‘He needs help, he needs love, he needs prayer. Let’s continue to trust in a brighter outcome.’ How ineffectual this sounded.

‘Merci, Father. I would hate to turn him away. I do pray . . .’ She cast her eyes down. ‘. . . ever since the time he—God, you know—made himself present behind the curtain.’

‘I remember you telling me,’ he said.

‘He’s not behind the curtain any longer, there’s nothing between us now. Do you . . . understand?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

Not knowing what else to do, he took her hand for a moment, then watched as she went along the path to the dusky hedge where Harley waited to see her through.

•   •   •

HE SAT ON THE FLOOR next to Barnabas, who had made light work of his own burger and fallen asleep immediately after their walk. He ran his fingers into the bristly coat, searching out the steady rhythm of his good dog’s heartbeat and feeling his own separation anxiety.

‘Visit this place, O Lord,’ he prayed into the darkened room, ‘and drive far from it all snares of the enemy; let your holy angels dwell with us to preserve us in peace; and let your blessing be upon us always; through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen.’

•   •   •

THEY HAD MADE IT to the bedroom and changed out of their clothes through a feat of singular endurance. He hung up his gear; his barefoot wife sought the consolation of her wing chair.

‘He has two older brothers,’ she said. ‘One with money, which Sammy sees as raw power, the other with a special kind of patient wisdom. Sammy has pool. I think that losing the game to you, a total beginner, proved how easily he could lose that identity. Then the brothers would have everything and he would have nothing.’

‘Maybe a garden,’ he said. ‘He’s as adept at gardening as he is at pool. Helping Harley with his lawn work around town is good, but . . .’

They were trying, God knows they were trying.

‘His whole world has been unpredictable and unsafe,’ she said. ‘And he’s fallen for what was preached to him by his father’s abuse and his mother’s neglect—that he’s unlovable and incompetent—disposable, really.

‘Wanting to teach you how to shoot pool was a gift, I think—a way of proving he isn’t disposable, that he has something to offer.’

‘Look at Dooley,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if that could happen again, it was a miracle, really. We didn’t know what we were doing.’

‘We were loving him, that’s what we were doing. But . . .’

He looked at her in the lamplight, in her white gown. ‘But?’

‘I don’t think we can do it again, raise a broken boy.’

Lon Birdie had said, ‘Sammy has his daddy’s temper, you don’t want to cross him.’ But Sammy would be crossed in this life again and again, and how would he learn to handle being crossed if the people who cared never crossed him?

The thought was too weighty; he let it go. It had been a long day.

‘No matter what,’ he said, ‘I need to get rid of any notion that Sammy could be another Dooley. We mustn’t hold him to his brother’s standard, it wouldn’t be fair.’

He went to the chair and took her by the hand and led her to bed, and they crawled beneath the duvet and felt the ease of this familiar place and the way nine years can have with love.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘about that letter.’

Chapter Seven

His wife lolled around their bedroom in bare feet and nightgown, a working girl commanding the favors of Saturday morning.

‘I’ve been thinking about your visit with Esther,’ she said. ‘She’ll never get her hair colored if left to her own devices.’

‘True.’

‘So why don’t we buy her a gift certificate while the special is on? We can deliver it after church tomorrow.’

‘Great idea,’ he said. Maybe that would put the spark back in Esther’s eyes. ‘You’ll pick it up today?’

‘No, no, when I bring you back from the mechanic in Wesley, you can take my car and pick up the gift card on your way to the apple stand.’

He had forsaken the services of A Cut Above years ago, but not before Fancy Skinner turned his face seasick-green with a concoction guaranteed to make him look ‘fresh.’ It was humiliating that he’d fallen for such a dumb trick, and he hadn’t set foot in the place since.

On the other hand, the gift for Esther would be a mission with true significance, unlike taking the Mustang in for evaluation—a couple thousand plus change, he could feel it coming.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘and I’ll drop in to see if there’s anything new in Hope’s S for September Sale.’

‘Bring home a Maurice Sendak if she has one—any Maurice Sendak.’

‘No author names with S on sale, just titles,’ he said, privy to such knowledge.

A whole morning of missions—and apple pie, albeit sugar-free, at the end. He felt the small excitement of it.

•   •   •

HE CIRCLED THE BLOCK in the Mazda, didn’t find a parking spot, and drove to Lew Boyd’s. He would walk up to A Cut Above and swing by Happy Endings on his way back. He liked the old bookstore, with its board-and-batten walls, the creaking floor, the yellow cat that minded its own business and never jumped on his lap when he sat reading in an armchair.

‘Park in front of that RV yonder,’ said Lew. ‘He ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Crankcase. Th’ PCV system is disruptin’ th’ normal air/fuel ratio balance.’

‘That’ll do it,’ he said.

‘Where’s your ragtop at?’

‘Wesley. It may be ready for last rites.’

‘Wish I could take care of it for you, but I don’t do Mustangs. Too finicky.’

‘How’s Earlene?’

He liked to inquire after the Tennessee wife Lew Boyd had kept secret for months, then sprung on Mitford like a jack-in-the-box.

‘She got the Christmas decorations down.’ Lew wiped his hands on a rag looped around his belt.

‘The Christmas decorations,’ he said.

‘Th’ ones left up since Juanita passed twelve years ago.’

‘Have you seen a limo come through lately—driver in a cap?’

‘Oh, yeah, he came in for a fill-up, decked out in a uniform. Used th’ coffee machine.’

‘When was that?’

‘Maybe two, three days ago.’

‘Anybody you ever saw before?’

‘Nope.’

‘Anybody in the car with him?’

‘Too dark to see in th’ back. I asked him if he had Mick Jagger in there; he said, Not this time.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘Nothin’ comes to mind. Looked like he was in a hurry.’

‘Where was the tag from?’

‘North Carolina. A car service. He pumped premium, I checked th’ oil, he bought two packs of peanuts, a Coke, and a water. Paid cash, Bud took th’ money. End of report.’

‘So. Anything else new?’

‘I got a great sandwich vendor; you boys need to come back here an’ eat. What you doin’ for lunch these days?’

‘We’re down at the Feel Good.’

‘Th’ Feel Good? Where’s that at?’

‘The old tea shop. The new name’s not official yet, the sign goes up next week.’

‘Weird name. Plus I put in a microwave at th’ Red Man rack—state-of-th’-art—an’ a coffee machine you won’t believe.’

‘I hear folks in Virginia sell fried chicken at their gas stations.’

‘I’m not doin’ fried chicken. Don’t hold your breath on fried chicken, I got all th’ grease I can handle.’

•   •   •

TO ATONE FOR A PALTRY TWO DAYS on the asphalt, he ran up the stairs.

Shouldn’t have done that. He stopped on the landing, heart racing, to catch his breath.

Fancy Skinner would not be allowed to talk his ear off, nor would he be lured into her chair for any reason whatsoever. He would conduct his business and get out of there.

The marching band. He needed to figure out how to change his ringtone.

‘Hey, buddy.’

‘Hey, Dad. I hear Sammy acted out.’

‘He did.’

‘Wish I could be there. Kenny says he busted his cue.’

‘Yep.’

‘He loved that cue.’