He nodded. Then he said, which was more words than I'd heard him say in a row in a year, "He came in here to see if you'd lie. And you did. And he's not sure, but he thinks so. So now he's going to go home and think about what Jodie's going to tell you, and what you're going to tell Jodie, and he's going to get to her first. Tonight, if he can. You understand?"
"I understand."
"Then go get the old lady," Toivo said, "and take her across the river. And then go home."
We waited until it was full dark, a little before seven. Irja wrapped up a piece of the lemon meringue in wax paper and put it in Edna's handbag without asking. Toivo gave Edna the ten-dollar bill, and she looked at it in her hand for a long time, and then folded it and put it in the change purse with the penny and the nickel and snapped it shut, and didn't say anything. I brought the Pinto around to the alley door behind the kitchen, where the garbage cans were, so nobody on Marine Drive would see, and Toivo walked her out under a big black umbrella with one hand under her elbow, and put her in the passenger seat, and shut the door on her like it was made of glass. Then he leaned down to my window.
"Arlene," he said. He didn't say anything else for a while. Rain dripped off the umbrella onto my sleeve. "In sixty-two. In the storm. You remember you got under the table with the pot?"
"I remember."
"I always wondered why you didn't put the pot down."
"I was scared I'd drop it," I said. "I was scared you'd fire me if I broke it."