means he often starts supper. I half expected to see him
at the stove and to smell food. Instead, the kitchen was
empty and the stove bare of any pots or pans as I let
myself in through the garage door. The television was
on mute in the living room though and Cal looked up
from some school papers spread across the coffee table.
A brown-eyed towhead, he’s tall for his age and as awk-
ward as a young colt. In his haste to neaten up, sev-
eral sheets of papers slid to the floor. His dog Bandit,
12
HARD ROW
a smooth-haired terrier with a brown eye mask, side-
stepped the papers and trotted over to greet me.
Cal wore a red sweatshirt emblazoned with a big white
12 and he gave me a guilty smile as he gathered up his
third-grade homework and tried to make a single tidy
pile. A Friday night, he was already on his homework,
yet he was worried about messing up the living room?
I’m no neat freak and a little clutter doesn’t bother
me. Dwight either. But Cal was still walking on eggs
with us, almost as if he was afraid that if he stepped an
inch out of line, someone would yell at him.
Neither Dwight nor I are much for yelling, but when
you’re eight years old and your whole world turns up-
side down overnight, I guess it makes you cautious.
Six months ago he was living with his mother up in
Virginia and I had been footloose and fancy free. I lived
alone and came and went as I chose, accountable to no
one except the state of North Carolina, which did ex-
pect me to show up in court on a regular basis. Then in
blurred succession came an October engagement, fol-
lowed by a Christmas wedding, followed by the mur-
der of Dwight’s first wife before the ink was completely
dry on our marriage certificate. Now my no-strings life
suddenly included two guys and a dog with their own
individual needs and obligations.
As soon as I saw Cal’s shirt though, I remembered why
I was on my own for supper tonight, and a quick glance
at the calendar hanging on the refrigerator confirmed it.
Pencilled there in today’s square was
Dwight came down the hall from our bedroom, zip-
ping his heavy jacket and carrying Cal’s hockey stick
under his arm.
13
MARGARET MARON
“Oh, hey!” A smile warmed his brown eyes. “I was
afraid we’d have to leave before you got home. You
’bout ready, buddy?”
Cal nodded. “Just have to get my jacket and a Sharpie.
