Chapter 15: What I Didn't Say

I kept it for eleven hours before it started to hurt.

The last hotel on the tour was a downtown Nashville suite with a view of the river.

It had the same kind of king bed we had learned to share.

Joanna came in at eight, took off her jacket, and set a bag of takeout on the table.

"I got the chicken place you like," she said. "The one with the hot oil."

"You remembered."

"You mentioned it twice in Louisville and once in your sleep."

I laughed, and then I stopped, because every ordinary kindness felt like a coin I hadn't earned.

We ate on the floor with the containers between us.

She told me about a call with the Texas sellers.

I told her about nothing, because I had spent the day in a church kitchen and could not say a word of it.

She was quiet for a while.

"You've been somewhere else since this morning," Joanna said.

"I'm right here."

"You're holding your fork like it owes you money."

I put the fork down.

"I'm tired," I said, and it was almost true.

She looked at me for a long moment, with the steady look that read balance sheets for a living.

Then she did not push.

She moved the cartons aside, took my hand, and said, "Come here."

I went.

She sat me on the edge of the bed and knelt on the carpet in front of me, which she had never done.

Then she began to unlace my brown boots.

"Joanna, you don't have to."

"I know I don't."

She pulled one boot off, then the other.

She held my foot in both hands for a second as if she'd forgotten what to do with it.

"I'm thirty-four years old," she said, "and I've never taken care of anyone."

"You take care of thirty-one radio stations."

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