Mother, Night, and Water

By Robert W. Chapman

Mother, Night, and Water
Bartholomew “Bat” True, Chief of Police in the small town of Sunnyside, Maine wants to know what brought Arlo Cook home after vanishing decades earlier. Arlo is asking himself the same question; he knows there’s a reason, but fears to learn it. Some secrets are best hidden, even from one’s self.
A tale of two families: the Cook family and the Trues share the founding of this small town over three centuries ago, but today only one family is thriving; the other marches toward a fated tragedy. Young Becky True finds herself in an unlikely friendship with her classmate, the afflicted, beguiling Annie Cook, whose impoverished life of abuse and prejudice could not be more different from her own. Becky's father, Adam, struggles to comprehend his deceased father's rejection and his conflicted relationship with his brother, Bat, while his research into the town's history unearths a shocking, unsolved mystery.
Mother, Night, and Water explores the lives of two families, and the people of this small town, as they confront old prejudices, and gain a lesson in compassion from two girls whose improbable friendship is tested amid unalterable events.
Mother, Night, and Water follows the tradition of novels such as Richard Russo’s Mohawk, Empire Falls, and Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres, literature that examines the lives of common people discovering that everyday life is uncommon enough, and that ultimately we are only faced with what to do next; these choices, some simple, some profoundly painful, make up our lives.
Reviews of Previous novels by Robert W. Chapman
“Chapman’s ability to develop powerful characters and use vividly lifelike descriptions may have readers placing A CERTAIN FALL on their shelves alongside the books of another such talented New England author...John Irving.”~ Mark Chag, Book Review, Advertiser-Democrat
“A CERTAIN FALL, allows for the serious consideration of an often overlooked element of healing...spirituality. By doing so Chapman invites us to consider the value and importance of this element in the healing process. What a gift he has.” ~ Dr. Amy D. Ouellette, M.D.
“SPIDER LAKE, by Robert Chapman, is a suspenseful tale of a father and 12 year old son who are lost, both in the Maine wilderness, and in the parallel wilderness of their own relationship...While directed at young adults, this novel will be of interest to all ages.” ~ Donald Stover, PhD

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert W. Chapman
• Release date: Jun 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301194872

Robert W. Chapman

In 2004 I retired from social work and nearly 40 years in the child welfare professions, both private and public. I also have worked in journalism; as a teacher; and I ran a therapeutic wilderness program for children, youth, and families for 10 years. I currently work part time at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. I've been writing since my first short story at the age of 13. In 2005 I published, with a POD publisher, A CERTAIN FALL. This book received good reviews and developed into a training module for the State of Maine's DHHS and Spurwink School, and, with his assistance and permission, merging with Dr Vincent Felitti's ground breaking research on the long term impact of childhood abuse on individuals and society. My second book, SPIDER LAKE was released last summer and has recently been selected for study by a tri county literary group. I married my high school sweetheart in 1966. We have three adult children and two grandchildren. (Tons of photos available on request!) I enjoy tenting in the remote forests of Maine, classical music, good literature, and writing. (I've also written three screenplays). We live in a small coastal town in Maine. Please visit my Facebook: Maine Novels by Robert Chapman.

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Mother, Night, and Water

Robert W. Chapman

A novel

Mother, Night, and Water

Copyright, 2013 by Robert W. Chapman

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, journal, or online.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is coincidental.

Cover Photo by Patrizio Martorana

www.martoranaphoto.it

Cover design by

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eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Synopsis

Also by Robert W. Chapman

Reviews of Previous Novels

Dedication

Begin Reading

Addendum

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Mother, Night, and Water

Bartholomew Bat True, Chief of Police in the small town of Sunnyside, Maine wants to know what brought Arlo Cook home after vanishing decades earlier. Arlo is asking himself the same question; he knows there’s a reason, but fears to learn it. Some secrets are best hidden, even from one’s self.

A tale of two families: the Cook family and the Trues share the founding of this small town over three centuries ago, but today only one family is thriving; the other marches toward a fated tragedy. Young Becky True finds herself in an unlikely friendship with her classmate, the afflicted, beguiling Annie Cook, whose impoverished life of abuse and prejudice could not be more different from her own. Becky's father, Adam, struggles to comprehend his deceased father's rejection and his conflicted relationship with his brother, Bat, while his research into the town's history unearths a shocking, unsolved mystery.

