Finding Home by Jackie Weger

welding shed long after dark. Phoebe bathed herself and Willie-Boy and sent him and Maydean to bed.
    Dorie balked at mention of bed. Phoebe let her be. The child fell asleep on the sofa. When Gage came in, he carried his daughter to her room.
    “You want me to help you get her into nightclothes?” Phoebe asked.
    “ No.”
    “ I set aside a platter of chicken and biscuits and gravy in the oven for you. You want I should put it on the table?”
    “ I’ll eat in a bit.”
    Phoebe hesitated. Best thing she could do, she thought, was take herself off to bed, too, lest they engage in a conversation regarding her leaving at first light in the morning.
    Gage nodded absently , his attention wholly on Dorie.
    For a brief moment Phoebe wished he would focus his attention on her, but she couldn ’t fault the man for looking after his daughter. “G’night, then.”
     
    ~~~~
     
    Gage left Dorie in her shorts, brushed sand from the bottom of her feet and covered her with a thin flannel sheet. He was only now learning how to parent. Dorie’s mother had held the child up to the world, to himself, as an achievement of her own. Dorie had adored her mother and Velma enjoyed the adoration to an unhealthy degree. She had kept Dorie for herself. Wrongly, to keep peace, he’d allowed it. Now Dorie suffered for it, and he didn’t know how to stop her suffering.
    He brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. Her round tanned face was clean for a change. The Hawley woman ’s doing no doubt. He wondered how she’d managed it. Dorie wore her dirt like a badge of honor.
    It was too soon to tell, but perhaps allowing the transients into his home wasn ’t such a bad thing. Even if it was only for a day or two, they seemed a pleasant diversion for Dorie.
    He turned on the ceiling fan, snapped on a Dora the Explorer night light, switched off the overhead light and went to get his supper. The transit woman was pleasant for him, too, he mused when he bit into the chicken. He was the worst cook in the world, and the chicken the best he’d ever tasted.
     

THREE
     
     
    Phoebe woke in the thin light of morning. Maydean was curled into a ball at the foot of the bed. Willie-Boy lay on his back. She put her ear to his chest. No sound of wheezing. That was good—and bad. She’d have to figure out a way to stay, beyond his recovery.
    She had clean jeans and blouse to wear today. In the bathroom she yanked a brush through her hair, taming it as best she could. A woman had to look her best at first light, Ma always said.
    She tiptoed down the hall to Gage’s bedroom. The door was closed. She put her ear to it.
    “ Looking for me?”
    She spun about. He stood at the head of the hall, holding a cup, looking suspicious. Phoebe cast about for the right words. “I was just hopin’ my stumblin’ around didn’t wake you. I get fair noisy in the mornin’.”
    “ You didn’t.”
    She brushed past him, ever aware of his great height and powerful body. He followed her into the kitchen. Coffee was made. Pho ebe poured herself a cup, savoring the rich-perked taste of it. “Willie-Boy passed a fair to middlin’ night,” she said.
    “ I’m glad to hear it.”
    “ I washed all the clothes I found in the laundry hamper. I put Dorie’s in her room, left yours folded in the basket. You want me to put ‘em away?”
    “ I can do that.”
    “ You want me to fix you some breakfast?”
    “ Never eat in the morning.”
    Never stretch out your words, either . Phoebe hunted up something to say so an awkward silence wouldn’t fall between them. “I got that letter written,” she advanced, reminded of the envelope addressed to her mother. “Left a quarter for the stamp on your desk. You reckon I can put your address on it, so as they can write me back...if there’s work?”
    “ Meaning?”
    “ Meanin’ I can pick it up, if one comes after—” She stopped, not allowing the words to cross her lips. “Those seafood houses down the road, are they