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“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I tell you. One thing I do know about New York is that when they have dates they like as not never set foot in a movie house or a skating rink. The girls just serve them cocktails in their apartments. So I have bought some bourbon, in case that’s what you’re used to doing. Is that all right?”

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Ben Joe said.

She ran out to the kitchen immediately; for some reason she didn’t seem to be in slow motion tonight. Ben Joe sat down on the couch and relaxed happily against the cushions. The fire was slowly drawing the cold out of him, leaving him warm and comfortable. He could hear glasses tinkling in the kitchen.

“I’ve put you some ice and a little water,” Shelley said when she came in again.

“That’s perfect.”

She had brought the bottle in on a tray, and next to it stood their two glasses, her own very pale. When Ben Joe picked his glass up, she watched his face carefully to see if he liked it, and smiled when he nodded to her.

“Just right,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

She picked up her own glass and, after turning over in her mind the problem of where to sit, chose a spot next to Ben Joe on the couch, settling there so delicately that her drink hardly wavered in its glass.

“Is it you that’s going to talk?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“I think it is.”

“Why?”

“Oh …” She took a sip of her drink and began turning her glass around, smiling into it. “When you come in slow and smiling, likely something is on your mind. Also if you’re too much the other way. And then me, I’m not in a real talky mood myself. So I figured it would be you to talk.”

“Maybe so.” He slid down, so that his feet were under the coffee table and his weight was upon the small of his back, and scratched the top of his head. “I’m thinking about it,” he explained when she laughed.

“Well, tell me what you did with your day.”

“My day. Lord. Nothing to speak of. It was Sunday. We all got the Sunday blues. Got them so bad that Susannah’s up in the attic hunting squirrels with a B-B gun now. Nobody went out. Me, I slept and then I read the funny papers twice through, and then I finished a murder mystery and peeled potatoes for Gram. It’s been a God-awful day, considering.”

He sat up straighter and took a swallow of his drink.

“You know,” he said, “except for an occasional Sunday, they don’t make days like they used to. I mean, they don’t make them whole any more. You noticed?”

He looked over at Shelley, but she only shook her head, puzzled.

“Oh, well, what I mean is, the days seem to come in pieces now. They used to be in blocks — all one solid color to them. Sometimes whole weeks would be in blocks. Someone could say, ‘What’s this week been like?’ and right off the bat you could say, ‘Oh, lousy. My father won’t let me have the car because he caught me scratching off in front of Stacy’s café the other day.’ Or it would be a great week, for another reason just that clear-cut. It’s not that way any more.”

“Well …” Shelley said. She was trying, but in the end she gave up and said, “I reckon I never did notice that, Ben Joe.”

“No, I guess not.”

“You tell me about the pieces, then.”

“All right.”

He settled back again and thought a minute. “What I’m mainly wondering,” he said, “is whether Mom ever looks at the bank records. I’ve never actually seen her do it. She’s real funny that way. Sometimes I think Jenny is the one who manages the family now, as if Mom weren’t there. Jenny tells her what’s going on but only to keep her informed, not to ask her for any decisions. So maybe she doesn’t know anything about the bank books.”

“What difference does it make if she does?” Shelley asked.

“Well, I took some money out when I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what she’d do if she knew. I’m worried about it.”

He drained the last of his drink and then balanced the glass on his knee. It made a cold, dark ring in the fabric of his trousers. “I don’t know why it’s always so hard deciding which side I’m on,” he said.

“Let me pour you another drink, Ben Joe.”

“Also, I found out Joanne’s asking for a divorce,” Ben Joe said. He watched Shelley’s hands as she poured his bourbon; they were long, thin hands that seemed uncertain about what they were touching. “She says she just left Gary, not even telling him about it. The lawyer’s getting in touch with him now. Sometimes I’m hoping Gary’ll say no, she can’t have the divorce, and Joanne will leave Sandhill and go back and be happy in Kansas again. But most times I’m hoping she’ll get divorced and stay with us. That Gary, I don’t know whether I like him or not. Well, hell, I’ve never even seen him. Except in this blurred snapshot Joanne sent us of him holding Carol when she was just newborn. There was all kinds of excitement when Carol was born. The girls went around calling each other ‘Aunt’—even Tessie — and Mom was ‘Grandma’ for I don’t know how long. Then they forgot about it. But Gary sent out these birth announcements that say there’s a new product on the market, giving the name of the manufacturers — that’s the parents — and all.”

“I think that’s nice,” Shelley said.

“Well. It just seems funny in our particular family, is all. Like that sentimental kind of letter he wrote us after Joanne called to say they were married. It began, ‘Dear Mom,’ in this unreadable handwriting, and Mom looked at the greeting and then at the closing to see what stranger was calling her Mom and she said, ‘Who’s Gary?’ It wasn’t till she’d read the letter that she figured it out. No, that’s a nice idea but it doesn’t fit, somehow, and I kind of hope he’ll give Joanne the divorce.” He sat up straight again and stared into the fire. “Why can’t they all just let me take care of them? My sisters are so separate. I’d be happy to take care of them.”

“I know,” Shelley said comfortingly.

He smiled at her. She was sitting very straight and still, almost touching him, and listening completely to what he said. Anyone else he knew would be getting restless by now.

“You talk,” he said.

“I got nothing to say, Ben Joe.”

“Neither do I, seems like.” He bent to untie his shoelaces and slip the shoes off. Then he swung his legs up and settled his feet on the coffee table. “Tomorrow we’re going to see Jamie Dower,” he said. “He’s eighty-four. How do you reckon it would feel to be eighty-four? Do you think you’d realize you were that old? I don’t realize I’m twenty-five. I keep thinking I’m about eighteen or so. I don’t even know if Gram realizes how old she is. Somehow I think not, or she wouldn’t still be making a fuss about bygone things. Still keeping up the old war with Mom. She never did like her much. Grandpa, now, he thought Mom was wonderful. Said she had backbone. First time she came to visit here before she and Dad got married, she came down to breakfast saying she was thirsty and Grandpa poured her a glass of water. Only it turned out not to be water but moonshine, that clear kind that comes out of a Mason jar. Mom was right surprised but she drank it anyway, without coughing, and Grandpa said, ‘Honey, you’re no Yankee,’ and loved her like a daughter ever since. But Gram, she said all it proved was that she was no lady. Oh, hell, I’m getting off the subject. Whatever the subject was.”