way driving against the sun, which was glaring like it was staring me down. I changed to a blue-and-green knit short set, brushed my hair and secured it with a banana clip. I had a sandwich, sitting uneasily by myself at the kitchen table. The house felt big and empty, and I was glad to see Rene drive up with Coby and Lisa.
“Arlene’s having trouble with one of her artificial nails,” he explained, looking embarrassed at having to relay this feminine problem. “And Coby and Lisa were raring to get over here.” I noticed Rene was still in his work clothes—heavy boots, knife, hat, and all. Arlene wasn’t going to let him take her anywhere until he showered and changed.
Coby was eight and Lisa was five, and they were hanging all over me like big earrings when Rene bent to kiss them good-bye. His affection for the kids gave Rene a big gold star in my book, and I smiled at him approvingly. I took the kids’ hands to lead them back to the kitchen for some ice cream.
“We’ll see you about ten-thirty, eleven,” he said. “If that’s all right.” He put his hand on the doorknob.
“Sure,” I agreed. I opened my mouth to offer to keep the kids for the night, as I’d done on previous occasions, but then I thought of Tina’s limp body. I decided that tonight they’d better not stay. I raced the kids to the kitchen, and a minute or two later I heard Rene’s old pickup rattling down the driveway.
I picked up Lisa. “I can hardly lift you anymore, girl, you’re getting so big! And you, Coby, you shaving yet?” We sat at the table for a good thirty minutes while the children ate ice cream and rattled off their list of achievements since we’d last visited.
Then Lisa wanted to read to me, so I got out a coloring book with the color and number words printed inside, and she read those to me with some pride. Coby, of course, had to prove he could read much better, and then they wanted to watch a favorite show. Before I knew it, it was dark.
“My friend is coming over tonight,” I told them. “His name is Bill.”
“Mama told us you had a special friend,” Coby said. “I better like him. He better be nice to you.”
“Oh, he is,” I assured the boy, who had straightened and thrust out his chest, ready to defend me if my special friend wasn’t nice enough in Coby’s estimation.
“Does he send you flowers?” Lisa asked romantically.
“No, not yet. Maybe you can kind of hint I’d like some?”
“Ooo. Yeah, I can do that.”
“Has he asked you to marry him?
“Well, no. But I haven’t asked him, either.”
Naturally, Bill picked that moment to knock.
“I have company,” I said, smiling, when I answered the door.
“I can hear,” he said.
I took his hand and led him into the kitchen.
“Bill, this is Coby and this young woman is Lisa,” I said formally.
“Good, I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Bill said, to my surprise. “Lisa and Coby, is it all right with you if I keep company with your aunt Sookie?”
They eyed him thoughtfully. “She isn’t really our aunt,” Coby said, testing the waters. “She’s our mom’s good friend.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, and she says you don’t send her flowers,” Lisa said. For once, her little voice was crystal clear. I was so glad to realize that Lisa had gotten over her little problem with her r’s. Really.
Bill looked sideways at me. I shrugged. “Well, they asked me,” I said helplessly.
“Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to mend my ways, Lisa. Thank you for pointing that out to me. When is Aunt Sookie’s birthday, do you know?”
I could feel my face flushing. “Bill,” I said sharply. “Cut it out.”
“Do you know, Coby?” Bill asked the boy.
Coby shook his head, regretfully. “But I know it’s in the summer because the last time Mama took Sookie to lunch in Shreveport for her birthday, it was summertime. We stayed with Rene.”
“You’re smart to remember that, Coby,” Bill told him.
“I’m smarter than that! Guess what I learned in school the other day.” And Coby was off and running.
Lisa eyed Bill with great attention the whole time Coby spoke, and when Coby was finished, she said, “You look real white, Bill.”
“Yes,” he said, “that’s my normal complexion.”
The kids exchanged glances. I could tell they were deciding that “normal complexion” was an illness, and it wouldn’t be too polite to ask more questions. Every