“June Callaway?”
“How do you know my mother?”
His expression told me the answer was complicated.
“She worked with my family a long time ago.”
“My mother worked in medical billing.”
“Later.”
“What does that mean?”
“Before you were born, and for several years afterward, she worked at the Meridian.”
I stared at him.
“The theater?”
“Yes.”
“My mother never worked at a theater.”
“I’m fairly certain she did.”
“You’re fairly certain?”
“Rue, I have photographs.”
The hallway suddenly seemed colder than the garage.
My mother had been dead for four years.
I knew the important things about June Callaway.
I knew she drank coffee strong enough to dissolve a spoon.
I knew she hated canned peas.
I knew she sang along badly to Smokey Robinson whenever she cleaned the kitchen.
I knew she had spent eighteen years processing hospital insurance claims and complaining about people who stapled forms in the wrong corner.
