Honey, nothing’s changed since this morning. Maybe they will. I don’t know. I can’t speak for them.
Should I call them?
I’ll drive you out there. I think you should do this in person.
You haven’t told them I’m coming, have you? That I was coming back?
No. I leave that for you to do.
McPherons.
Once more, as on that other Sunday in the fall, she drove her out into the country seventeen miles south of Holt and the girl was frightened again as she was on that previous day, yet she looked at everything closely now as they passed along on the road because it had become familiar to her, and after twenty minutes they pulled up the track to the old country house off the county road and the car stopped at the wire gate. The girl sat for a long moment looking at the weathered house. Inside, the kitchen light came on. Then the porch light above the door and Raymond stepped out onto the little screened porch.
Go on, Maggie Jones said. You may as well find out.
I’m afraid what they’re going to say, the girl said.
They’re not going to say anything if you just sit here in the car.
She opened the door and got out, still looking at the house and at the old man standing on the porch. Then Harold appeared beside his brother. The two of them stood unmoving, watching her. She walked slowly, heavily up to the porch, leaning back a little to balance her weight. In the cool darkening evening she stopped at the bottom step to look up at them. The wind gusted up. The winter coat she wore was too tight now, it was unbuttoned over her stomach and the coatskirts flapped against her hips and thighs.
It’s me, she said. I’ve come back.
They looked at her. We can see that, one of them said.
She looked up at them. I’ve come back to ask you, she said . . . I wanted to ask if you’d let me come back here to live with you.
They watched her, the two old brothers in their work clothes, their iron gray hair short and stiff on their uncombed heads, the knees of their pants baggy. They said nothing.
She looked around. It all looks the same, she said. I’m glad of that. She turned back toward them once more. She waited, then went on: Anyway I wanted to thank you. For what you did for me. And I wanted to say I’m sorry for the trouble I caused. You were good to me.
The old brothers stood regarding her without speaking, without moving. It was as though they didn’t know her or didn’t want to remember what they knew about her. She couldn’t say what they were thinking. I hope you’re both well, she said. I won’t be bothering you anymore. She turned to go back to the car.
She was halfway to the gate when Harold spoke. We couldn’t have you leaving like that again, he said.
She stopped. She turned around to face them. I know, she said. I wouldn’t.
We wouldn’t want that again. Not ever.
No.
That has to be understood.
Yes, I understand. She stood and waited. The wind blew her coat.
Are you all right? Raymond said. Did they hurt you?
No. I’m all right.
Who’s that out in the car?
Mrs. Jones.
Is it?
Yes.
I thought it would be.
You better come in, Harold said. It’s cold out here, outside here in this weather.
Let me get my box, she said.
You come in, Harold said. We’ll get the box.
She approached the house and climbed up the steps and Raymond went out past her to the car. Maggie Jones got out and removed the box from the backseat and handed it over to him while Harold and the girl stood waiting on the porch.
Do you think she’s okay? Raymond said softly to Maggie.
I think so, she said. So far as I can tell. But are you sure you want to try this again?
That girl needs a place.
I know, but . . .