Mother, Night, and Water explores the lives of two families, and the people of this small town, as they confront old prejudices, and gain a lesson in compassion from two girls whose improbable friendship is tested amid unalterable events.

Mother, Night, and Water follows the tradition of novels such as Richard Russo’s Mohawk, Empire Falls, and Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres, literature that examines the lives of common people discovering that everyday life is uncommon enough, and that ultimately we are only faced with what to do next; these choices, some simple, some profoundly painful, make up our lives.

Also by Robert W. Chapman

Spider Lake

A Certain Fall

Reviews of Previous Novels

by Robert W. Chapman

Chapman’s ability to develop powerful characters and use vividly lifelike descriptions may have readers placing A CERTAIN FALL on their shelves alongside the books of another such talented New England author…John Irving.~ Mark Chag, Book Review, Advertiser-Democrat

"A CERTAIN FALL, allows for the serious consideration of an often overlooked element of healing…spirituality. By doing so Chapman invites us to consider the value and importance of this element in the healing process. What a gift he has." ~ Dr. Amy D. Ouellette, M.D.

SPIDER LAKE, by Robert Chapman, is a suspenseful tale of a father and 12 year old son who are lost, both in the Maine wilderness, and in the parallel wilderness of their own relationship…While directed at young adults, this novel will be of interest to all ages. ~ Donald Stover, PhD

The Kogi Indians of South America believe that at birth

an infant knows three things:

mother, night, and water.

"Of all God’s works little girls are

the superior article: broadest in sympathy,

deepest in wisdom, and purest in impulse."

~Annie Dillard

For Leola

My daughters, Stacia and Maya. My sisters, Cathi and Sonia.

My granddaughter, Madeline

And for MaryAnn Benson-Dexter

mother

night

and

water

When Arlo Cook left Sunnyside, Maine some forty-odd years ago, he could not have said why, even if someone had asked, but one thing he had been certain of—he had no plans to return. It had been an unusually warm April by Maine standards. In fact, he had worn shorts as he started his walk to the nearest Greyhound station, some 12 miles away. His wavy dark hair had hung in a long braid nearly to his waist. He wore a bold, toothy smile; this was not actually a smile, but an expression that had its long history in Cook family heredity, often giving strangers the misguided impression of affability, or lunacy, depending on the circumstances of the encounter. Since childhood, Arlo had both gained and suffered from this oddity of expression.

Most people in town hadn’t noticed he was missing until Labor Day when they had their annual pig roast in the parking lot at the American Legion Hall. Kelly Burgess was in the food line and said to Joe Hastings as he sliced off a slab of pork, Jaysus, it’s good not to see Arlo sweating into the chili. Kelly, like other townies, had never dared to turn down the bowl—served bare-chested—of Arlo’s chili, in spite of his inadvertent contribution of sodium. Not because Arlo was ever threatening, but Arlo’s robust nature and broad, toothy grin that had a way of turning into a nasty snarl—well, he had a way of taking things personal. That scowl had a certain edge to it. And Arlo, though not especially large, was strong. Men and women, who for one reason or other, had put a hand on an arm or shoulder, commented on how hard his body was. Feels like a gall-darned statue; that boy’s a rock, Erskine Foreman said, after Arlo had pulled him out of the lake one time. A damn rock. A wonder we didn’t both sink to the bottom. Erskine and Arlo fished together—and drank together. More than once, they dumped their canoe attempting to net a fish. Those rare fish that somehow managed to get themselves caught by the pair, and ended up in the bottom of their canoe, were more often than not abruptly surprised to find themselves soon freed, as the vessel went bottoms-up. All this, easily before they had expired—barely a few gurgled gasps, gills flaring, on the vessel’s bottom—as the next attempt would follow rather quickly, since neither Arlo or Erskine had any discretion about the kind or size of the next perceived aquatic vertebrate to become their prey. All swimming creatures, though dogs and humans were exempt, were eligible regardless of edibility. Erskine, older than Arlo, couldn’t swim drunk or sober. Arlo had pulled him out of the lake more than once.

