Wild Life by Cynthia DeFelice Page B

to come along.
    â€œI’ll just stay here. Dr. Bob’s coming, remember?” he said bitterly. He reached for his fork and began to eat, barely tasting the food.
    Oma broke several more eggs over the remaining ham and toast, and placed the dish on the floor for Quill. “Well, my friend will be coming for me soon,” said Oma, “so I’d better get ready.” After a moment, she said suddenly, “I suppose you think I’m silly not to drive.”
    Erik, surprised, looked up.
    Her eyes were shiny with tears again as she said, “I used to. But I stopped after”—she hesitated for a moment, wide-eyed, then plunged ahead—“well, I stopped after we lost Dan .” She paused again, then took a deep breath. “There. I said it.”
    Erik licked his lips and swallowed uneasily, not knowing what to say.
    â€œDid your mother tell you about your uncle Dan?” Oma asked.
    He nodded. Quill, maybe sensing the tension in the room, came over and placed her head in his lap. He stroked her ears as Oma continued.
    â€œAfter we got the news about Dan, I had two accidents in the car in one week. I couldn’t even say how they happened. I don’t know where my mind was. I haven’t trusted myself to drive since then. And now it’s been so long, thirty-four years, I can scarcely believe it…” Her voice trailed off.
    She looked so small right then, and so forlorn, Erik hurried to say, “I don’t think you’re silly, Oma.”
    â€œThank you, Erik.” She smiled wanly and added, “I expect Big Darrell does.”
    Erik wanted to tell her he didn’t care what Big Darrell thought, but he kept silent. Big Darrell was her husband, after all. And Erik kept having the feeling there were things happening that he didn’t understand.
    â€œIt felt good to say Dan’s name out loud just now,” Oma said. “I say it all the time in my prayers, of course. But Big Darrell doesn’t like me to talk about Dan.” Her voice low, she added, “He stopped going to church after Dan died. He doesn’t pray. He says—he says the God who allowed his son to die is dead to him.” She looked at Erik with eyes full of sorrow, and whispered, “Poor Darrell.”
    This confused Erik even further. Poor Darrell? he thought. Was she crazy? To hide his discomfort, he got up and took his empty plate to the sink to wash it, and was relieved when Oma said she was going upstairs to get dressed for church.
    Erik took Quill outside, unable to sit in that sad kitchen for one more moment. Angrily, he picked up a stick and threw it as hard as he could. Quill chased it, picked it up, ran back to his side, and sat. When Erik held out his hand, she very gently opened her mouth and allowed him to take it.
    A wave of affection and regret swept through Erik, and he dropped to his knees to hold Quill’s smooth ears and put his face to hers. How could he stand to give her up?
    Oma’s friend pulled into the driveway, and Oma came outside dressed for church. “There’s a coffee hour after the service,” she told Erik, “and I’m on the cleanup committee afterwards. Then Rosemary and I have more decorating to do for the Harvest Festival. So I’ll be gone until, oh, about two o’clock or so. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
    â€œI’ll be fine,” Erik told her.
    She looked as if she might be about to say more. Then she gave her head a quick little shake and said, “Okay, then. I’ll see you after church.”
    She waved as the car pulled away, and Erik waved back halfheartedly.
    As if to remind him of what they were supposed to be doing, Quill threw the stick for herself by tossing her head to send it flying. Erik could have sworn she grinned at him before she ran after it.
    It was almost impossible to remain grouchy when Quill was so rambunctious and cheerful, but the reality of