They couldn’t bring me right away. They were out on some other call, I guess. And I didn’t think we had to have the expense of that anyhow. It’s going to cost too much as it is. They told me I had to wait but I didn’t want to. I wanted to get home.
Well, Jesus Christ, Dad said. You were in there because you got too worn out and now you walk home in the hot afternoon clear across town.
It’s not so hot out right now, she said.
What’s wrong with those people, letting you go like this.
They didn’t want to let me go. I just left. I wanted to make you some good supper.
He was staring at her. Well, by God, he said. If you keep this up, I’m going to die right now and not put it off any longer, just to keep you from doing this again.
She came across the room and stood in front of him, small and straight and old, and spoke slowly, directly. Don’t you say that to me. Don’t you say such a evil thing. Don’t you ever say it again. You don’t have any right. Are you hearing me, Dad?
He looked away from her.
I mean it. I won’t have it. You’re going to break my heart yet, you damned old man. I believe you will. But you can’t say something like that. Now what would you like for supper? I don’t remember what we even have in this house for sure.
I don’t know. It doesn’t matter to me.
I want to fix you something nice.
She bent forward and kissed him on the head and wrapped her arm around his shoulders and raised up his old age-spotted hand affectionately and held it to her cheek for a long time.
I’m going out to the kitchen, she said. It seems like I was gone for three weeks instead of three days.
After supper, after she had washed the dishes and had put Dad to bed, she called Lorraine in Denver. I think it’s time to come home now, dear. If you can.
Is Daddy worse?
Yes. I wasn’t going to tell you yet.
Tell me what?
The doctor said he only has about a month more.
Mom, when did you find this out?
Last Friday.
Why didn’t you call me?
Oh honey, I’m trying to get used to it myself. I can’t talk about it yet. She started to cry.
Mom.
I was in the hospital too, she said. You might as well know that too.
What’s this now?
They took me to the hospital a few days ago.
Why? What was wrong?
I was just too worn down, they said. I fainted on the floor, right here in the living room.
Jesus, Mom, are you okay?
Yes, I am. But I’d appreciate it if you could arrange to help out here a little. I had Berta May come over, but that’s not right. You’re our daughter.
I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll have to tell them at the office. But I’ll be there.
That’ll be good. Now I didn’t ask you—are you all right yourself, dear?
Yes.
And Richard?
He’s all right. Richard doesn’t change.
Well.
I know. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
The next day Lorraine drove into Holt on Highway 34 after the sun had already gone down and the blue street lamps had come on at the corners. It was all familiar to her. She turned north off the highway and drove along past the quiet night-lighted houses set back behind the front yards, some of the yards bare of trees or bushes next to vacant lots filled with weeds—tall sunflowers and redroot and pigweed—and then there was Berta May’s house which had been there when she was a child, and then their own white house. She got out and went up to the porch, a pretty woman in her mid-fifties with dark hair. The air was cool and smelled fresh of the country in the evening out on the high plains.
In the house Dad was already in bed and she went with her mother back to the bedroom.
Is he asleep already? It’s only eight thirty.
I don’t know if he’s actually sleeping. He goes to bed early. He always did. You know how he does.
They stood in the doorway. He was lying in the bed with the window open and the sheet drawn over him. He opened his eyes. Is that my daughter? he said.
It’s me, Daddy.
Come over here so I can see you.