No one knew exactly what Arlo had done in the war. Rumors circulated when he returned home even more eccentric than when he had left. God only knew where they began, because Arlo sure as hell didn’t talk about his time in the jungles of South East Asia. Still, they evolved over time. Although the fringe-stories, the really crazy ones, seemed unlikely for Arlo. (Folks pointed out, he had no serious acting-out history in town. Except for the time in Mrs. Pulsifer’s typing class in high school when, in frustration, he threw the typewriter, a heavy, clunky pre-war Royal, out the second story window). Then again, Arlo’s was a strange family, to be sure.

After leaving town that April with no explanation, Arlo had hitchhiked coast to coast, but his favorite places were Florida and Virginia. Somehow, he ended up in Richmond most of the time, where he had lived alone for a few years. For a time, while he was still young, he lived on welfare and unemployment. Smoked a lot of weed and drank lots of Old Milwaukee. He flopped with many mothers who were without men, but had plenty of kids. Arlo never had any problem getting along with kids, but adults he found to be mostly…well, full of shit. Kids liked his laid-back attitude (mostly stoned) and his child-like eagerness for adventure, like hikes through the park, or across railroad trestles, or flying kites and adding string until the thing disappeared into outer space. Good God, he’d tell the gang of kids that gathered, that mother’s gonna get hit by a satellite. You wait. And off they’d scramble around the neighborhood, collecting more string to add on.

He had a lot of free time from spring through autumn. He provided these women, these single mothers, with childcare, plenty of attention, beer and pot, and some pretty snarky sex. Which, as far as he could tell, they all seemed to appreciate. That hard-muscled body made up for his less-than-handsome features. He would come and go between them and never said goodbye when he left and never said hello when he reappeared; he just flashed that broad toothy smile, and they never asked any questions. Every winter, Arlo hitched to Florida and worked as a handyman in a trailer park for the elderly. It was all under the table, and he had his regulars. Arlo had the earned and deserved reputation with these people as an honest, if not overly ambitious, worker. Not ambitious, that is, in the usual sense of the word, certainly not upwardly-mobile in the rat race—but obsessive might better describe his persnickety ways. Of course, he was stoned stupid, so attention to detail was part of the deal. And windows!…if he made the mistake of polishing off a left-over roach before his morning coffee, he would polish a hole through a pane of glass, given the time. So he learned to save his smoke for the end, in order to get anything done. He had one couple, Mickey and Joanne Feuerman, who took him in each season and gave him their sofa for sleeping. This money he’d put away for his anticipated rainy days. But strangely, it seemed to him anyway, between the women, the shelters, and the soup kitchens, his rainy days were few, and whenever he checked his cash stash, he found little savings.

Then it had ended, not abruptly, but gradually. Richmond, Virginia likely housed many Arlo-progeny. But, Arlo doubted that. In fact, Arlo denied that—frequently. He eventually used up his welcome with these women and ended up mostly on the streets, sleeping in shelters or doorways, or, in warm weather, in a tent he purchased for $15.00 at Salvation Army, hidden away in a copse of woods near the city limits. He always avoided bunking down with other homeless. Still, he made his Florida trip every year. And then, one spring day on his return from Florida, he picked up a job as a security guard at the mall and got himself a room at the YMCA. Things began to look up. He almost rented a small apartment. Until one day his boss called him into the office and explained (observing that snarl come and go), that even though he was a good employee, and they valued him a great deal, and even if he hadn’t caught a single shoplifter—not one they'd ever heard about anyway—they couldn’t keep him on. His boss explained to him that, alas, it was illegal to give a false social security number on his application. Arlo didn’t argue; he sure as shit wasn’t going to give them his real social security number, even if he could find it; he didn’t want the government knowing where he was or what he was up to—it did occur to him on occasion, that he really wasn’t up to much, it was just none of their damned business. Period. Arlo wasn’t sure himself why the government would care where he was, but he was determined that they would not. So, the job was gone, in less than six months. However, nobody in Sunnyside knew about any of this, or, for that matter, any other event that may have driven Arlo out of this strange, solitary life, and into his journey back home. He never wrote home. Never visited home. As far as home was concerned, Arlo had dropped off the face of the earth.

