shoulders and in the hollow of his throat and on his legs, and Angie understood one thing: she should never, ever, have come.
SEVEN
I am going to say this straight out: I don’t think it’s proper to be digging around in matters that don’t concern you and that you can’t understand because you are, forgive my bluntness, Yankees. I don’t know what the university was thinking, inviting you all to come pry in our business, and I have written them a letter saying just that. The past is past. Leave it be.
Your name: none of your business.
I have a story you might want to hear about the summer of 1973, when my second cousin Anita Bryant came to visit. It has got nothing to do with Miss Zula but it’s a good story anyway.
Your name: Howard Stillwater. I own Stillwater Used Cars, and can be found there six days a week from seven in the morning ’til six at night. When you get ready to replace that pitiful excuse for a vehicle you drove down here, come and see me, I’ll do you up right.
It made perfect sense, John Grant told himself, that his brother would take it upon himself to force this reunion. Suddenly the wound on his upper thigh, mostly healed, began to itch. He pulled the towel from around his neck and laid it over his lap while he watched Rob cross Lee Street with Angie beside him, and he tried to think what he could possibly say to her, given the mood she was in.
It was not something he could forget in five years or fifty, the way Angie Mangiamele’s face gave away her temper. The only comfort, and it was a small one, was that she wasn’t wearing the old Nirvana T-shirt she had had on this morning when he saw her by the river. She had changed into a different, equally familiar shirt, two sizes too big, an old Hawaiian print with a tear in the pocket. The T-shirt, he imagined, she had left hanging on the post of her bed.
John closed his eyes and leaned forward, forearms propped on his knees, hands hanging.
“A little early for a nap, isn’t it?”
“Rob, I think I hear your wife calling you.”
When he opened his eyes she was there, five feet away. Her hair had grown out again, a coiling mass that reached halfway down her back, dark brown with hints of red in the light. There were some new things—a scar at the corner of her mouth, another piercing in her right ear—but mostly she was still Angie, unforgettable. She was looking at Rob, who had a hand on her shoulder.
“I know when I’m not wanted. We’ll be waiting on the back porch.”
She gave him a tight nod and a tighter smile, and then he was gone, but not before he threw John a particular look, the one that said he had doubts about his big brother’s ability to handle the situation.
There was a moment’s silence filled in by the sound of a lawnmower’s ineffective sputter and, more insistent, birdsong. John was thinking that Rob was right, he had no chance in the world of handling this situation, when Angie spoke.
“Is that a mockingbird?” She was looking up into the oak tree.
John shifted a little. “A thrush, I think.”
“A thrush. I’ve been meaning to go to the library to find a tape on birdsong. So I know what I’m hearing. And a book on flowers.” She was looking at the garden, no doubt because she didn’t want to look at him. The shadows moved over her face and neck and touched her shirt and the strong hands and the faded jeans. He was glad she stood so far away, and frustrated by it, too, which was ridiculous, which was insupportable.
He said, “Did you stop by just to say hello?”
And saw that he had made the first mistake, as he knew he must, and he always did, with this woman. The color climbed in her face.
“Am I intruding?”
“No,” he said, quietly. “No, you’re not. I’m glad to see you.”
She produced a small, dry laugh. “I just wanted to ask you a couple questions.”
John
SEVEN
I am going to say this straight out: I don’t think it’s proper to be digging around in matters that don’t concern you and that you can’t understand because you are, forgive my bluntness, Yankees. I don’t know what the university was thinking, inviting you all to come pry in our business, and I have written them a letter saying just that. The past is past. Leave it be.
Your name: none of your business.
I have a story you might want to hear about the summer of 1973, when my second cousin Anita Bryant came to visit. It has got nothing to do with Miss Zula but it’s a good story anyway.
Your name: Howard Stillwater. I own Stillwater Used Cars, and can be found there six days a week from seven in the morning ’til six at night. When you get ready to replace that pitiful excuse for a vehicle you drove down here, come and see me, I’ll do you up right.
It made perfect sense, John Grant told himself, that his brother would take it upon himself to force this reunion. Suddenly the wound on his upper thigh, mostly healed, began to itch. He pulled the towel from around his neck and laid it over his lap while he watched Rob cross Lee Street with Angie beside him, and he tried to think what he could possibly say to her, given the mood she was in.
It was not something he could forget in five years or fifty, the way Angie Mangiamele’s face gave away her temper. The only comfort, and it was a small one, was that she wasn’t wearing the old Nirvana T-shirt she had had on this morning when he saw her by the river. She had changed into a different, equally familiar shirt, two sizes too big, an old Hawaiian print with a tear in the pocket. The T-shirt, he imagined, she had left hanging on the post of her bed.
John closed his eyes and leaned forward, forearms propped on his knees, hands hanging.
“A little early for a nap, isn’t it?”
“Rob, I think I hear your wife calling you.”
When he opened his eyes she was there, five feet away. Her hair had grown out again, a coiling mass that reached halfway down her back, dark brown with hints of red in the light. There were some new things—a scar at the corner of her mouth, another piercing in her right ear—but mostly she was still Angie, unforgettable. She was looking at Rob, who had a hand on her shoulder.
“I know when I’m not wanted. We’ll be waiting on the back porch.”
She gave him a tight nod and a tighter smile, and then he was gone, but not before he threw John a particular look, the one that said he had doubts about his big brother’s ability to handle the situation.
There was a moment’s silence filled in by the sound of a lawnmower’s ineffective sputter and, more insistent, birdsong. John was thinking that Rob was right, he had no chance in the world of handling this situation, when Angie spoke.
“Is that a mockingbird?” She was looking up into the oak tree.
John shifted a little. “A thrush, I think.”
“A thrush. I’ve been meaning to go to the library to find a tape on birdsong. So I know what I’m hearing. And a book on flowers.” She was looking at the garden, no doubt because she didn’t want to look at him. The shadows moved over her face and neck and touched her shirt and the strong hands and the faded jeans. He was glad she stood so far away, and frustrated by it, too, which was ridiculous, which was insupportable.
He said, “Did you stop by just to say hello?”
And saw that he had made the first mistake, as he knew he must, and he always did, with this woman. The color climbed in her face.
“Am I intruding?”
“No,” he said, quietly. “No, you’re not. I’m glad to see you.”
She produced a small, dry laugh. “I just wanted to ask you a couple questions.”
John
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