one another. They laughed and squealed, and the
smallest of them showed their innocence by mimick-
ing the others. Those a little older displayed traits of
socialization with one another, and the eldest of
them—the boys and the girls—even flirted a bit, the
girls being coy, the boys, well, being boys.
Then she saw him. Lingering near the schoolhouse.
Tall, but stooped a bit, dressed in black, watching
her, the wind tugging at the flaps of his coat. His face
seemed bloodless and it dawned on her fully then that
if what he’d told her was true—and she had no reason
to believe that it was not—he would be dead in a mat-
ter of weeks and whatever questions she might have
of him, whatever secrets he might hold, would pass
with him from this life into death and be forever lost.
Their eyes met and held and when she did not turn
her back to him, he walked over, slowly, painfully,
and something in her felt weak to see him like that,
limping like some old hound, for she’d always known
him as a man whom it seemed not even lightning
could strike down.
“Looks like you got a yard full,” he said as he came
to stand next to her. “You like teaching?”
“I like it well enough,” she said.
“It’s something to be proud of,” he said.
The spirits of the children rose and fell like a cho-
rus of joy.
“Which are yours?” he said.
“Those two,” she said, pointing out April and May.
“They look just like you.”
“I think they look more like their father.”
“No,” he said. “They look just like you. They got
the Sunday tallness in them.”
It was true, the Sundays were tall people and she
was tall and so were her girls for their age.
“Where’s he at, Clara? Their father?”
“I guess he’s in Bismarck where I left him,” she
said.
“He hit on you?”
“No.”
“It’s none of my business, I know. But no man has
a right to beat on a woman.”
“I’d as soon not get into my personal life with
you,” she said.
“Of course. Well, I won’t trouble you further.”
She watched him limp off, then called to him.
“If you want to stop by for supper this evening,
that would be okay, I suppose. Meet the girls.”
He halted, turned. “I’d like that,” he said. Then
walked on toward town, the pain so bad he thought
he might bite off the end of his tongue.
She wasn’t sure why she’d made him the offer to
come to supper. What could she possibly hope to
achieve by doing so?
William Sunday did not know if it was accidental or
by design that his daughter had him seated at the
head of the table. Whatever it was, he felt honored.
The children could barely take their eyes from him.
He tried his best to warm to them in a way that
wouldn’t scare them. He thought about telling them a
story, but the only stories he knew to tell weren’t ones
a child was likely to understand, and certainly not
ones his daughter would tolerate him telling—stories
about shootings and whorehouses and whiskey drink-
ing. Finally, the eldest child spoke.
“I’m April,” said April.
“And I’m May,” said May.
The boy did not say what his name was, but sim-
ply sat there big-eyed and waiting for Clara to fill his
plate. The fare consisted of salted pork, turnips,
baked beans, biscuits, and buttermilk. It was spartan
by William Sunday’s standards. He was mostly a
steak-and-potatoes sort of man; oysters and such. A
man accustomed to washing everything down with
good bourbon and later having a fine cigar with his
sherry. But again he felt honored to be eating at this
table with his daughter and granddaughters, and the
food did not matter to him.
emotion of it, then felt foolish for feeling suddenly so
sentimental.
They ate with little conversation until April said,
“Are you our grandpa?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your grandpa, William.”
May giggled and Clara told her not to laugh with
food in her mouth.
“And who is this?” William Sunday asked of the
boy.
The boy didn’t answer.
“His name is Stephen,” Clara said. “He’s staying
with us for a time.”
William Sunday could see by the expression on
Clara’s face that the subject was not open for discus-
sion.
“You look like a fine lad,” he said and the boy
looked away toward Clara who said, “Finish your
supper.”
Later, when the girls had cleared the table and
