The long lavender shadows of dusk creep across the ground in its absence. The first star of the night winks to life on the eastern horizon. And the crickets, who have been waiting patiently all day, begin their twilight refrain.
“Beautiful,” Maggie says breathlessly. “Why didn’t we ever do this when we were kids?”
“We thought it was for families and old folks.” I watch the three elderly women fold up their lawn chairs and head for the parking lot, eager, now that the show is over, to change into slippers and nightgowns and curl up with chamomile tea.
“Then we were idiots,” Maggie declares.
“No. Simply young and more interested in listening to music and taking on the world. Plus, back then we couldn’t have gotten Cash to sit still long enough to watch a sunset.”
We look at the man in question, only to find him fast asleep. His cheek rests atop his hands, his mouth is slack, and the wound on his forehead doesn’t look as angry in the softness of the gloaming.
“When he’s sleeping, I can almost tell myself no time has passed,” Maggie murmurs. “He could be eighteen again.”
She’s right. The pain that’s a constant in his eyes these days is masked. His eyelashes obscure the bruised-looking skin beneath his lower lids. And the lines that have been carved into his forehead are eased.
“It might be time we started”—I swallow and shift uneasily, hating that it’s come to this, hating that there’s not more I can do for him—“thinking ’bout an intervention. The doctors said drinking in moderation to take the edge off his pain is one thing, but drinking in excess is another. He’s drinking in excess all day, every day. If he’s allowed to keep it up, it’ll kill him and we’ll never know if the problem with his head could’ve been fixed or finally healed itself.”
For the first time all evening, she doesn’t look away from me after a few tense seconds. Instead, her gaze is steady as she nods sadly. “I think you’re right. But with his house unfinished and his dad’s trial coming up—”
“Barring any major setbacks,” I interrupt, “like me having to go on trial myself, the house should be done soon. So I’m thinking after…”
I don’t have to finish the sentence. The look that passes between us tells me we’re on the same page.
“For the record, you’re not going to go on trial,” she says. Then she proves she’s not as certain as she’d have me believe by tentatively asking, “Have you…uh…heard from Abelman?”
“Nope. Radio silence.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe not. Either way, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so I’m not gonna let myself worry.”
She sees through my bravado, but is too tenderhearted to contradict me. Instead, she mercifully turns the subject back to Cash. “We can do some research on rehabs. Maybe check into the costs and stuff. Do you know if the VA has any programs available?”
Before I can answer, Cash groans and rolls over. He stares up at us blearily. “Is it over?”
“The sun has up and gone to bed for the night,” I tell him. “Looks like you should do the same.”
He grumbles something unintelligible and reaches for me so I can haul him to his feet. I try not to notice how unsteady he is. And Ireallytry to ignore the kick of envy when Maggie winds her arm around his waist to help him back to the truck.
Once I’ve stowed the blanket and the picnic basket in Smurf’s bed, we pile inside. Cash switches on the radio, and the superlative pipes of Aretha Franklin burst through the speakers.
The whole way to Cash’s house, Aretha sings about standing by the railroad tracks waiting for her baby to come back to her on the “five oh three” train. I can’t help making the connection between Maggie and Cash. No railroad tracks and no train were involved. All the same, Maggie waited. For ten long years.
Once I pull up to the curb next to the cottage, Cash hops from the truck and swings back to us with a frown. “You two need to figure out your shit already,” he says, proving, despite his heavy slur, that he’s not so oblivious after all. “I’m getting tired of feeling like I have to walk on eggshells around you guys.”
Maggie looks shocked. “Wh-what are you…” She doesn’t finish, simply swallows noisily.
I try to read what’s in Cash’s head by studying his expression. But it’s oddly neutral even though he’s completely shitfaced. Then he slams the door and stumbles toward his stoop. After he disappears inside the house, I shake my head and put the truck in gear.
Maggie glares at me. “You told him, didn’t you?”
“No, ma’am. I did not.”
“Then what was all that about figuring out our…our…” She motions out the back window.
“I reckon the word you’re searching for isshit.”
“I’mserious,Luc.” Her tone is testy.
