Chapter 12: The Photograph

Abram stood up, brushing clover off his jeans.

He looked at me, and I nodded.

He walked back toward the house through the dusk, and he didn't look over his shoulder.

The grandmother and I stood in the Cortland row for a minute without speaking.

"I won't take long," she said. "I'm cold, and I'm not good at this."

"We can walk."

We walked down the row, her flashlight sweeping the grass.

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I asked him in front of a tent full of strangers. That was unkind."

"You asked a fair question."

"I asked it in public so he couldn't dodge."

"That's honest."

"It's cruel," she said. "I'm trying to be honest and not cruel, and I haven't managed it since March of last year."

Her voice was dry and steady.

Only her hand shook, on the light.

"I'm not here to tell you to leave him," she said. "I'm not here to tell you to stay."

"He deserves to be happy, and I want that for him."

"But?"

"But my granddaughter doesn't have a single photograph of her mother on a wall."

I stopped walking.

"I went into her bedroom yesterday," she said. "There's a bed, a lamp and a stuffed rabbit. There's nothing else."

"The boxes are still taped."

"I know. He told me he opened one last week. He told me you sat on the floor with him."

"I did."

"Thank you for that." She pressed her lips together. "Dessa asked me last night if her mother is allowed in the house."

My throat closed.

"She said, 'Dad doesn't put her up, so maybe he doesn't want to see her.'"

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