Mrs. Green wore a blue hat the day she died. I always thought that funny. Not that she died, but that she wore a blue hat. Of course when I saw her that morning, I didn’t know that by day’s end she’d be dead. I don’t suppose anyone knew, not even Mrs. Green.

If she had I doubt she’d have tucked into the wide black band of her hat such a bright yellow flower. Its stem was so long that it bent toward the ground, but it looked happy riding up there atop her head nonetheless.

“That’s an awfully pretty flower you have there this morning, Mrs. Green,” I said.

“Why thank you young man. It’s a black-eyed Susan you know. I grow them in my garden.”

She clutched her gnarled hands around the top of her gnarled cane and gazed off at the endless blue horizon for a moment. I suspected she was remembering her daughter, Susan, who had died in an automobile accident. None of us had ever or since experienced a worse tragedy. Seven high-school kids, none older than seventeen. It had happened a long time ago, but in our tiny town it seemed only yesterday. Mrs. Green had planted a yard full of black-eyed Susans every year since.

“You’re Hattie’s boy ain’t you?” she asked, her eyes coming back to me.

“Why yes ma’am,” I said.

“Well, you tell her I said hello.” She tugged for a moment at the belt of her green print dress as though it had started to pinch. “She still crocheting those fancy doilies? Tell her I like the ones with the red centers, the ones that look like rose petals.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that.”

“I give them for Christmas presents to my…” She paused and studied her watch for a moment and rubbed at her eyes.

“Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her,” I said. “She’ll be pleased.” I didn’t have the heart to remind her that my mother had been dead for over ten years, but I suppose even if I had, it would have been the same thing again the next morning, so it didn’t much matter. Of course, I didn’t know then that by day’s end, Mrs. Green would be dead.

“Would you have time for a glass of iced tea?” I asked. “It’s getting quite hot out her in the sun.”

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and back again. “Well, yes, that might be nice, and I suppose I have the time.” She glanced up the sidewalk as though eyeing a destination that had to be reached by an established deadline. “As long as I get to the post office by noon. They close from twelve to one you know.” She shook her head slowly and munched on nothing a couple of times. “Most inconvenient, hmmm, most inconvenient. Didn’t used to when Mike was postmaster, you know, but this new fellow, well he seems to take it pretty easy if you ask me.”

I opened the gate and took her arm. “You have plenty of time, Mrs. Green. I’ll make sure you’re on your way long before noon.”

“I don’t move as fast as I used to,” she said. “It’s these damn shoes, I tell you.” She banged the rubber tip of her cane against her black, rubber-soled shoes.

“They’re quite handsome looking,” I said.

She eyed me as though I might be daft. “They look awful. No shape, but old Doc Timmins says I’m not to wear my Nike’s any more.” She glanced around as if making sure no one was in earshot and whispered, “But I wear them around the house and in the yard.”

“Do you mind if I leave my hat on?” Mrs. Green asked as we took a seat on the screened front porch. “I got a pin stuck in to hold it and it’s a real trouble with my old hands to put it back without a big mirror.”

“Not at all—it’s a very pretty hat.”

“Women used to wear hats all the time you know, everywhere they went, but not today. Hardly ever see a hat anymore, even in church. Such a shame.”

I nodded agreement.

“Nice and cool up here,” Mrs. Green said, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan. “I remember when your daddy planted them two Oak trees.”

The porch was shaded by the two giant Oaks that my father had planted over sixty years ago, the year he and mother married. For the moment, Mrs. Green seemed to remember that my mother and father had passed away, interred in the town cemetery, same as Mr. Green and Susan. My wife and I always put flowers next to all of their headstones whenever we visited. Susan had been our friend in high school. We were in the car right behind hers the night of the accident.

And Mr. Green had been a life-long family friend. The only thing I didn’t like was that his brown marble headstone already had Mrs. Green’s name and date of birth; only thing missing was a year after the dash. That always spooked me out.

Marta, the young girl from Canada that was staying with us for the summer, brought out a pitcher of iced tea and a basket of fresh short-bread cookies.

“My, those smell delicious,” Mrs. Green said. “You make them?”

“Not me,” Marta laughed. “I don’t know how. They’re from the bakery”

“This your girl?” Mrs. Green asked.

“This is Marta. She’s from Calgary, up in Canada.”

Mrs. Green turned her body and squinted up at Marta through her wire-rimmed sunglasses that she moved up and down on her nose once or twice as she tried to focus on Marta.

“Sure are a pretty young thing,” she said, seeming to mostly be eyeing Marta’s short-short cutoffs and white shirt tied around her bare middle. “What’re you doing way down here?”

Marta seemed about to explain that Northern Michigan wasn’t ‘way down’ but said, “I’m trying to get into Interlochen…the summer arts camp.”

“I know all about Interlochen, dear. You’ll like it there, but watch out for the boys. Young people today have different ideas about sex than they used to back in my time. Pretty thing like you in them short shorts…well you be careful, that’s what I say.” She banged her cane between her feet as if adding an exclamation point.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to be careful.” Marta filled Mrs. Green’s glass and then mine. She put the pitcher of iced tea, already filmed with condensate, on the side table next to me and passed the basket of cookies to Mrs. Green. “Ma’am,” she said.

Mrs. Green set her cane to one side, closed her eyes, and breathed in their wonderful aroma. “Well, I’d better have one since you say you made them fresh this morning, but just one, mind you. Have to watch my figure you know.” After poking at several, she plucked one cookie from the basket, tugged again at the belt on her dress, and smiled up at Marta.

“Yes, ma’am,” Marta smiled back, “You and me both.”

I was glad Marta didn’t remind Mrs. Green about the bakery. “You’re both too skinny,” I said, popping one cookie into my mouth and taking another to have at the ready. Marta set the basket down next to me and slipped back into the air conditioned house. She, like my daughter who was staying with Marta’s mother in Calgary to check out the University there, didn’t like sweat.

Mrs. Green chewed for awhile, like she’d forgotten her teeth.

“You doing OK, there?” I asked.

“Where’s that pretty wife of yours?” she asked, giving me a fishy look. I believed she was still worried about Marta’s short shorts.

“She’s down at the book sale at the church. Reverend Walker asked if she could take over from Mrs. Walker this morning. I believe Mrs. Walker had to go to the hospital.”

“Not sick, I hope.”

“No, one of the parishioners took ill last night and Reverend Walker had a meeting in Grand Rapids so he asked Mrs. Walker to minister in his absence.”

“She’s ordained, you know. Presbyterian though, not like us, but she’s a good woman just the same. Yes she is that all right.”

We sat for another moment. Mrs. Green drained her iced tea, gripped her cane, and hoisted herself up. I walked her to the gate and watched as she made her way up the sidewalk toward the post office. I watched until she vanished into the heat waves, like a desert mirage.

I went back to the porch. Marta had come out to take in the tea and cookies. We heard the screeching tires and ran to the corner. Mrs. Green’s blue hat with the yellow Black-eyed Susan lay in the gutter. Mrs. Green died that day, and Marta and I held each other and cried.