“I think it’s a demon,” I said. “I mean, I think boll weevils only eat cotton.”

His laughter rolled over my body. “Thanks for calling me back. I didn’t think you would, really.”

“Well, here I am, but I don’t think I’m going to be much help.”

“Let me tell you what I’m doing and maybe it will make more sense.”

“Go ahead.”

“This exhibit is about the ten women who won Atlanta Woman of the Year during the 1960s. Your mother, of course, won this for all her philanthropic work, but in the old meeting minutes that I read, I believe what tipped things in her favor was her work with civil rights in 1961. I know she won the award in 1968, but it was partly because of her work in ’61. But no one seems to be able to tell me exactly what that is or was.”

“Huh?”

“Can you not hear me?”

“Hutch, are you sure you don’t have her mixed up with another woman? Mother never worked in the movement. Ever.”

He was silent long enough that I glanced at the phone to see if we were still connected. “Well, see, that’s the thing. She was, but she wouldn’t talk to me about it when I interviewed her. She said that one small summer had nothing to do with her Woman of the Year Award, but I think she’s wrong.”

“One small summer? I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, standing to pace the backyard.

“Damn,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need for apologies. But maybe if we just meet and talk, I could find some more information that might help. Some pictures?”

“Dad has all the pictures.”

“Yes,” he said.

The silence between us was filled with a million words, all mixed up and upside down and inside out. Sometimes there’s so much to say that nothing can be said.

“Well, nice to talk to you,” he said.

“You too, Hutch.”

I adored saying his name. I did. God help me, I did. When we hung up, I said it one more time.

But only one more time.

Later that evening, twilight—my favorite kind of light—fell across my backyard and I sat back on the lounge chair, talking to Lil on the phone.

“Mom, I swear I have no idea how she finds any of her clothes, they are all over the apartment. How does someone live like that?”

I laughed at my organized and precise daughter, who hangs her clothes by color and style. “Sweetness, I have no idea. But that’s what makes the world so interesting—everyone is different.”

“Ughhh, I like totally knew you were gonna say that. I swear I could have a conversation with you without you because I know what you’ll say.”