The Morning and the Evening by Joan Williams

handkerchief; then he sort of half blew his nose and shook his head again and went on out the back door. Jake heard the flutter and squawking of chickens and heard the man spreading their feed. For a while he heard nothing, then the man’s voice farther away calling, “ Su pig pig pig ,” and the sound of corncobs falling into their trough. In a little while he came back up the short hill, puffing from the climb, and passed the back door and said, “No time now for a cow.” He stood at the bottom of the back steps and called up, “You stay there. You stay there. You hear, Mister Jake?”
    He buttered a slice of bread and put it into his mouth. It was then, while he was chewing, he knew that sometime before he had heard the truck drive away. He got up and went down the hall and took the sheet away from her face. Then he returned to his seat in the kitchen.
    When the first ones to hear the news came, he was still sitting there: still eating the loaf of bread and the hand-shaped mound of white butter.
    â€œYou eat that whole loaf up, Jake?” said one of the ladies.
    When he looked up, there was a whole brood of them looking at him from a semicircle; their brightness almost frightened him. They wore flowered dresses and colored glass beads; their cheeks were red spots and their mouths narrow red lines; their faces were freshly powdered, and some were the color of flour while others were like peaches in bloom. One lady, with bracelets that slid down her arm when she reached out, took the bread away from him, though he was still hungry.
    â€œOh, the poor thing ,” said another. “Do you think he knows?”
    â€œBound to,” said another. “He’s bound to’ve looked into her room. They say it’s been several days.”
    â€œBut I mean, do you think he understands? ” said the other.
    They were all silent, looking at him. Finally one said, “Come on out on the porch, Jake, and get some fresh air.”
    He got up and followed her. The others came behind. “We could take his mind off it,” said one, “if only we knew whether it was on it or not.” She looked back at the near-empty polka-dotted bread wrapper.
    Miss Hattie McGaha, a thin little birdlike lady, said, “Well, there’s no sense fixing him something to eat,” and she followed the others, fluttering her hands helplessly.
    From the porch he could see others coming, clouds of dust preceding and following the various cars, horses, trucks; some came on foot at a half-run, shielding their faces as vehicles passed them and arriving covered with a gold-colored film. They came through the gate, subdued, and greeted one another on the porch in quiet tones. Jake sat in a rocking chair in the midst of them, staring out at the front yard. Everyone looked at him but no one spoke except two or three men in shirtsleeves who patted him on the back and said, “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”
    The ladies stood off together in a little cluster, just not knowing this time what to do at all.
    Whenever there had been a death, he had gone too; now it had come home to him; the people were coming here. Brother Patrick came, wearing a suit even though it was summertime. People stepped aside as he came up and shook Jake’s hand, the way he would have done with anyone. Then he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but nothing seemed to come, so he closed it and just shook harder. Someone whispered in his ear, “She’s inside, Brother.” Then he let go and went into the house.
    Things moved on through the afternoon like that. People were all over the porch and the yard, in groups now, talking louder, laughing if they wanted. Once someone brought him a glass of iced tea, and once someone brought him a bowl of homemade ice cream. It was then a long car came down the road and pulled around to the side of the house. By the time he finished the ice cream, it had