fault they’re here, courtesy of the wrong time of the month
with the wrongest guy in the world. Still, I’m ready to let our
mother take a turn at raising them for a day.
And maybe, just maybe, the possibility of seeing Chatham
again increases the feeling of urgency about it.
God, I hope she comes tonight.
We exit the highway and rumble through town, past
Churchill General. Circle the brick-paved roundabout. Hook
a right at Second Street, where the Tiny Elvis Café has its win-
dows open. I wave to a few of the guys on the football team,
who are seated out on the patio, under the teal-and-white-
striped canopy.
A request comes from the backseat: “Ice cream?”
“Not today, Maggie Lee,” I say. “We gotta get home.”
“Mommy said.” Apparently, Caroline has rejoined Marga-
ret’s team.
“She did?”
“Uh-huh,” the girls say in unison.
That sounds like something my mother would do: get
the girls jazzed about spending the day with their big brother
because he’ll probably take them for ice cream. She’s always
setting me up for stuff like that. Well, two can play.
“Then she’ll probably take you later.” After a second, I add,
“Tell her Josh said.”
A few blocks later, I turn onto Carpenter Street. Our house
is all the way at the end, on the left, just as Carpenter bends to
become Wabash . . . the smallish raised ranch with fading gray
paint and a boundary of overgrown hedges lining the lot. I’m
nearing the driveway when I see it: a shiny, black truck—a new
one, with a full-sized bed and larger-than-necessary tires—
parked at the curb.
12
