“Hello,” I hear Loretta’s little voice say. She sound tired, and I can tell it ain’t ’cause I woke her up.

“Loretta, this Cecil. Have something happened to Viola?”

When she don’t say nothing, that’s how I know. “Where is she?”

“At Sunrise. They said she didn’t help them this time, Cecil.”

“What you mean?”

“The paramedics said they’d been out here before and Vy always did what they asked her to, but this time, they said, she didn’t help them. That she didn’t fight that hard.”

“She didn’t fight that hard,” I say, and right then is when I feel my whole body sink in this chair and drop over this desk. I wanna sit up straight and talk to Loretta, I do, but I can’t find the strength. I wonder if this is how Viola felt. Like she wanted to, but couldn’t. This my wife she talking about. My wife of almost thirty-nine years. The woman who had my babies. The woman who raised ’em. The woman who tried to help me to be a better man but I was just too damn hardheaded and too lazy and, later on, just too proud to listen. Didn’t wanna admit that she knew what was best for me, when I knew all along she did. This is the same woman who snatched my heart right out my chest and put it on top a hers and then pressed down hard. So hard it felt soft. I loved Viola more than she ever knew. But I never knew how to show a woman how much you loved her. Nobody ever showed me how to be tender. Nobody ever taught me how to relax, and then, just surrender. Is it too late to ask, “How you do that, Vy?” I wanted to take you to Paris, but back then we didn’t have no France money, and later on, when we did get a few extra dollars, we had kids and then a house note and then the Shacks, and nobody had no time to do nothing but work. I’m so sorry, Vy. I didn’t mean to mess up all your dreams. I swear, I didn’t.

“Cecil?” Loretta say.

“I shouldn’ta never sent them papers over there yesterday. This is all my fault!”

“Hold it! It is not your fault. As a matter of fact, she signed them and they’re in the mail. Cecil, can I tell you something, even though I know this isn’t the best time?”

I wipe my nose and eyes on my sleeve. “Go ’head.”

“Viola loved you. I don’t have to tell you that. But she also told me that she was glad you left.”

“What?”

“She said you needed to be with somebody who could still appreciate you, because she couldn’t.”

“But she used to, Loretta. She did.”

“Cecil, when women get older, sometimes our minds and bodies and hearts go through all kinds of stressful and even traumatic changes and we are not our old selves, and it hurts when we don’t know how to get our old selves back. We look around and everything’s changed. Our kids are grown and don’t need us anymore—at least they don’t think they do. Our bodies are old and look nothing like we think they should. And in some ways all these things make you feel a sense of hopelessness, a sense of loss on top of loss, and you don’t even know you’re grieving, but we are indeed grieving. I’ve been doing it for quite some time. And your wife: your outspoken, bigmouthed, cuss-like-a-goddamn-sailor of a wife, Viola Price, who was my best friend, helped bring me back to life after Robert died. We were going on a cruise next week, and, Cecil, I know you’re hurting, but I’m going to miss her something fierce, too.”