Today, wearing green and yellow-checkered shorts, a faded blue tank-top, a beat up pair of leather sandals, a red handkerchief around his forehead, carrying a backpack and a duffle bag, he walked back into Sunnyside, as puzzled by his return as he had been about his leaving. His hair still hung in a long braid down his back, but the top of his head had shed considerably, and the braid was now a thinned gray. His bold, toothy smile was…well, gone, pretty much, except for a few strays, here and there.

He crossed the railroad tracks on Elm Street and stopped at the first, small white house on the right hand side of the road. Only it looked smaller than he remembered. He stepped up to the door and knocked. He waited. He knocked again. Nothing. He cupped his hand and looked into the window beside the door. Then he walked around the side and up the driveway, looking into each window as he moved toward the…but, there was no barn. Now Arlo stepped back and surveyed the entire house and lot. He rubbed his chin.

Hey. The young man stood in the yard next door.

Arlo nodded.

You looking for the old man?

Arlo nodded again.

The old prick ain’t home.

Where’s the barn?

What barn?

Arlo looked around the yard and shrugged. Thanks, he said, but the kid had disappeared.

He walked across the bridge into the village square of Sunnyside. A bright banner hung across the bridge streetlights overhead: Homecoming, August 7th thru 12th. He crossed the street and entered the Village Café. The air conditioning, though weak and noisy, gave him some relief. He dropped his bag, packs, and sat at the counter. As he looked around, he removed the bandana and wiped his face with it. He stuck it into his rear pocket. There were two young couples, an elderly couple, and an old woman sitting at different tables. A young girl served the elderly woman and stood talking with her.

Arlo turned on his stool to face the counter. A large floor fan, pointed up toward the ceiling, hummed and rotated. He watched as Darryl Waters sat a mug in front of him and poured coffee from a stained carafe, badly in need of a washing. Darryl, obese and tall, a large man who had been a large boy in school.

As I recall, you take it black, Darryl said, looking up at Arlo and resting the carafe on the counter, summer or winter.

Arlo caught the scorched scent from the carafe. Yup, he answered, wiping his brow with the bottom of his shirt. How about some ice water with that.

Darryl swung around to the cooler, drew ice into a glass, and filled it with water. He placed it in front of Arlo. He said, Been gone awhile.

Yup. Arlo gulped the water down and set the cup on the counter.

Darryl filled it. Back for your ma’s funeral?

Funeral?

Your ma passed a couple days ago. He waited. Then, Gonna stay awhile?

Guess so.

Silence.

Darryl started back toward the grill. Well, I better get busy here ‘fore you talk my damned head off.

Arlo watched Darryl scrape the grill down.

Hey, Darryl, my folks still living on Elm Street?

Well, your dad is, Darryl spoke over his shoulder, lifting his chin and cocking an eyebrow at Arlo, I just told you that your ma died.

Arlo nodded and sipped his coffee. He turned to watch an older couple enter and sit at the first table in front of the large window that faced Main Street. Arlo looked past them into the street. He turned back to look at Darryl. Didn’t this place used to be The Phoenix?

Darryl shrugged and said, Twenty or so years ago, it did. Jesse and Judy sold it to Arlene and me back a while ago. We’ve been running it ever since.

Arlo sat quietly watching his coffee. I was just up there and no one was around. The place looks different and I didn’t see a car anywhere. Doesn’t look like anyone at all lives there.

Your dad does. Half the place burned down a few years after you left. They just tore it down and closed up one side and rebuilt the roof. Now it looks pretty much the same—since then, I mean. He scraped grease from the grill. So, you going to the graveside thing later?

Today?

Darryl lifted a shoulder. I guess. Is that what brought you home?

Nope. Didn’t know about it. Just been thinking a lot.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. Gettin’ old.

We ain’t that old, Arlo. What are you, sixty?

Arlo shrugged.

Your sisters and brother still live together. Kitty moved over to the River Road. She, Carl, and Sandra, and Sandra’s girl, they took care of your mom a lot. Mostly Kitty. Drove her everywhere. Finally, after a couple of years she moved in with them. Your dad lived alone after that. He lost his car in the fire.

How’s your…Arlene?

Not so good. Diabetes. She’s in a wheelchair.

Arlo nodded into his coffee mug—sipping. He mumbled, That’s what I mean.

Darryl watched as Arlo finished his coffee. He poured him another cup and leaned against the counter. You’re looking pretty rough. Been driving all night?

I don’t drive. Never had a car.

