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Holly sits up straight. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Did she tell you her news? I’m thinking she’s had so much going on today that she hasn’t had time.”

Holly pauses briefly, but if Tanya knows, it’s probably all right to say she does. “She didn’t, but Jerome did. It’s wonderful. In poetry circles the Penley Prize is a pretty big deal.”

Tanya laughs. “Now I’ve got two writers in the family! It’s hard to believe. My own grandfather could hardly read at all. As for Jim’s grandfather… well, you know about him.”

Holly does. The notorious Chicago gangster Alton Robinson, subject of Jerome’s soon-to-be-published book.

“Barbara has been meeting with a local poet named Olivia Kingsbury—”

“I know who she is,” Holly says. She doesn’t bother to tell Tanya that Kingsbury is a lot more than a local poet. “Jerome says she’s been mentoring Barbara.”

“For months now, and today is the first I learned of it. I suppose she felt like she’d be accused of copying her brother if she told, which is ridiculous. But that’s Barbara. Anyway, the two of them have become very close, and today Ms. Kingsbury had to go to the hospital. A-fib. You know what that is?”

“Yes. It’s too bad, but at her age things go wrong. Olivia Kingsbury is close to a hundred.”

“They got her stabilized, but the poor old thing has cancer—she’s had it for years, Barbara said, but now it’s spread to her lungs and brain. She said some more, but it was hard to make out because she was crying.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“She asked me to call all her friends. She’s going back to Ms. Kingsbury’s house with the old lady’s caregiver, who’s as broken up as Barbie is. The two of them are going to spend the night, and I guess tomorrow they’ll bring Ms. Kingsbury home. The old lady told them she doesn’t want to die in the hospital, and I don’t blame her.”

“That’s very grown-up of Barbara,” Holly says.

“She’s a good girl. A responsible girl.” Tanya is crying a little herself now. “She plans to stay there the rest of the week and over the weekend, but it may not be that long. Barbara said Ms. Kingsbury made it clear that if the a-fib starts again, she doesn’t want to go back to the hospital.”

“Understood.” Holly is thinking of her mother, who did die in the hospital. Alone. “Give Barbara all my love. And about the Penley Prize—congratulate her on making the shortlist of the shortlist.”

“I will, Holly, but I don’t think she cares about any of that just now. I offered to go over and Barbara said no. I think she and Marie—that’s the caregiver’s name—want to be left alone with Ms. Kingsbury. She doesn’t seem to have anyone else. She’s outlived them all.”

4

The subtext of Tanya’s call is that Barbara will be out of touch while attending to Kingsbury during her friend and mentor’s final illness, but when Holly gets back to her room with two fresh packs of cigarettes in the pockets of her cargo pants, she calls Barbara anyway. Straight to voicemail. She says Tanya filled her in, and if Barbara needs anything she only has to call. She says she’s sorry bad news came so close on the heels of the good.

“I love you,” Holly finishes.

She gets undressed, brushes her teeth with her finger and a little motel soap (oough), and goes to bed. She lies on her back, looking up into the dark. Her mind won’t turn off and she’s afraid she’s in for a sleepless night. She remembers she has a few melatonin rattling around in the bottom of her bag and takes one with a sip of water. Then she checks her phone for text messages.

Tonight there’s just one, and it’s from Barbara. Only two words. Holly sits on the bed, reading them over and over. That heat is working its way up her spine again. The text she sent Barbara, along with the picture of Cary Dressler and the Golden Oldies bowling team, was brief: Do you remember this guy?

Barbara’s reply, almost certainly sent from Kiner, judging by the time-stamp, is even briefer: Which one?

July 5, 2021

1

“I believe you’ll be able to assist me tonight,” Roddy says as he enters the bedroom.

Emily bares her teeth in a pained smile. The hamburger he’s brought her—rare, as she likes it—is still on the night table. She has managed only a single bite. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to get out of bed tonight, let alone assist you. You’ll have to do it yourself. This pain… beyond belief.”

He’s holding a tray with a napkin on it. Now he lifts it, showing her a goblet filled with white, lardlike stuff streaked with red filaments. Beside it is a spoon. “I’ve been saving it.”

This isn’t true. The fact is he forgot all about it. He found it in the freezer while he was rooting around for one of those Stouffer’s entrees he likes for lunch. He heated the suet pudding in the oven, very gently. Microwaving kills most nutrients, it’s a known fact. No wonder so many Americans are so unhealthy; that kind of cooking should be banned by law.

Emily’s sunken eyes brighten with greed. She stretches out a hand. “Give it to me! You should have given it to me yesterday, you cruel man!”

“I didn’t need you yesterday. Tonight I do. Half inside and half outside, Em. You know the drill. Half and half.”