sit down and talk about a better way to do this little reunion tour.”
Carl’s voice went suddenly shaky and tentative. “I’m sorry, Duffy, but this isn’t the time.”
“When is, pray tell?” I spoke the words like a dare, cupping his shoulder like a big bully. It felt stiff and bony in my palm, but I didn’t let go. “Maybe you’d like to talk to her too, seeing how you lost her number. How long has it—”
“Stop it,” Carl said, shaking off my hand.
We looked at each other, both breathing unreasonably hard.
“Don’t you have something to do besides sit here with us?” Josie asked me.
“No,” I said simply.
“Go find something, then,” Carl said, with feeling.
He’d never declined my company before, and even though I didn’t necessarily blame him right then, it still stung. The hurt actually slowed me down, made me grab a breath. When I spoke again, I tried to make my appeal as a friend, because that’s what we were: friends. First and always. “Don’t you want to talk to your daughter though?” I said.
The parts of Carl’s face that were tied up in anger let out a bit, giving way to something that looked closer to an ache. In time, that turned into a meek nod.
“See now?” I said. “That’d make everybody happy. Josie, why don’t you give your mama a call to come pick you up.”
Her brow knitted. “I . . . I can’t.”
“Oh, sure you can. You got one of those phones, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then don’t be difficult,” I said. “If you two are having a row, eating a little humble pie and making a two-minute call is a lot easier than sneaking around here forever. Just pick up the phone, take your bitty finger, and—”
“She’s dead,” Josie blurted in two stubborn syllables.
Her words echoed in the empty dining hall and registered slowly. All the hope of neatly solving this problem leached from my chest at about the same rate.
“She’s dead,” she said again, her voice barely a whisper and curdling with hurt.
Carl wheezed out a painful little burst of air. I sank into my chair, not sure what to feel about him losing a daughter I’d never once heard him speak of.
But before I could decide how best to console him, his huff warped into a strangled word. “When?”
Josie held her head in her hands, and the tremors I’d spotted earlier in her fingertips were now quakes. “God, I don’t know. A couple of weeks?”
His eyes went wild. “How?”
“She was sick.”
“Sick?” Carl said, baffled. “Of what?”
Her head popped up, and she snapped, “You want the gory details?”
“Please, no,” Carl said, the words knotted together. “I want you to tell me it’s not true. Tell me—”
“Tell you what? You want me to pretend like she’s going to walk in and say, ‘Hey, Dad. Long time no see. Where you been?’”
At first, this lashing stunned Carl, but once the pain registered, he let loose a single cry, then covered his mouth to keep the rest inside.
“Mom wouldn’t have come here anyway,” Josie muttered.
“Oh my word,” he blubbered, turning in his chair, looking like he wanted to run away. Out of the room. Out of Centennial. As fast and far as possible. But physically, he could only stand in place, gripping the edge of the tabletop with one hand while reaching for his walker with the other.
“Help him get it,” I commanded, expecting Josie to jump. But she didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
I wrestled my chair back, but by the time I’d stood, Carl had already taken an unassisted step and was leaning into his next unsteady stride. It was only by the grace of God that he landed in the arms of his walker, and he stood there for a second, head hung, white-knuckled, crying without making a sound. And then he started moving, jerking the walker forward with every heaving breath, all the way to the edge of the dining hall.