THE MCPHERON BROTHERS STAYED WITH VICTORIA Roubideaux and the little girl throughout the afternoon and helped arrange their belongings in the rooms, then in the evening took them out to supper. Afterward they came back to the rented apartment. When they were parked in the lot behind the building they stood out on the pavement in the cool night air to say good-bye. The girl was crying a little again now. She stood up on her toes and kissed each of the old men on his weathered cheek and hugged them and thanked them for all they had done for her and her daughter, and they each in turn put their arms around her and patted her awkwardly on the back. They kissed the little girl. Then they stood back uncomfortably and could not think how to look at her or the child any longer, nor how to do much else except leave.
You make sure to call us, Raymond said.
I’ll call every week.
That’ll be good, Harold said. We’ll want to hear your news.
Then they drove home in the pickup. Heading east away from the mountains and the city, out onto the silent high plains spread out flat and dark under the bright myriad indifferent stars. It was late when they pulled into the drive and stopped in front of the house. They had scarcely spoken in two hours. The yardlight on the pole beside the garage had come on in their absence, casting dark purple shadows past the garage and the outbuildings and past the three stunted elm trees standing inside the hogfencing that surrounded the gray clapboard house.
In the kitchen Raymond poured milk into a pan on the stove and heated it and got down a box of crackers from the cupboard. They sat at the table under the overhead light and drank down the warm milk without a word. It was silent in the house. There was not even the sound of wind outside for them to hear.
I guess I might just as well go up to bed, Harold said. I’m not doing any good down here. He walked out of the kitchen and entered the bathroom and then came back. I guess you’ve decided to sit out here all night.
I’ll be up after a while, Raymond said.
Well, Harold said. All right then. He looked around. At the kitchen walls and the old enameled stove and through the door into the dining room where the yardlight fell in through the curtainless windows onto the walnut table. It feels empty already, don’t it.
Empty as hell, Raymond said.
I wonder what she’s doing now. I wonder if she’s all right.
I hope she’s sleeping. I hope her and that little girl are both sleeping. That’d be the best thing.
Yes, it would. Harold bent and peered out the kitchen window into the darkness north of the house, then stood erect. Well, I’m going up, he said. I can’t think what else I’m suppose to do.
I’ll be up shortly. I want to sit here a while.
Don’t fall asleep down here. You’ll be sorry for it tomorrow.
I know. I won’t. Go ahead on. I won’t be long.
Harold started out of the room but stopped at the door and turned back once more. You reckon it’s warm enough in that apartment of hers? I been trying to think. I can’t recollect a thing about the temperature in them rooms she rented.
It seemed like it was warm enough to me. When we was in there it did. If it wasn’t I guess we’d of noticed it.
You think it was too warm?
I don’t guess so. I reckon we’d of noticed that too. If it was.
I’m going to bed. It’s just goddamn quiet around here is all I got to say.
I’ll be up after a bit, Raymond said.
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