anything to do with me before. Mind if I try to pet him again?”
“I don’t mind. But he will.”
“Just a quick try,” Dell said. “I like a challenge.”
“Your funeral,” Suralee said.
Dell followed us outside. Shooter stood at attention when he saw Suralee, his tail wagging. But when Dell stepped toward him, his tail stopped and the hair between his shoulders stood up. “It’s okay,” Dell said, and Shooter growled low in his throat.
Dell stood still, his hand outstretched. “I’ll let you come to me, then. Now, let’s talk about this, man to man. You don’t have to put on a show for me. You know you’re curious, so why don’t you just come on over and have a little sniff?” The dog stood staring, head lowered.
“He won’t,” Suralee said. But he did. After the briefest hesitation, Shooter walked up to Dell. He wouldn’t allow him to pet him—he ducked when Dell tried—but he sniffed Dell’s hand thoroughly. Then he attached himself to Suralee’s side.
“I have never seen him do that,” Suralee said. “Not one time.”
I poked her in the ribs
—Let’s GO.
On the way home I told Suralee, “My mom says if a man likes kids and dogs, he’s a good man.”
Suralee said, “My father liked dogs and kids. So much for that theory, I guess.” She picked up a stone and flung it into a field we were passing, watched it land without comment, then resumed walking. “Hey. Guess what. Tomorrow night is a full moon.” She affected an English accent. “‘The loveliest faces are to be seen by moonlight, when one sees half with the eye and half with the fancy.’”
“Who said that?” I asked, and she gave her usual response: anonymous.
“The moon…brings all things magical,” I said in my own English accent, then added shyly, “I said that.”
“I thought so,” Suralee said, smiling. She touched my hand. “But it’s nice. We’ll put it in the play.”
“The night can be measured,” I said, with no accent at all.
Suralee stopped walking. “Who said
that
?”
“My mother. It’s true. There’s a beginning and an end to the night. Because of the sphere shape. You measure from where you can see stars to where you no longer can. It’s about the size of the Pacific Ocean.” Suralee stared at me. “It’s true!”
“How does she know?”
I shrugged. “She read it somewhere.”
People brought my mother books from the library or from yard or estate sales, and she read them all. She would have someone fold her hands over her vent hose and then pad them with a towel. The book would rest on this padding, and my mother would hold a pencil in her mouth and use the eraser end to turn pages. She read a lot of mysteries and biographies, but mostly she loved science books.
Suralee pulled at her bottom lip, thinking. It was a characteristic I admired and emulated, just as I imitated the way she watched movies: from the corner of her eye, with her head turned slightly away from the screen. Finally, “We might could use that, too,” Suralee said.
We walked the rest of the way home in silence, past houses that grew increasingly less cared for, past a field full of butterflies and grasshoppers and sharp-edged weeds sticking out of orange-colored dirt. We walked past two bare-chested little twin girls swinging on a gate, their mother yelling through the window for them to
stop
that. We walked alongside drooping phone wires held up by poles that had ads stapled on them: a lost cat, a church-group concert, an offer to make money by making phone calls from home. Suralee took a tab with a phone number from an ad promising a weight loss of ten pounds in a week. “You don’t need to lose weight,” I said.
Suralee said, “It’s not for me.”
It was for her mother, then. Suralee didn’t often speak to or of her mother directly. She had other ways.
“You want to go to Glenwood before we go home?” I asked. Sometimes Suralee and I walked up to the cemetery and lay on the graves.
“I don’t mind. But he will.”
“Just a quick try,” Dell said. “I like a challenge.”
“Your funeral,” Suralee said.
Dell followed us outside. Shooter stood at attention when he saw Suralee, his tail wagging. But when Dell stepped toward him, his tail stopped and the hair between his shoulders stood up. “It’s okay,” Dell said, and Shooter growled low in his throat.
Dell stood still, his hand outstretched. “I’ll let you come to me, then. Now, let’s talk about this, man to man. You don’t have to put on a show for me. You know you’re curious, so why don’t you just come on over and have a little sniff?” The dog stood staring, head lowered.
“He won’t,” Suralee said. But he did. After the briefest hesitation, Shooter walked up to Dell. He wouldn’t allow him to pet him—he ducked when Dell tried—but he sniffed Dell’s hand thoroughly. Then he attached himself to Suralee’s side.
“I have never seen him do that,” Suralee said. “Not one time.”
I poked her in the ribs
—Let’s GO.
On the way home I told Suralee, “My mom says if a man likes kids and dogs, he’s a good man.”
Suralee said, “My father liked dogs and kids. So much for that theory, I guess.” She picked up a stone and flung it into a field we were passing, watched it land without comment, then resumed walking. “Hey. Guess what. Tomorrow night is a full moon.” She affected an English accent. “‘The loveliest faces are to be seen by moonlight, when one sees half with the eye and half with the fancy.’”
“Who said that?” I asked, and she gave her usual response: anonymous.
“The moon…brings all things magical,” I said in my own English accent, then added shyly, “I said that.”
“I thought so,” Suralee said, smiling. She touched my hand. “But it’s nice. We’ll put it in the play.”
“The night can be measured,” I said, with no accent at all.
Suralee stopped walking. “Who said
that
?”
“My mother. It’s true. There’s a beginning and an end to the night. Because of the sphere shape. You measure from where you can see stars to where you no longer can. It’s about the size of the Pacific Ocean.” Suralee stared at me. “It’s true!”
“How does she know?”
I shrugged. “She read it somewhere.”
People brought my mother books from the library or from yard or estate sales, and she read them all. She would have someone fold her hands over her vent hose and then pad them with a towel. The book would rest on this padding, and my mother would hold a pencil in her mouth and use the eraser end to turn pages. She read a lot of mysteries and biographies, but mostly she loved science books.
Suralee pulled at her bottom lip, thinking. It was a characteristic I admired and emulated, just as I imitated the way she watched movies: from the corner of her eye, with her head turned slightly away from the screen. Finally, “We might could use that, too,” Suralee said.
We walked the rest of the way home in silence, past houses that grew increasingly less cared for, past a field full of butterflies and grasshoppers and sharp-edged weeds sticking out of orange-colored dirt. We walked past two bare-chested little twin girls swinging on a gate, their mother yelling through the window for them to
stop
that. We walked alongside drooping phone wires held up by poles that had ads stapled on them: a lost cat, a church-group concert, an offer to make money by making phone calls from home. Suralee took a tab with a phone number from an ad promising a weight loss of ten pounds in a week. “You don’t need to lose weight,” I said.
Suralee said, “It’s not for me.”
It was for her mother, then. Suralee didn’t often speak to or of her mother directly. She had other ways.
“You want to go to Glenwood before we go home?” I asked. Sometimes Suralee and I walked up to the cemetery and lay on the graves.
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