"How’d you get here?’

Bus. Just got into the station this morning.

How’d you get here from there?

Walked.

Darryl wiped his hands on his apron, grinning. Kind of a long ways for an old man in this heat.

Arlo shrugged. Guess so. Wasn’t too bad until a couple of hours ago.

The door opened, the little bell jingled, and the elderly couple left, leaving the door ajar behind them.

Darryl shook his head, You know, the old farts are as bad as the kids…never mind. He leaned across the bar and waved the towel at the door. Hey Deana, catch that door will ya. Then, to Arlo and himself, I ain’t running the air conditioning for the neighborhood.

Arlo drained his coffee.

~

Kitty looked around. Nine people at the graveside if you counted the two workers, Ron and Al, who sat on the grass beside the tool shed, waiting with shovels in hand like a couple of magpies. And Reverend Roberts, the pastor of the Lambs of Jerusalem Church, and his wife Patricia. They had just moved in town from Portland a year ago. She had called all the holy men in town. No way was she going to allow the town to snub her. She even called the Catholic priest, who had said he didn’t know the family and couldn’t anyway because he had weddings back to back that week. They were all busy, they said—couldn’t do it. She told them all that she could pay. Reverend Roberts, the last one she called, said he’d do it.

Kitty had no trouble recognizing her brother, wearing a backpack and carrying a bag, walking in the dirt road and up the slight incline to where they were gathered on the side of the hill. She glanced over at her father. He either hadn’t seen Arlo or chose to ignore him; he leaned on his aluminum cane, she could smell the alcohol across the graveside. She looked around at her other brother, sister, and Annie. Only Sandra, her younger sister, watched the figure approach. Her brother, Carl, hung his head so low she doubted he could see beyond his own feet. Carl, though the youngest of the four siblings, looked shockingly older than any of them.

Reverend Roberts said, You know this person?

Kitty nodded.

Shall I wait?

Kitty nodded again. She glanced once more at Arlo’s figure approaching—small whirls of dust at his feet.

Reverend Roberts pulled a white hanky from his back pocket and wiped his brow. The sweet scent of recently mowed grass and a freshly dug grave was not unfamiliar to him. He looked at his wife; she smiled an I know, I know smile. Both of them had dressed formally. He wore a light sports jacket and slacks; she wore a gray cotton dress that came just below her knees. He noted that the Cooks, except for Kitty, her hair in a neat bun, and wearing a light skirt and what might have been a pressed white blouse, all looked like they had just gotten out of bed. He looked them over individually. They all stood apart from each other. No one touched. The teen girl, Sandra Cook’s daughter, was bundled up in a brown wool turtleneck sweater, wearing a heavy cotton, pleated beige skirt that went down to her ankles. Her light blond hair in a loose ponytail that had started to come apart; she was barefoot. Her face—beet red. Clearly, there was something wrong with this girl, she made quiet little sounds and couldn’t stand still for more than a few seconds, when she would do a little turn, dance on her toes, and toss her head, her hair moving around her face and shoulders. It was a peculiar tic, severe at times, but there also was something strangely alluring about the girl. This made Reverend Roberts break into a heavier sweat than he already had going. The girl would be strikingly pretty if someone fixed her up. She had her mother’s elusive beauty. Both of them blond and blue-eyed, unlike the other members of the family. Couldn’t put a finger on it, but they both had a certain look. That’s a cum-hitha look, yessuh, if ever I seed one, Reverend, Erskine said to the reverend once, causing Reverend Roberts to blush his deepest burgundy.

He felt the blush now, and hated that it might give away his thoughts. His blush was his curse, especially as a minister. This sultry quality to these two Cook females was well commented on among the men folk in town. It caused much-puzzled head shaking—that this flawed, defective family could spawn, in such contrast, two such beauties. The Father moves in mysterious ways. Or, at least, someone does. Reverend Roberts allowed himself a private smile and moved his gaze to Carl. A big man, with striking white hair who wore a gray sweatshirt that read, Atlantic Federal Bank and Trust-Bangor and Ellsworth, Maine; the sleeves cut off, a pair of extra-extra large, faded sweatpants that came down to the top of his ankles, (no elastic in the cuffs), with a pair of black sneakers, the left one ripped along the side, his bare toes showing through. Reverend Roberts looked around but couldn’t see where the father had gone. He spotted him hidden behind Kitty and Carl, leaning on his cane. The old man, bald and unshaven by several days, wore jeans and a black tee shirt. The neck of the shirt hung stretched, revealing the upper edge of a bony chest; he stood looking down the hill toward the area where they had all parked. The reverend’s eye caught Sandra Cook’s. She smiled, demurely, and looked away. Sandra Cook wore a light blue halter top, no bra, and a thin white skirt that came above her knees—the reverend noticed the knees, and checked out the halter top a couple of times. Reverend Roberts looked back at his wife again; she was watching the man walking toward them. He glanced back at Sandra Cook, she had also turned her attention to the man.

