She crossed the room and sat down on the bed and kissed him. Mary went out so he could have Lorraine to himself. Dad stared up at her for a long time. Lorraine’s eyes were wet and she took one of his Kleenexes and wiped at her eyes and cheeks.
Oh, Daddy.
Yeah. Ain’t it the goddamn hell.
She took his hand and held it. Are you in a lot of pain?
No. Not now.
You don’t have any pain?
I’m taking things for it. Otherwise I would. I was before. Well, you look good, he said.
Thank you.
How was your drive?
Okay. A lot of traffic but it was all going the other way, to the mountains.
How’s work?
It’s okay.
They let you off to come here.
They’d better, she said.
Yeah. He smiled. That’s right.
Can you sleep now, Daddy?
I can still sleep, that’s one thing. As long as Mom’s here. I didn’t sleep much when she was gone. They had her to the hospital. Did she tell you?
She told me.
She walked home. Did she tell you that too?
No.
She did. It was hotter than billy hell out there. I’m glad you’ve come. She’s all tired out. I’m afraid she might get down too far. I never wanted her to have to take care of me like this.
I know, Daddy.
Well. All right, then. You’re here now.
You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.
She kissed him again and went out to the kitchen. He looks so bad, Mom.
I know it, honey.
He’s gotten so thin. His color’s so bad.
He won’t eat. He isn’t hungry he says. He just fusses with it.
Sunday morning at the Community Church on Birch Street on the back page of the bulletin there was an announcement about Mary Lewis. It said she had been admitted to the Holt Memorial Hospital and had been released, and it said Dad Lewis was no better. The congregation was asked to continue their prayers for him. There was another brief notice that said Lorraine had come back home.
On Monday, Reverend Lyle and the two Johnson women came to the house to call on the Lewises in the afternoon, all of them within the same hour. Rob Lyle was a man in his late forties, new to town, a tall thin man with black hair and dark eyes. The Johnson women were longtime residents of Holt County. Willa Johnson was a widow with long white hair worn in a knot at the back of her head in that old way and she had thick glasses; and Alene, her unmarried daughter, was over sixty and had taken early retirement after teaching children for almost forty years in a little town on the Front Range, and was back home for the summer now and maybe longer. They lived east of Holt, a mile south off the highway on a county road in the sandhills.
Lyle was in the living room when they came to the house, sitting on the couch talking to Dad Lewis and Mary, and Lorraine had brought him a cup of black coffee and some cookies on a little china plate. Then the Johnsons came to the door and Lorraine got up and showed them in and Lyle stood up. They shook hands. Lorraine carried in a chair for herself and one for Alene from the dining room.
Well, Dad, how are you doing today? said Willa. Are you doing any better?
If I am I can’t tell it. I’m better to have my daughter home, I can say that.
Yes, it said in the church bulletin she was here. Willa turned to Lorraine. You couldn’t stay away now, could you.
Not after Mom was in the hospital.
It announced that too, how she was admitted to the hospital. It was the first we heard of it. You might have called us, Mary.
I didn’t want to bother you, Mary said. You wouldn’t of either, if it was you.
Well, Dad could have.
I’m glad he didn’t.
Lorraine’s here now, Dad said. That’s enough.
All right, I’m going to be quiet, then. I can tell when to keep my mouth shut.
You don’t have to be quiet. It’s not that, said Mary.
That would be the first time if she did, Alene said.
Oh now my daughter’s attacking me too.