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“Watch over your son extra hard. Protect him! He’s about to walk through the shadow of death.

He needs divine intervention. You died before he could even talk.

You were out there in those streets! I begged you to stop the foolishness, but you didn’t!

And then you died…You owe me, and you definitely owe him !

” She looked back at the cards, and tears filled her eyes.

There, on the table, was the Death tarot card.

Five of Swords. The Sun. The Lovers. The Empress…

It got darker outside as she swayed to the music: John O’Leary’s, ‘Drinking Again’ was playing.

…My father had the potential to be a good man. He’s awfully clever. Fascinatin’, and looks damn good for his age. I remember being a little thing, mesmerized by the bull skull tattoo across his neck. He told me it was because of his nickname: ‘Wilde Bull.’

She tucked her hair behind her ear, and rested her jaw along her palm.

“Women still love my daddy. The young and the old. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered dark-hearted cowboy with silky silver hair that hangs down his back.

He has the most haunting ghost blue eyes…

He treated me like a princess when I was a little girl.

Mmmm hmmm… Hugs. Toys. All the dolls, with all the accessories and houses a lil’ girl could want.

He would even tuck me in sometimes, and read me and my sisters stories.

He loves God, and apparently evilness, too…

Daddy is complicated. Just when you think you’ve figured him out, he pulls the rug out from under you.

Daddy, you fooled me for a long time, but you can’t fool me no more…

I know my daddy didn’t have it easy growin’ up.

I know that he’s damaged. She scratched her head .

Hell, aren’t we all? I know also that he never loved my mama, either, though he said he did.

As she fought tears, she began to shake.

It’s taken me a lot of years to figure that out.

To accept it. He’s not dead yet, so there’s a shred of hope.

I love my father. Lord knows that I do, but I love my son more…

She heard a burst of laughter pour from her house, then cheering. Some of the guys were watching television in her home theater. She picked up Kane’s cup and took another slow sip, then poured a little of the liquid out on the wooden porch floorboards.

“Baby, that’s for you. Drink up.”

The grasshoppers began to chirp, and she smiled. A big gust of wind blew, and the candle on the cupcake was snuffed out.

Is that you, baby? I remember you used to call me grasshopper. Was that some sort of sign? Patience, young grasshopper, your time to shine is coming…

…A week later

Poet stood inside of Melba’s house. The stench of medicinal ointments, mold and the like was a thing of the past. A couple of men in white jumpsuits marched more old periodicals from her attic to a big bin parked right outside of her house.

Melba lay in her bed, the thick, lint-covered quilt pulled up to her neck.

The woman hadn’t said much, but her eyes smiled, nonetheless.

Aunt Huni came into the bedroom with two tangled handfuls of yarn.

She had on green overalls and a farmer’s hat.

“Melba, you sew?”

Melba nodded, then smiled. “Yes, but my arthritis makes it hard.”

Huni pulled up a chair beside her and started sorting the yarn, making it fit for use. Her aunt had been coming by, walking up the path, insisting on talking to Melba after she’d been briefed on what happened, and that the lady was back home. This time, without her husband.

“I’m sorry, Poet.” Melba’s voice was weak and weepy.

“Sorry for what, Melba?”

“Everything. Sorry for botherin’ you like I did for all of these years.

Sorry for stickin’ my nose in your business about your property ’nd such.

” Melba looked out at the view from the window.

“I used to be a busy lady, you know? I used to be the one folks came to for advice. I was an administrator with the Houston bird conservatory commission.” She held her head a bit higher.

“But then my husband got ill, and I had to stay home and tend to him. Had to retire early. He wasn’t in his right mind when he said those awful things to you.

” Melba slowly turned in her direction. “Clyde ain’t mean it. ”

Poet forced a smile. “Uh, Melba, first of all, thank you for the sincere apology. I accept it.” Melba nodded proudly.

“Secondly, and I mean this with all due respect, but I do not give a single, piping hot fuck on a rusty tin roof about what your bigoted, vile, despicable, spineless weasel of a husband meant to say and didn’t mean to say. ”

Melba’s face paled, and she blinked several times. Huni never lifted her head from the massive ball of yarn. She just kept right on working on the great yarn sort of the year.

“I can promise you one thing, though. He did mean what he said to me and about me, and you may as well stop tellin’ that lie to me, and to yourseld.