The man walked up and stood at the foot of the grave, dropped his bag, and pulled the backpack off, setting it beside his bag. He lifted the bottom of his shirt and wiped his brow and face. The reverend waited for someone to speak to him; now that he stood here, no one so much as glanced at him. Without attempting to reach across the open grave for a handshake, the reverend introduced himself, nodding once, he said, Reverend Roberts.

Arlo cleared his throat, he tipped an imaginary hat and said, Arlo, giving the group a glance. The young blond girl immediately caught his eye with her twirling, tippy-toe posturing, and the soft clicks and ‘boop’ sounds she made.

Well, shall we begin? Reverend Roberts asked, looking at Kitty.

Kitty nodded.

Arlo glanced back at the young blond girl who struggled, twisting, making soft sounds, but managing, barely, to keep her head down.

We are gathered here today for Mary Cook, child of Jesus, mother of all these children, and loving wife of Ronald Cook.

A sob broke over the scene.

Arlo caught Kitty looking at her father, who had sat down on the grass and held the cane across his lap; he sobbed openly. Kitty glanced at Arlo who then glanced at his father.

Reverend Roberts continued.

Although I never knew… he paused, looked at a slip of paper in his hand, Mary, I have talked with…members of her family. He glanced at Kitty. And we know Mary as a soft spoken, gentle woman who dearly loved her children. She was a good mother, and a loving wife. Let us pray.

A long pause.

Somewhere back toward the village a dog barked.

From the paved road outside the cemetery a car drove by, its radio blaring a rock station.

Some faint sounds and a head toss from the young blond girl.

Distant voices from the magpies by the caretaker’s shed.

Sobs from the old man.

Then more silence, so lingering that Arlo almost asked if there was anything wrong. He watched the man with the Bible closely. Finally, without raising his head, the Bible-thumper spoke. And, having accepted our Lord as savior, the man continued, after sneaking a glance at the blond girl, "now our Mary is with our Lord. He walks beside her today in glorious, eternal sun-bathed heaven. Praise our Lord. Praise the soul of our dear departed loved one…Mary. And, let us pray: Comfort the hearts of those loved ones here today, Lord. Let them know the joy that is Mary’s today. Her heart is opened to you Lord and we have no doubt that she is with you today walking in heaven by your side. Bless this day not as a day of loss but a day of joy. A day we can find comfort in knowing that Mary has left this world for a better one. Together we pray."

Another long silence.

Reverend Roberts began the Lord’s Prayer. He quickly realized when the mumbles trailed off, that he would have to speak loudly and clearly. His wife’s voice joined his and they recited it together, pretty much alone, unless you counted the fading mutterings.

As Reverend Roberts shook hands with each member of the family, he spoke in a quiet voice. He watched, with peripheral vision, as Patty attempted to hug Kitty, who stood rigid without returning the embrace, causing them to look oddly connected from the shoulders. Patty then limply shook hands with the others until she came to Sandra, who seized her and held her in her grasp for several seconds, babbled something about what a beautiful day it was, then giggled as Patty finally pulled herself away; she glanced at her husband—a glance with a request attached. He ignored her and paused briefly at the man who had arrived late, then reached out, took his hand, and shook it. You’re family also? Arlo nodded. He said, Arlo.

When he came to Kitty, she put a five-dollar bill and some change in his hand.

He glanced at it, giving his hand a slanted smile, and tilted his head to look up at her. No. Keep the money. Please. He put the money back into her palm, closed her fingers around it, and held her hand briefly. He tried making eye contact and offered his condolence-smile, but their eyes did not meet. He strained to hold onto his smile, but he felt it wilting; he turned away, and he and his wife walked down the dirt path toward their car.

