The story in front of me—the story told by the photographs—suddenly developed another chapter and a whole new set of questions. Two weddings—one in Galveston. One groom, two different brides. Judging from the man’s apparent age, the Galveston wedding had come first, perhaps by ten years. Where was the pretty, vivacious blond bride? What had happened to her? Divorce was unlikely in those days, I supposed. Had she . . . died?
I was pulled away from my questions by another phone call—this one from Caitie, who wanted to remind me that I was supposed to stop at the fairground on my way into town in the morning and make sure that Dixie Chick and Extra Crispy had food and fresh water.
“I’ve already got it on my list.” I had the feeling that this wasn’t the reason for her call. Tentatively, I added, “Are you and Sharon having a good time?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. I thought she didn’t sound as chirpy as usual. And then I found out why. “Kevin came over after supper and we played video games. But he had to go home early.”
I waited for a moment, then said, casually, “He’s been sick, hasn’t he? Is he feeling better?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. Then, “No.” Then there was a long pause, and she lowered her voice as if she didn’t want Sharon to hear. “Actually, Mom, he told me why he’s been sick.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not supposed to tell anybody, but that doesn’t mean you.” Another breath. “He says he’s got a brain tumor.” Her voice wavered. “Cancer.”
“Oh, Caitie.” So that was why she had called. I clutched the phone, wanting to hold her close, feeling so far away. “I am so sorry to hear that, honey.”
I could hear that she was doing her best to fight the tears. “It sounds sort of bad,” she said, “but he says it’s really not and I shouldn’t be worried. He says the doctors know where it is and how to get it out and what to do after that. He’s going to Houston next week. That’s where the best doctors are, he says. But . . .” She stopped, gulping down the sobs.
I tried to sound confident. “I’m glad he has the best doctors. They’ll do whatever they can to make him well. But he also needs good friends. You’ll be that for him, I know, Caitlin.”
“I will,” she said fervently. “That’s what I told him. But, Mom—” Another swallowed sob. “I can’t help thinking about Aunt Marcia. She had cancer, too. And she died.”
There were whole galaxies of grief in those three words. I pulled in my breath. “Yes, she did. But that was several years ago, sweetie. Doctors are learning more about cancer every day. Your aunt Marcia was older, too, and she’d been sick for a while. Kevin is young and strong.”
“That’s true,” she said, reaching for hope.
“And he’s a fighter.” I managed a chuckle. “You remember how hard he fought to get that first chair away from you. I’ll bet he’ll fight this every bit as hard.”
“I hope so,” she said, clutching the word. I heard the slam of a door and a flurry of noise in the background. “I have to go. Sharon is saying it’s my turn for the shower.”
“Okay.” I thought of something. “When Kevin gets back, and when his mom says we can, let’s give him a party. Shall we?”
“Sure!” she said, brightening. “A party would be great. Everybody will want to come. All the kids from school and the orchestra. Everybody.”
“Good. Start thinking about that.” It would give her something to look forward to. “Where we should have it. Who we should invite. What you’d like to have to eat.”
“I will,” she said. “Oh, and please don’t forget about the chickens tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Good night, sweetie.”
In the kitchen, I poured a glass of milk and carried it out on the back porch when I let Winchester out for his last call. As he loped down the path toward the woods, he surprised a large, fully armored armadillo digging for grubs and beetles and other gourmet delights among the peppermint and lemon balm in my flower bed. The armadillo, who might have been the same one that Howard Cosell—our previous basset—loved to chase every night about this time, understood what was coming and scrambled noisily for the safety of the trees.
Winchester let out a gleeful basset howl—Ah-ha! Now I’ve got you, you scoundrel!—and flew after the trespasser, paws pounding, ears flopping, tail flung up like a white torch in the darkness. The basset and his armadillo disappeared into the shadows of the woods. I could hear the two of them blundering through the underbrush like a pair of African rhinos, Winchester baying occasionally to let his prey know that he was still hot on the trail. Bassets aren’t exactly built for speed, but then, neither are armadillos. We still laugh about the time Howard Cosell actually managed to catch one. He brought it to us clutched in his jaws like a partially deflated football. Released, the creature floundered drunkenly through the grass as Howard ran for his water bowl to rinse out his mouth. Armadillos apparently aren’t very tasty.
I had the feeling that it might be a while before Winchester made his way back home, so I sat down on the porch steps to wait, admiring the sliver of silver moon that hung just above the trees and listening to the sounds of the nocturnal world. We tell people that we love living in the country because it’s so quiet out here. But it isn’t, really—and especially not at night, when the wild things come out to pursue their after-dark affairs. The shrill, strident thrum of the cicadas was counterpointed by the brisk chirping of crickets and the wheezy wheep-wheep-wheep of male green tree frogs eager for a close encounter with
