Some Saturdays, she calls him Joe. Some Saturdays, she calls him Paul. Once, she called him Elvis and asked him to sing.
He sang.
And some Saturdays, maybe once a month, she looks at him and her eyes clear and she says, “Markie.”
He never corrects her. No matter what she calls him.
He just says, “I’m here.”
We went back to Kansas in June.
Ezoic
June 9. A Sunday. Two years after that night.
Ezoic
I’d been writing to Elmer. Little letters, every month. He wrote back in shaky handwriting on Prairie Rest Motel stationery. He told me about Jean. About the bad nights and the good mornings. About Gabby coming over every Sunday to wash Jean’s hair.
In April, he wrote me a different kind of letter.
Viv —
Jeannie passed on Tuesday night. In her sleep. In our bed. I was holding her hand.
She was singing at the end. Very quiet. You know what song.
