Chapter 18: The Couch

My sister's couch was brown corduroy, three inches too short, and I had slept on it as a girl.

She put a pillow on it that night and a blanket on top, and she did not ask me one question.

"Eat," she said instead.

The kitchen smelled of onions.

At seven the back door banged and six men from the yard came in, one after another, in sawdust boots.

One of them carried a pot of chili. One carried a bag of cornbread.

"We read the paper," the oldest said to me, and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Nobody here thinks you were bought," he said. "We just came to eat."

He sat down at the table, and the rest of them sat down too.

Milo climbed onto the oldest one's knee and explained the rabbit to him in detail.

My brother-in-law told me not to worry about the contracts, and my sister kicked him under the table, because I plainly was.

For one evening it was loud and crowded and warm.

At midnight I lay on the couch with my hand on my stomach and stared at the ceiling.

I missed his weight beside me, the heat of him through a T-shirt, and I was furious that I did.

At three in the morning Milo woke up burning.

I knew before I touched him.

His forehead was dry and very hot, and his breath came short.

"Mama," he whispered. "My legs hurt."

"I know, baby."

My sister was already in the hall with her keys.

At Eastbrook, the nurse took his temperature twice and didn't like it either time.

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