It was my turn to say something, but every reply that came to mind had nothing to do with my mission.

“Um,” I said and then cleared my throat.

Craig’s mother’s features were of natural, and maybe even a little careless, feminine perfection. Only the slightest details indicated her age. She sipped her coffee and watched me with dark, dark eyes that had a glittering of yellow at their centers.

“Do you need an opener?” she asked.

“What?”

“For the bottle.”

“Um, sure . . . I’m here about Craig.”

The use of her son’s name muted the smile and caused her forward shoulder to shift from left to right, approximating the flow of a wave. This image reminded me of the Ben Hai River, which made a hero out of a malingerer and nearly cost a good soldier his life.

She handed me a bottle opener and said, “Yes. He told me you’d be calling.”

“Do you have any idea why?” I popped the top of my Hamm’s beer.

“I was a stripper in Lexington, Kentucky, when I met George Kilian,” she replied, as if this was an answer to my question. “He was helpless, wanted to save me.” She pursed her lips, looking into the paper cup like it contained something precious, but flawed. “I took pity on him.”

She smiled again and I understood that she was performing and I would have to wait for the recital to run its course.

“No one, man or woman, should ever start a thing with someone they feel pity for, Mr. Rawlins; leaves a bad taste.

“I woke up with that bitterness in my mouth for seven months and then I left Kentucky with the clothes on my back, my natural talents, and a baby in my belly. The only thing I ever got out of that whole affair was Craig.”

“So maybe old George was worth it,” I observed.

Lola considered my words but deigned not to comment.

“When Craig was still little I stripped for our daily bread. I even turned tricks for the right attitude and the right price. We stayed afloat but I never did learn how to deal with money. I think that’s why Craig thought he was joining the army. He figured he’d make enough to support me through the GI Bill.”

“That’s why he thought he joined?” I asked.

Smile completely gone, Lola studied the question. The realization slowly dawned that I was now a part of the old dance.

“I helped him make up his mind,” she said with guilt-ridden certainty. “Some men think that every word a woman says was his idea first.”

“Even your son?”

“Especially him. But I would have stopped him if I knew what war did to some people.” She leveled those yellow-jacket eyes at me, expecting . . . something.

“Why did Craig tell you that he wanted us to meet?”