After putting some distance between them and the Cooks, Patty leaned toward her husband, and, giving her nose a vigorous rubbing, muttered, I want to go home.

Without turning toward her, he placed a hand on her upper back and whispered, Shh.

The family walked single-file, toward a dark blue, early model Buick Century. Arlo noted it needed a wash, but otherwise was in remarkable condition. Kitty took the lead, almost holding her father’s arm; Sandra, Carl, and the adolescent girl who looked like Sandra, followed, in that order. Arlo trailed behind, watching them. All of them were in step except for Carl, who kept attempting to fall into step with the others—skipping and tripping along. When they arrived at the car, they all piled in: Sandra and their father, in front with Kitty, Carl behind Sandra, and the girl behind Kitty. Arlo stood outside, behind, and to the driver’s side of the car. Arlo shook his head—for some unfathomable reason, on this hot day, all the windows had been rolled up.

Arlo waited. Windows went down.

As Kitty rolled down her window, she turned, and hit the horn with her elbow. Ouch. Shit, that hurt. You want to ride with us? I mean, you coming home?

I am, said Arlo. He lifted his duffle bag and turned to display his backpack. Kitty turned off the engine and handed him the keys. Arlo went to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and tossed his two bags inside. He returned the keys to Kitty who started the engine again. Arlo opened the back door and looked in at the girl. She looked down at the floor, but slid over closer to Carl.

Arlo squeezed inside, closed the door, and like the others, rolled his window down. Heat and humidity filled the car. The blond girl said something like, ‘boop’ and tossed her head, her hair hitting Arlo on his chin. Kitty, without turning to look behind her, slowly backed the car up far enough from the stonewall to make a cut with the wheel, drove out onto the dirt road, and down to the paved road. She turned right and, slowly—they drove home. Arlo watched the familiar—but changed—neighborhoods go by. He took in the tour of his old hometown. Just once, Arlo leaned around the girl to look at Carl’s white head—a full head of pure white hair. Carl peeked quickly at Arlo. Arlo nodded. He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his face; the breeze from the open windows did little to help. He looked at the girl, and then looked in the front seat at Sandra. He glanced at the back of Kitty’s head, his father’s head, then turned to look out the window again. Silence. They drove through the village, passing the Village Café. When they pulled up at Ronald’s home on Elm Street, Sandra opened her door and let her father out. He wobbled across the lawn and entered his home. Sandra slid into the front seat again and they drove away. The girl threw her head periodically, her hair again smacking Arlo in the face. He glanced at her. Her arms fluttered randomly at times, and her legs bounced. He looked at her until she glanced once, lifting a shoulder as if to say ‘oops’. Arlo nodded. No one spoke; except for the girl’s occasional sounds, they rode in silence.

Now Arlo again looked at the blond girl beside him, who had suddenly experienced a momentary peace with herself. He took the opportunity. I’m Arlo—I guess I’m your uncle. Man, aren’t you hot in that outfit, kid?

~

Becky jumped when her friend Stella poked her in the back. She turned, her expression asking, "What?" when she saw her friend pointing toward the front of the classroom. She glanced back to see Mr. Jacobs looking at her over the top of his glasses.

Rebecca True? I assume? You are present today, are you not?

Um…yes.

That’s good. That’s good, he said, nodding, but he was not smiling.

Becky squeezed out a smile.

He said, Well? His extended hand held papers.

Oh yeah. Becky stood and walked to his desk, took the papers, and turned to walk back to her own desk. The class grinned at her. With her back to Mr. Hanson, she pulled a face and rolled her eyes, squirming back to her desk; Stella regarded her with mime of her own: "Duh?"

Gaylon Block, who sat across from her in this class, and in History class, whispered, "Blonds. He made a feminine gesture as if to fix his hair. Becky ignored him. She sat and opened her English paper to the last page. In large red ink: C+". She winced. She put the paper down. Her eyes welled up.

