The Sweetest Thing by Elizabeth Musser Page B

suddenly had nothing to eat.
    And I’d seen something else. I’d seen God show up and provide again and again and again.
    But I didn’t know Perri well enough then to tell her that, so I whispered, “You’re right, Perri. There’s no way I can understand everything you feel. I only wish I could help you.”
    She turned her see-through green eyes to me and whispered, “I hate him! I hate him! Why did he do this? Why did he leave us? Leave me with all of this!”
    I sat down beside her. “I don’t know. I’m just so sorry.”
    She threw her arms around me and began to cry again. In between her gasps for breath and her sniffles, she sobbed, “I h . . . ate him for doing . . . this to us. For leav . . . ing us with n . . . othing. He’ll k-k-kill Mamma too.”
    Then she collapsed on the bed, arms still around my waist, and began to moan, “I loved him so much, Dobbs. I can’t begin to tell you how much. So, so much. He was . . . He was a great father. He really was. Now everyone will think badly of him. I can’t bear that, Dobbs.”
    Stunned, I whispered, “ Shhh. No one thinks badly of him. They’re just hurting for all of you.”
    She didn’t hear me but continued talking to herself. “He was . . . He was my friend. I understood him and he understood me. And now he’s gone.”
    That is how she fell asleep that day, holding on to me. I sat there for a long while, gently rubbing her back. Later, I carefully unwrapped myself from her embrace, slid off the bed, and left her there, covered with a worn quilt and her grief.
    Perri spent the night at the Chandler house, right there in my bed, sleeping straight through the night. I stayed in Becca’s room, carefully turning the pages in the brittle album, watching my father grow up before my eyes and wondering about the life he lived in Atlanta and how he could have left the wealth, sophistication, and security all behind. And why?
    When the postman came, I hurried out of the house, before Parthenia could even set down the feather duster she was using in the downstairs library. I galloped down the driveway and met the postman at the curb. He nodded to me with a smile. This was my third day to greet him with anticipation in my eyes.
    â€œHello, Miss Dillard.”
    â€œHello, sir. Any mail for me?”
    â€œI do believe there is.”
    He handed me a letter, and I immediately recognized Hank’s handwriting. “Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!”
    The postman’s face broke into a grin as he tipped his hat and said, “My pleasure, Miss Dillard. All my pleasure.”
    I had the letter opened before I got to the porte-cochere entrance, and I began devouring it with my eyes. The letter was a balm for my soul and ended with the most wonderful declaration.
    . . . I am already missing you, and I just told you good-bye. . . .
    Do you think your father suspects my affection for you? He has never said a word to me. . . . Coobie, the little stink, as you call her, hangs on my every word. She is the perfect spy. . . .
    I feel compelled to speak frankly with your father soon. . . .
    With my love and prayers for you, dear Dobbs,
    Yours, Hank
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    Perri’s voice shocked me. She was standing at the bottom of the circular stairway, all cozy under the thick yellow robe that she had found in my bathroom. Her feet were tucked into two yellow slippers.
    I stupidly thrust the letter behind my back, as if she hadn’t seen it, hadn’t read the delight on my face. “I was just getting the mail.”
    â€œYes, I see that. And from the way you look, you must have heard from Mr. Roosevelt himself.”
    â€œOh no.” I shrugged, embarrassed.
    This time Perri surprised me and let out a cackling laugh. “It’s written right across