She Stole My Husband, Then Asked Me to Read His Letter
PART2
The woman who stole my husband forty years ago sits at my bingo table every Tuesday. She is blind now, and I am the volunteer who reads her cards. She does not know who I am.
The first time she called me her angel, she said, “God sent you to me, honey.”
I said, “He certainly sent somebody.”
Then I daubed B-9 on her card and let her win. That night, I sat for a long hour in my dark garage before I could make myself go inside.
I moved back to this town three winters ago, after my second husband passed. A widow needs Tuesdays. That may sound foolish, but an empty week can spread until every day feels like the same day, so I signed up at St. Rita’s bingo to help at the low-vision table.
A volunteer there reads the called numbers and daubs the cards for players whose eyes have gone. The coordinator handed me a large-print card on my first evening.
“Table six, honey,” she said. “Her name is Delores. Macular. Sweet as pie.”
“Delores?”
“Right over there. She’ll talk your ear off once she knows you.”
I knew before I saw her. Then I looked across the hall and found her sitting small and powdered, holding her purse on her lap like a cat. Forty years fell on me at once, right there in a church hall that smelled like coffee and daubers.
I did not switch tables. I want that written down. I walked over, pulled out the chair beside her and said good evening. My voice did not shake, and we played bingo.