Later, in the hallway, Gaylon was the center of attention, as he usually was. A group of guys had gathered around. Becky hesitated only a moment and then walked toward them. Gaylon, a rugged, plain boy who had never had a girlfriend since Becky had known him, which was from at least kindergarten, managed to remain highly popular because of his capacity to carry hundreds—no, thousands—of jokes around in his head. Most were dirty jokes, but some were all purpose jokes that he tossed out for any occasion. This, Becky was certain, would somehow carry him a long way in life; she believed this in spite of her knowledge of his poor grades, because, and she was also certain of this: his high popularity with the male teachers. It was a guy thing, she just knew it. They take care of their own—if they deem them worthy. And jokes, especially dirty ones, always scored points with guys, hence, deeming them worthy.

Laughter.

Gaylon, wearing his Cheshire cat grin continued, in a baritone loud enough so that Becky was sure to hear him, "So, the blond sees Becky on the other side of the river and waves at her. ‘Hi,’ she calls out. ‘You’re blond.’ Becky yells back, ‘Hi. Yes I am blond.’ And then the blond yells over, ‘How do I get to the other side?’ To which Becky, her hands on her hips, (and Gaylon places his hands on his hips) yells back, ‘You are on the other side.’ " More laughter.

Stella caught up to Becky. What a jerk he is. Where does he get all those blond jokes?

Online. Search under ‘blond jokes’.

Are you serious?

Becky nods. And I’ve still the rest of the year to go with him.

Mrs. Walker should’ve held him back in first grade.

Ha. You gotta be kidding. She knew better than that.

At the lockers, Becky struggled with the latch; she stopped and sighed, realizing it was locked. God. I’m glad Gaylon isn’t around right now.

Where’s your key?

Don’t need a key.

Stella examined her friend closely. So, what’s wrong with you anyway? You’re all wired up.

Becky kicked the bottom of the locker, yanked it open, threw her notebook on the floor and pulled her backpack out. She unzipped it and put the notebook inside, then removed the paper from the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to Stella and stood watching her unfold it and flip to the last page.

Geez. I wish I could get a C from Hanson. I barely passed this one. She looks up at Becky, Beck, he’s a tough grader. You did well to get this.

Not good enough if I’m going on to college after high school— I want a good school.

Go talk to Hanson.

Becky pulled her best smirk. She took the paper from Stella and refolded it. She put it in one of her books, then stuck the book into her bag and zipped it shut. She slung the pack over one shoulder.

No, really. Look cute and cry a little. Maybe the old dog has a heart, Stella suggested.

Becky widened her smirk into a clown smile, and added a lifted eyebrow.

Yeah. You’re right. Stella shifted her backpack and started toward the crowd of kids moving toward the exit. Becky followed. Stella slowed her pace. You taking the bus?

Becky didn’t respond. She pulled the other strap onto the other shoulder and shifted the pack for balance.

You’re not riding with Jason? Stella asked. She stopped and watched her friend stroll ahead of her.

He’s got practice this afternoon.

And you don’t?

Track was cancelled. Coach Greaton is out. Probably gonna have her baby, who knows.

Yeah, so? You’re Captain, you could’ve held the girls…

Not today. I just told them all to run a couple of miles. We’ll have practice tomorrow.

Now back in step with her, Stella watched Becky’s face. You okay? I’m not kidding. Are you?

Becky teared up, but said nothing.

~

Adam True, reaching behind him, pulled the ice pack from his waistband and tossed it at the sink; it missed and fell to the floor. From the window over the sink, he watched his daughter walk across the lawn. He grimaced as he kneeled down, picked up the pack and a few of the loose ice cubes, and threw them at the sink, but some of the cubes kept slipping across the floor just out of his reach. He was in this position as Becky opened the door.

Hi Dad, she said, stopping to watch him. "What are you doing?’

Adam decided to leave the remaining ice cubes to their predictable fate, and attempted to stand. He held onto the side of the cupboard and pushed himself straight up. He thought to himself, as he did this, that he was fortunate to have lost all that weight last year. He had become aware recently that a few pounds had begun to pad his midsection and had taken an oath to deal with it quickly. Since he had always been a skinny kid and a lean man, this proved to be a new challenge for him in middle age—that middle age meant he intended to live into his nineties, he didn’t bother to calculate.

Yeah, well, I hurt my back this morning, he groaned. He gave her a thin smile. He believed he did not favor either of his children, but he appreciated Becky’s ambition, and her gifts. When she was almost eleven years old she had spent an hour at his side in silence as he had worked