The lights go out before taps sounds. In the dark, I hear whimpering. Carole comes out of the cubicle and sits on Margie’s cot and strokes her forehead until I hear the sounds Margie makes in sleep. A short time later, there is a little sob, barely audible. Someone’s crying, Lord. It sounds like Sara, but that can’t be. I close my eyes and will myself not to join whoever it is. If I start crying, I’ll go on for hours and keep everyone awake.

Day Ten

Day Ten

Each ending is the beginning of a series of events that are not being described.

All morning I’ve wanted to tell Sara I’m not mad anymore, but there hasn’t been time. We started with a wild rush of packing. At breakfast, the lodge was even noisier than usual; I couldn’t possibly make myself heard over so many excited voices.

Now it’s quiet. She and I are parked side by side at the picnic table in front of the lodge. She’s reading the Sunday paper, again commandeered from Mr. Bob; I have nothing to do but wait. I start to speak, but now I realize that no one—including Sara—has any idea how angry I’ve been. So how can I explain not being mad now? I want to say something, but what do I say?

She speaks first. “When are they coming for you?”

“Pret-ty soon, I think. Dad al-ways makes us get up real ear-ly. What a-bout you?”

“I’ll have lunch here. I tell Grandmother to come late because I like seeing all the families, the vehicles, the hellos, the good-byes. She’ll come for me in a big blue Ford—an old-lady-mobile—and she’ll bring some teenaged black girl to do the lifting. I’ll stay with her till my mother gets back from Spain.”

She goes back to her paper. We sit together in friendly silence, and I decide there’s really no need to say anything. I watch the families arrive and try to guess who belongs to whom. It is interesting.

The bus from Butner has arrived, and the Butner people are being rounded up. The driver opens the back doors, and, with an aide, hoists Dolly, wheelchair and all, into the back compartment. The driver crawls around and gropes for belts to tie her up, and I think I see irritation move across his back. “Now I’ll FINALLY have time for my NOVELLA,” Dolly blabs, “Johnny CARSON … pretty risqué!” Aussie Robert tiptoes through the side door, dialing his phone. Mary follows him in and takes a seat, as tame today as yesterday she was wild: Mary, a little lamb. There are a half dozen others I’ve seen around. MRs. Aussies. Then last, I watch the aide park a wheelchair beside the front passenger seat.