Chapter 31: The Porch Light

On Sunday morning, nobody called, nobody posted, and no truck came up the drive.

I stood at the stove in my father's kitchen and listened to it.

Dean sat at the table with a plate of eggs, and Birdie sat on the counter beside him swinging her good arm, with the horse in her lap.

Daisy was under the table with the kitten.

"Hat," Dean said.

"What?"

"You've been flipping that same egg for five minutes."

I put down the spatula.

"I'm going home," I said.

Nobody moved.

Then Dean put his fork down and nodded slowly.

"Today?"

"Today. It's quiet. I said I'd pick the day, and I'm picking it."

"I'll be here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. This is Pa's place, and half of it's mine, and I'll be the one who finally fixes the roof."

"Half of it is Birdie's."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pulled him up out of the chair and held on to him.

He smelled of hay and coffee.

"Wednesdays and Sundays," I said into his shoulder. "The girls get both."

"You don't have to ask."

"I'm not asking. I'm telling."

Under the table, Daisy lifted her head.

"Where are we going?"

"Home, sweet pea."

"To Daddy's house?"

"To our house."

She thought about that.

"Can Birdie come?"

"On Wednesday," Birdie said from the counter, with great dignity. "And Sunday. I heard."

She hopped down and handed Daisy the kitten.

We loaded the truck in an hour.

I didn't take much.

The crib had stayed behind, and the toys had never left the ranch.

I took the quilt off my childhood bed, and a photograph of Pa, and Daisy's three candle stubs in an old jam jar.

I found them in the pocket of her pajama top, which was the only place she'd ever kept anything.

When we turned in at the Tillman gate it was nearly dark.

The porch light was on.

It was the only porch light on the road, and under it, in a row, stood a hundred light bulbs in their cardboard sleeves.

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