She smiled wider. “He had a temper on him. All my men do. Roddy's got a fuse on him, too, though it takes a while to get it lit. He's a Mexican, but he's the best of the lot.”

She patted the T-shirt pocket that held the cigarette pack. “Sugar and bad tempers and cancer sticks. I really go for all the good things in life, huh?”

Her eyes watered again. She lit up.

“All the good things,” she said. “All the blessed good things.”

She kept the cigarette in her mouth, busied her hands by squeezing them together, letting go, repeating the motion. The lanyard lay on the grass, neglected.

“There's no room for your guilt,” I said.

She yanked the cigarette out of her mouth and stared at me. “What'd you say?”

“There's no room for your guilt. All the guilt belongs to Donald Dell. One hundred percent of it.”

She started to say something, but stopped.

I said, “No one else should carry that burden, Evelyn. Not Ruthanne for going with him that night, and certainly not you for the way you raised her. Junk food had nothing to do with what happened. Neither did anything but Donald Dell's impulses. It's his cross to bear now.”

Her eyes were on me, but wavering.

I said, “He's a bad guy, he does bad things, no one knows why. And now you're having to be a mom, all over again, when you weren't planning on it. And you're going to do it without complaining too much and you're going to do your best. No one's going to pay you or give you any credit, so at least give yourself some.”

“You talk sweet,” she said. “Telling me what I want to hear.” Wary, but not angry. “Sounds like you got a temper on you, too.”

“I talk straight. For my own sake—you're right about that. All of us do what we think's best for us. And I do like to make money—I went to school a long time to learn what I do. I'm worth a high fee, so I charge it. But I also like to sleep well at night.”

“Me, too. So what?” She smoked, coughed, ground out the cigarette with disgust. “Been a long time since I slept peacefully.”

“Takes time.”

“Yeah . . . how long?”

“I don't know, Evelyn.”

“Least you're honest.” Smile. “Maybe.”

“What about the girls?” I said. “How do they sleep?”

“Not good,” she said. “How could they? The little one wakes complaining she's hungry—which is a laugh, 'cause she eats all day, though you wouldn't know it to look at her, would you? I used to be like that, believe it or not.” Squeezing her thigh. “She gets up two, three times a night, wanting Hersheys and licorice and ice cream.”

“Does she ever get those things?”