Chapter 19: The Pouch

Dalton moved first.

He went down the steps two at a time with his hand out to take her arm.

"No," said Lucinda's mother.

She said it without heat, and he stopped.

"I'd like to climb them," she said. "I came all this way."

She took the porch steps one at a time, with her pouch against her chest.

Dalton and I stood at the top and did not help her.

It was the hardest thing I'd ever watched him do.

At the top she looked me over, from my scrubs to my hair tie, and her eyes filled.

"You're smaller than I thought," she said. "She made you sound like a storm."

"Please come in," I said. "There's soup."

She sat at our kitchen table with her coat still on.

Teddy put a bowl in front of her without a word.

Then, because he is Teddy, he added a spoon, a napkin and a sleeve of crackers.

She didn't touch any of it.

"I'm not going to stay long," she said. "My daughter is in Milwaukee, at a cousin's."

She folded her hands.

"She won't tell me what she did. I had to ask the lawyer."

Nobody spoke.

"She told me the loft was a gift from Mr. Cudahy's grandmother," she said. "For my heart."

Her voice thinned.

"I took it and I thanked her. I never once asked what it cost."

She looked at Dalton, who stood in the doorway with his hands at his sides.

"You were always kind to us. I didn't know you were never asked."

"Mrs.," he began.

"Let me finish, please. I've practiced it on the bus."

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