline.

“How long have you lived in Riverton, Mrs. Potter?”

“All my life.”

He looked to Libby, who confirmed the answer with a subtle nod.

“So you must know pretty well everyone in town.”

“I suppose I do. I’ve taught a lot of them, too. And their children and their children’s children.”

“She even taught me,” Libby added, her soft voice filled with affection.

“And you were a good student. A good girl, too. At least until you married that good-for-nothing...”

Reprobate. She seemed unable to recall the disparaging word that had come so quickly just moments ago, and since it didn’t bear repeating, Paul pressed on.

“Where do you live?”

“On Cottonwood Street.” He knew that was true, could even picture her cute little one-and-a-half-story home a few blocks from his father’s place.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Thursday. I know that because on Thursdays I go to the Clip ’n’ Curl to have my hair done.”

Close, but it was actually Friday.

“We did that yesterday, Mom,” Libby gently reminded her.

“Humph. You don’t say.”

“Can you tell me what you had for breakfast this morning?” Paul asked.

“Why do you need to know that?” Mable asked. She looked confused and sounded defensive.

“I’m just checking to see if you remember.”

“Well, if you must know, I had tea. And...porridge. I have that every day.”

Again, Libby’s almost imperceptible headshake indicated that this wasn’t accurate. Since nothing would be gained by contradicting her, he continued with some casual conversation.

“When I was a boy,” he told her, “I remember my grandmother telling me to eat my porridge because it would stick to my ribs.”

Mable beamed, and most likely assumed she had answered the question correctly.

Libby patted her hand.

As he suspected, her long-term memory was intact. The short-term, not so much. Based on personal experience, these were symptoms he knew all too well.

“I’m going to refer you to a specialist in the city,” he said to Libby. “I’ll set that up today and call your home with the details.”

“Thank you, Dr. Woodward. I—we—really appreciate it.”

“I remember you,” Mable said to him out of the blue. “You’re old Doc Woodward’s son.”

“I am.”

“You were in my English class, but that was a long time ago.”

“So, you do remember me.”

“Of course I do. You were friends with Jack Evans and that Larsen boy.”

“That’s right.”

“You were a better student, as I recall. Homework always done on time, good grades. And now you’re a doctor, too.”

“I am.”

“Well, your father must be proud. How is he, anyway?”

“He’s doing well.” There was no point in telling her that his father was a little lacking in the son-I’m-so-proud-of-you department, or that he was also seeing the Alzheimer’s specialist in Madison.

“And those other boys?”

“A couple of months ago, Jack was appointed Riverton’s new chief of police. He’s living here now and engaged to Emily Finnegan. And Eric Larsen...” Paul had to pause, steady breath. “He passed away six months ago.”

“He died so young?” Mable asked.

“Too young.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Libby stood and urged her mother out of her chair. “We should go, Mom. Thank you,” she said to Paul.

“No problem. I’d like to see your mother again in two weeks. You can stop at the desk on your way out and have them set up the appointment.”