Liquor, age, and illness makes folks tell the truth, Melba.

That is what was in his heart, so that is what came out, and the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be, ’cause you apologizing for another grown man who is mean as a horny hippo during mating season, don’t make no sense.

“You don’t need to apologize for him. He needs to apologize to YOU.” Huni nodded in agreement, but kept her face on her task.

“He’s been beatin’ you upside the head, body and heart, long before he’d gone ill. He’s just a bad person. He got sick, and instead of takin’ that time to get his soul together, he got worse. Doubled downed on his evil. Now, tell the truth, shame the devil.”

Melba clutched the edge of the duvet.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to respond.

” Poet slipped her purse over her shoulder.

“I know the truth. You know the truth. He knows the truth. His nastiness didn’t shake me, and I don’t lose a wink of sleep over that fool.

More importantly, he can’t hurt you anymore.

That’s all that matters.” Poet walked closer to Melba and smoothed her hair in place.

The woman seemed to almost melt into her touch…

When was the last time this woman was hugged? Told she was important? Probably years…

“Melba, now that the house is clean, and you’ve had groceries delivered, you should be all set. If you need me, just give me a call, okay? I left my number on the refrigerator.”

Melba’s forehead wrinkled, and her eyes narrowed.

“Poet, why are you bein’ so nice to me?”

“Huh?” She placed her hand against her chest. “Because you’re a human being, Melba, and besides being annoying, you never harmed me. I know why you were doing what you were doing now. You needed an excuse to get outta this house—away from him .”

Melba’s eyes watered. She snatched a tissue from the tissue box then blew her nose. She folded it in half, and dabbed at her eyes.

“Poet, I don’t have much. I’m on a fixed income.

I’ve got some ailments, too, but if there’s ever anything I can do for you, and I mean any thing, please let me know because I promise I’ll help you in any way that I can.

” The woman looked as if she was about to cry, but then got a hold of herself.

“I want to be able to pay you back in some way.”

“You being safe is all the help that I need.”

“Well, I’m here to help you anyway, as long as it doesn’t involve watchin’ over your stray cats!”

They all had a good laugh at that…

An eroded bike and a soiled sock lay in the dead grass amid a scattering of broken glass outside the grimy trailer. Blue spurts of light filtered through a small window dressed in cheap ivory blinds within, turning silvery, flashing, then vanishing for a second or two.

She’s in there watchin’ TV.

Grandpa sat in the back of the Lincoln car, smoking a red cigar. Pearl white mist drifted from his lips and out the cracked window while ‘ It’ll Be Me’ , by Jerry Lewis, played from his driver’s radio. His driver made to get out of the car and open his door, but he waved him off.

“No, no, I’ve got it. Just stay put.” Grandpa Wilde swung one leg out the car door, then the other, and stood to his full height. Holding tight to his cane, he stepped to the trailer door and knocked on it three good times. He could hear the television when he’d first approached, but now, silence.

“Who is it?” a man yelled out.

“My name is Cyrus Wilde. I’m here to have a word with Lorna Wilde.”

“Lorna? That ain’t her last name. I don’t know no damn Cyrus Wilde. Who the fuck are you to Lorna?” the man demanded from behind the door, then belched.

“I’m her grandfather-in-law. She ain’t legally changed her name, now has she? According to my records, she’s remarried, but never changed it, either.”

The trailer door swung open, and a man of about five foot ten or so appeared in a dirty tank top and jeans two sizes too big for him.

A mop of cinnamon-brown covered his head, a patchy beard and mustache stained his face, and his arms were chock full of faded tattoos and fresh needle marks—some oozing, some scabbed over.

“Hank, who is it?’ came a feminine voice, though she sounded either half asleep or drunk herself.

“Some old cowboy in a fancy schmancy black jacket and boots, and lavish rings, talkin’ about he’s here to see you.” The man scoffed, his gaze on the woman he was talking to. The way the man licked his lips, it was clear the thought of an attempted robbery was zipping about in his embalmed skull.

“Sir, please step aside and let me speak to the lady of the house. I have business to discuss with her.”

“Step aside?!” the man echoed with a sneer, then laughed. “Motherfucker, this is MY house. What I say goes. Any business you got with—”

BANG!

“AHHHHH!!! Oh my God!!!”