Andy’s eyes flick to the house, telling me Mattie’s mother, Lizzie, is inside and I’m not to go there. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“Mr. Erb…” I say his name, but all the words I so diligently rehearsed on the way over tangle in my throat. Instead, I shove the cat carrier at him. “I brought this,” I blurt. “For David.”
“What is it? I want to see!” The boy disentangles himself from his grandfather’s hands and bends to peer inside. “Grossdaddi! Sis kot! An orange one! Can I keep him?”
To the cat’s credit, he doesn’t hiss.
Erb stares at the cat as if he’s never seen one before. After a moment, he pulls a white kerchief from the pocket of his trousers and wipes his eyes. “Is he a good mouser?” he asks.
“He’s the laziest cat I’ve ever owned,” I tell him. “He’s got an unpleasant personality. A mean streak, actually. He hisses. A lot. Sometimes he scratches. But he’s never bitten me. I suspect he never forgave me for having him neutered.”
The Amish man nods. “He sounds like a good cat.”
David lets out a squeal. “What’s his name?”
“I’ve been calling him Custer, but you can rename him if you like.”
“Hi there, Custer. Wei bischt du heit?” David peers into the carrier. “You have a nice pink nose.”
I kneel next to the boy. Setting both hands on his shoulders, I turn him to face me. “You promise to take good care of him? Make sure he has plenty of food and water at all times, right? Make sure he has shade in the summer and a warm place to curl up in winter?”
“Ja! We’re going to be best friends. I won’t be lonely anymore.”
I offer him the carrier, trying not to look at the cat. I’m not attached to him. Sure, he’s gotten me through some tough times; I’ll miss him. But I work too many hours to be a good owner to him. Besides, David needs him more than I do.
“Offer him some milk, David,” Mr. Erb says.
“Okay, Grossdaddi.” The boy looks into the carrier and eyes the cat. “You’re going to like the milk here, Custer.”
He starts to walk away, but I stop him with, “Hey.”
He grins at me and I bend to give him a quick, awkward hug. “Take care, sweetie.”
“I will.” But his attention is on the cat. “Come on, Custer.”
We watch him walk away. The silence that follows is thoughtful and somehow rings with a sense of finality. After a moment, Erb looks through the open door at the field beyond and sighs with the weariness of a beaten man. “We knew something was wrong with her.”
He says the words without looking at me, uncomfortably, and the pain I see on his face profound, as if he, as a parent, somehow failed.
I let the silence ride until he meets my gaze. “I didn’t,” I tell him. “I loved her. I spent a lot of time with her. And I didn’t know.”
The sound of a door slamming draws our attention. I turn to see Mattie’s mother coming down the steps of the back porch of the house, wiping her hands on a dish towel, looking our way.
Mr. Erb motions for me to leave. “Die zeit fer is nau.” Time to go now.
I want to embrace him, but I’m not sure it will be welcomed, so I don’t. Instead, I turn away and leave the barn. As I’m walking toward the Toyota, I glance over at Mattie’s mother. She’s standing at the foot of the steps, clutching the towel, her eyes on me, crying.
The sight of her crushes something inside me. I fight tears as I get into the car and I drive away without looking back.
CHAPTER 26
It’s pouring rain by the time I arrive at Tomasetti’s farm. I’d hoped to do some fishing with him on the dock—catch dinner, maybe—drink a couple of beers, listen to the arrival of dusk. But I can’t complain about the rain since it’s been dry most of the summer and it matches my mood to a T.
I park behind his Tahoe and punch off the headlights. Grabbing the grocery bag off the passenger seat, I swing open the door and hightail it to the back porch. I’m soaked by the time I enter the kitchen, but I don’t mind. The rain feels good against my skin. Cleansing somehow. A new start. I keep a change of clothes in the bedroom closet, anyway. Jeans and a tee-shirt I’d brought for an overnight stay, but didn’t use.
The house smells of paint and freshly sawed wood. I’d expected to find Tomasetti in the kitchen, finishing up the cabinets that had been delivered the day before, but he’s not there. The radio sitting on the five-gallon bucket in the corner is on, the newscaster announcing flash flood warnings for all of Holmes, Warren, and Coshocton Counties until midnight. It crosses my mind that I should get back to Painters Mill in case Painters Creek floods and some dummy decides to drive through the water that sometimes rushes over Dog Leg Road. Then I remember I’m off duty and I put it out of my mind.
“Tomasetti?”
No answer.