These days, my mother rarely sits in front of the computer. I’ll log-on with iChat and she’ll be lying in bed, napping, watching TV or otherwise playing dead. Late Saturday morning I saw her bright face, up close, clicking away.

“Something funny happened last night,” she said as soon as she realized I was watching her.

“What?”

“Do you remember our friend Fred Howard? Mack tutored him in high school and I gave him your aquarium.”

“No memory at all of him. Go on.”

“He doesn’t have a job and what work he gets pays almost nothing. I don’t know where he lives, but Saturday night he knocks on our door. He’s had a fight with his wife Tiesha, over his cell phone. She thinks he’s sold it. “

“Fill me in a little more. He’s beginning to sound like your friend Ron who added a zero or two to that check he begged Mack to write and then ended up dead.”

“No, Fred’s not a drug addict. He’s a good looking guy, he’s big, over six feet tall, and no fat. He looks like he’s capable of doing hard work. You might hire him, but here he is asking for money or a place to sleep.”

“This young guy – he’s in his twenties now? – looking for a handout at what can be charitably described as a private nursing home? He has no one else to turn to? Or he knows he’ll get a few dollars from you?”

“He said, ‘I need ten dollars for a place to sleep.’ I wanted to give him the money, but Mack wanted to give him a bed. The next thing I know, Mack’s rummaging around in the linen closet for blankets so Fred can sleep on the futon in the living room.”

“This story is too good.”

“But it gets better. The next morning Fred gives me this big hug as he’s about to leave and says, ‘Thank you Mrs. Miller. I tell him, ‘You don’t need to be this homeless person wandering around in the cold rain looking for a place to sleep. You’re better than that.’ He says, ‘I’m never going to be in this position again and he walks out our front door. But standing outside is his wife, Tiesha. She’s screaming at him about how he’s sold their cell phone. I can just see the blinds going up in the neighbors’ houses. They walk away together and then the police arrive.”

“Who called the police?”

“You know I’d never tell your sister this story, or my friend, Phyllis.”

“Who called the police?”

“I don’t know. I guess his wife. Two officers come up to me on the porch and they ask if Henry Howard lives here. You know I’ve never liked the police leaning on me. Anyway, I turned to Mack who doesn’t want any part of this and ask, ‘Is Fred called Henry?’ Of course he can’t hear me. So I tell them no, Henry Howard doesn’t live here, but there was a Fred here. All this time I’m doing everything I can not to laugh. Can you imagine what they’re thinking? Here are these two old white folks and Fred is black of course. I tell them it’s nothing more that a domestic disturbance and they can leave now. “

“And did they?”

“They spoke to each other in some kind of code. And then they left.”

That’s the end of the Fred story, but not the end of the conversation. Helen continues to fill me in on the days events and how happy she is and how much she appreciates her kids. “You know, I really have had a good life. My kids are loving and successful, I have lots of friends – everything Is fine. Except for the relationship. Then she laughs loud enough for Diane to hear her in the other room.

As she talks I watch her intently looking at her computer screen. She then asks, “Is that Ginger on the blog?”

“Not recently,” I answer. “You might have clicked on some old pages. She is in there.”

I log on to her computer using Timbuktu. I look at her screen and what do I see?

The cursor scurrying around flipping solitaire cards.

“HEY! You mean you’ve been talking to me AND playing solitaire at the same time?”

I hear an embarrassed, hand-in-the-cookie-jar giggle and then, “How do you know?”

“What do you mean, how do I know?”

“Oh, you can see my screen. Sometimes you see too much.”