“Look,” Loralee said, lifting Owen’s bottle to her lips. “You want to drink it when the Coke is ice-cold and the peanuts are still crunchy and salty. The first couple of sips are always the best.”
She closed her eyes as the cool, bubbly liquid hit her tongue, quickly followed by the hard, salty taste of peanuts. She was immediately taken back to summer afternoons sitting next to her mother on the cinder-block steps in front of their un-air-conditioned trailer, their faces sticky with sweat, the smell of dry mud and hot grass clinging to the metal sides of the trailer like bread crumbs on chicken.
It wasn’t a bad memory, but it made her sad for her mama, who never got to meet Owen or see Loralee living in an up-and-down house with a real yard and two nice cars in the attached garage.
She opened her eyes in time to see Merritt swigging her first sip, awkwardly holding the bottle as if she’d never drunk from anything besides a glass before. Her throat moved as she swallowed before lowering the bottle from her mouth.
“That wasn’t too bad,” Merritt said, leaving the impression that she would have smacked her lips if Loralee hadn’t been there.
“It’s a great afternoon snack, too—the Coke gives you the caffeine you need and the peanuts give you the fiber and protein. I had all the Delta pilots I worked with drinking it.”
At the mention of pilots, Merritt leaned over and placed her bottle on the nightstand before shoving the album off of her lap. “Thank you,” she said, sliding off the bed. “But I need to get back to work. Edith was a bit of a pack rat, so there’s a lot to get through. Gibbes is supposed to come back tomorrow to go through the rest of the house, but I haven’t even made it out of this bedroom.”
“I could help,” Loralee offered, trying to keep her voice neutral. Merritt didn’t like asking for help, and technically she wasn’t asking. But Merritt would look at it that way just the same.
After a short pause, Merritt said, “If you’re looking for something to do, there are a lot of boxes in the closet in your room that Gibbes said belong to him. If they’re too heavy, wait until he gets here to remove them. If they’re not, could you stack them in the hallway with the other boxes that are marked with his name? If there are any more with newspapers inside, just stack them on top of the one in the corner of your bedroom. We’ll take them to be recycled, but I’ll wait to make sure that’s all of it.” Merritt looked down at Loralee’s feet. “I found a stepladder in the pantry downstairs you can use. Just make sure you take off those shoes first.”
Loralee glanced at Merritt’s shoes, the worn house slippers she wore whenever she wasn’t wearing her sensible loafers, which didn’t even have tassels for decoration. “All right. I’ll just deliver Owen’s Coke and get started. And since you’re going to throw out those newspapers, is it okay if Owen keeps a few? He’s been reading them and has found a few articles he wants to hang on to.”
“Sure. He can keep them all if he wants.”
Loralee’s gaze fell on the open photo album Merritt had pushed off her lap, curious as to what had made her cry. They were photos of two boys in a small metal boat, both of them sandy haired and golden eyed, sitting with their arms slung around each other despite a great difference in height. She looked closer at the photo, recognizing the smaller boy. She’d always found it interesting how some people still looked like their baby pictures into adulthood, while others changed so much you could no longer see the child inside. She wondered whether that was intentional, whether you could bury that person you once were just as easily as you could pack your bags and move away.
“Is that your husband?” she asked, pointing to the taller boy.
For a moment Loralee thought Merritt wouldn’t answer. Finally she nodded. “Yes. These are mostly pictures of Cal and Gibbes. I found these albums in a box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d go through them before I gave them to Gibbes.” She reached over and shut the album, blocking the photos from view.
“I’m sure Gibbes wouldn’t mind if you took some of the photographs to be copied. Then you could frame them. . . .”
“No. I have enough photos.” She let her hand linger for a moment on the closed album. “I never knew this boy.” She met Loralee’s eyes. “It would be like having photos of Gibbes around the house. Or you.” She looked away, as if the words hadn’t belonged to her at all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”