“He’s...” My throat froze, like the pipe under the house last winter—a pipe not properly insulated, because hard freezes were so rare in Louisiana that no one anticipates them. I drew a breath and started again. “He’s my friend.”
Joe’s throat worked as he swallowed.
I held her close, stroking her back. “Joe, this is Rebecca. Becky, this is Mr. Joe.”
“How’d you do,” she said solemnly, extending her hand.
Charlie had taught her how to do that. He’d wanted her to make a good impression when I brought her to the lumberyard, to be able to greet people respectfully.
Joe took her hand and let her guide his in three up-and-down pumps. “Very nice to meet you,” he said, inclining his head in a slight bow.
“Do you work at Daddy’s store?”
My eyes filled with tears. I blinked them back. “No, honey. Mr. Joe is a pilot. He flies airplanes.”
“Up in de sky?”
“Yes.”
“How do you get up dere?”
“The plane goes really fast, and air presses under the wings, and it makes it go up in the air.”
She thought about this a moment. “If I run really fas’ with my arms out, will I go up?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Good.”
He burst into laughter, and she smiled back at him. I found myself looking at the same rounded cheeks, the same inset dimple on both faces.
“Can you take me and Mommy flying?”
“I’ve already taken your mom.”
“Daddy, too?”
He looked at me. Fear, cold and clammy, raced through me. “Joe hasn’t met your daddy, honey,” I said quickly.
“Oh.” She tilted her head as she looked at Joe. “Are you somebody’s daddy?”
“Yes,” he said.
“A boy or a girl?”
“A girl.” I could tell he was having a hard time controlling his emotions. “Just about your age.”
Tension vibrated like a crystal glass about to shatter. I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Let’s go get a snack, shall we?” I carried Becky to the kitchen, set her down in a chair, and turned to the sink. Joe followed me, standing in the doorway. I stared out the window, needing a few moments to compose myself. I washed an apple and cut it into slices, then set it in front of her, along with a glass of water.
She looked at Joe. “Would you like something to dwink? Mommy fo’got her manners.”
I had chastised her just yesterday for asking for something to drink without first offering a beverage to her visiting friend.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Your mommy’s manners are just fine.”
“I have a dwink, and you don’t.”
“Can I—can I get you something?” I asked him.
