‘Sweet potatoes give me gas.’

‘Okay, I’m done ordering for you; you’re on your own. Hey! Meat loaf.’

‘Made with turkey. Feel Good is obviously in th’ pocket of th’ turkey industry.’

‘Here’s chicken,’ he said, hopeful. ‘Grilled breast of chicken!’

Mule gave him a dark look. ‘Read th’ fine print. Made with turkey.’

Omer pulled out a chair and sat down, beaming. ‘So what’s new in town, y’all?’

Whoa! Look at this.

Omer Cunningham had either been spending a lot of time in the sun or . . . well, there you go.

•   •   •

HE OCCASIONALLY MISSED Henry in a way he hadn’t experienced with anyone else. It wasn’t the business that happened with twins, of course, yet there was some sense of—call it a connective tissue—that couldn’t be explained. His stem cells had traveled through Henry’s bloodstream and into the very bone cavities. Perhaps out of something so visceral had come this sense of connection. If nothing else, their father had given each of them a brother—and in their old age, when they knew how to appreciate the gesture, God had brought them together.

Dear Henry,

Am writing from the bookstore while listening to Grieg. I had dismissed him years ago, but was mistaken. I read that Lizst said to him as a struggling and physically handicapped musician, “Keep steadily on; I tell you, you have the capability and don’t let them intimidate you.”

I would say this to you, defining “them” in this case as the Enemy and his minions: Believe that you can be up and driving and living very much as you once did. It’s true that some transplants aren’t successful, but equally true that survival outcomes are improving by up to 80%. I realize that you know this, but realize, too, there are times when hope is dim. God is near, brother. I miss you and pray for you faithfully and also remind you of what Julian of Norwich said as she suffered a devastating illness of her own:

“All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” You may know that during her suffering she had gazed into the face of God, and out of that mighty encounter this truth was rendered for you, for all of us, for all time . . .

Over the years, he had found little occasion to sit with a lap full of Christmas cards and pay attention to what they were saying. Oh, he had scanned them, noting with gratitude those who had remembered him. But he had skipped the more attentive reading of the personal greeting, and the good humor or outright awkwardness of the photocopied Christmas letter. At the end of the season, he had taken the whole lot from the large Delft bowl on the console and, too busy again to do the promised read-through, tied the bundle with string and, yes, kept it in a box in the basement. An unthinkable habit purloined from Nanny Howard, who threw nothing away, nothing. He was rather pleased to have in his DNA this single, harmless hoarding affectation—it could be worse.

From Sligo came a report that for the first time in years, Liam and all his household, including William, would be dining with Evelyn and Paddy at Broughadoon for Christmas. From the study, he called this news to Cynthia, who was making her Everlasting Pimiento Cheese for forthcoming hordes.

From the Fieldwalkers in Whitecap, where he had supplied for a year, a fold-out card with a brief gazette.

‘Allelulia!’ he called in to Cynthia. ‘Morris Love is now St. John’s minister of music. Marjorie says, “Every pew is filled but for two seats on the gospel side which are reserved for all time for you and Cynthia. Come soon. Fish for breakfast!”’

‘And one from Otis and Marlene Bragg, signed “Bragg Paving Company for All Your Stone, Gravel, Asphalt and Concrete Needs.”’ Period. He was fond of the Braggs.

A handmade card with a line penned first by Christina Rossetti: ‘Love Came Down at Christmas.’

‘Agnes and Clarence send loving wishes for a happy Christmas season and good health for the new year, and ask that we come up for a visit in the spring.’

From Father Brad, a handsome card to be set on the mantel:

Comin’ atcha Jan. 1. He is born that we might have life. Pretty astounding. Looking forward to being with you and yours.

On he plowed, dredging time and memory, until the pimiento cheese was put away and the fire burned to embers and his wife went upstairs, followed by Truman. Violet had recently elected to watch through the night with Barnabas, a display of character which he found admirable in a cat.

A card from . . . Henry Talbot. Of all things:

Father, have ended up in New Mexico. Will try to stay in touch. Could you send me the prayer you mentioned when I was there? The one you prayed after you were ordained. Use this address until further notice. Pray for me. Yours, Henry

He put Henry’s card on his desk and the other cards in the bowl on the console, then turned off the lights and made his way up to bed.

•   •   •

ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Esther Cunningham was reclining in the chair pirated by her grandson, the police chief, from the furnace room. ‘I had to call in th’ cops to get my chair back,’ she told anyone who would listen.

‘Ray!’

‘What is it, Honey Bun?’

Why was her husband lookin’ old? She had not previously noticed this. After all these years, she still saw him as the boy at the picnic who brought fried chicken and coleslaw which he made himself, though he was clearly no sissy. She had eaten three pieces of his chicken, crispier than she’d ever tasted, and married him two months later—they were both nineteen.

‘Didn’t th’ Muse come today? Is this Thursday or am I in a coma and lost track of time?’

‘It’s here somewhere,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t had a minute to pick it up.’

‘How come you hadn’t had a minute?’ She endured an extended coughing fit. ‘What were you doin’ all day?’

‘Lookin’ after you, Sugar Babe.’ He poured a spoonful of cough syrup, put it to her lips. ‘Down th’ hatch.’

‘What was there to look after? I had toast and a boiled egg for breakfast, Marcie brought a salad for lunch and decorated th’ tree, and we’ve got th’ Crockpot goin’ for supper.’ She could not understand people who thought themselves overworked.

‘Right,’ he said, thumping into his own recliner. ‘You needed stamps from th’ post office, said it was life or death. You wanted your green dress dry-cleaned for Christmas, so I ran that over to Wesley. I was on th’ phone about th’ hospital bill, they charged you for a urinary diversion which was twenty-four thousand an’ I called to say they had not touched anything urinary, and they checked and took it off th’ bill, which Medicare should truly appreciate. Then th’ laundry—all th’ beds needed changin’ you said, since th’ girls have been sleepin’ over, so I washed and folded stuff like you told me to, and filled your medicine box an’ called your sister in Dallas an’ gave her an update an’ invited Omer an’ his new girlfriend to dinner since we’re havin’ his favorite. Then I set th’ table an’ laid th’ phone off th’ hook so you could take a nap.’ Ray gave forth a shuddering sigh.

‘Who’s his girlfriend?’

‘Fancy Skinner’s sister, Shirlene.’

‘Lord help, I hope we won’t be gettin’ Fancy Skinner in this family.’

‘Shirlene’s a nice girl. When you get better, she’ll give you a tan. Her treat, she said.’

‘That tan where you strip down to your birthday suit? I’ll get my own tan, thank you. Is th’ phone still off th’ hook?’

‘It is. An’ thank God in his mercy.’

‘I was wonderin’ why nobody called.’ She had figured people didn’t care whether she lived or died.

‘Then because th’ school bus was in th’ shop an’ Marcie had a meetin’, she asked me to pick up her grans at school.’

‘Lord help!’ she said, aghast. ‘All her grans?’ She could not believe the wrinkles in his forehead.