She’d brush her long black hair with my photograph in the lap of her flannel nightgown. She devoted hours to her diary, recording each night the fluctuating conditions of her heart and experimenting with her presumed name: “Julia Dalton,” and “Mrs. Julia Dalton,” and “Mr. and Mrs. Emmett Dalton,” with the afterthought, “(and sons).” Her perfumed letters to me would end in sweet complaint: “Why aren’t you here?” and “Will I never see you?” and “What can I promise to spur you homeward?”

It was nice to be revered and sought out but there was little in me to give back, and all I could muster in response to her was, “I sure do miss you. Love, Emmett.”

When I saw her again, the spell had worn off.

The gang congregated for the first time in a long time on a Thursday night in October, clomping up the wooden stairs to Miss Moore’s rented room. We were eager and loud and jovial and walked in like Christmas cheer, McElhanie carrying a brown bag of Congress Water and ginger pop and corked St. Louis Beer. Newcomb had some ears of sweet corn and he stoked the fireplace to roast them. Bryant sat down at the desk after his fashion, with his coat on and a brown wool scarf reaching up for his face. Newcomb opened the windows and the fire pulled the outside cool in and I played my mouth organ, announcing the songs before I commenced them. “Shenandoah,” I said. “Oh, Susannah.” “Shoo, Fly, Shoo.”

Miss Moore had been drawing in charcoal pencil on heavy rag paper a picture of fruits on a plate. Bob bent over it and so did the others. “Eugenia did that freehand,” he said. Bryant said, “I think you’ve captured it, Miss Moore.”

Bob sat down on the floor next to his woman, tugged off his boots, and wadded his socks inside. Eugenia wore a white nightgown and her nipples showed dark underneath. Bob told McElhanie to blow out the coal-oil lantern, which he did, needless to say, and the only light in the room was orange and thrown across our faces by the fire. “Auld Lang Syne,” I said.

Newcomb said, “You must have music in ya, Emmett, cuz I sure ain’t heard any come out yet.”

McElhanie snickered.

My brother draped his arm over the woman’s shoulder and put his hand upon her breast. She whispered to him, “That’s nice.”

The six of us drank beer and ate hot corn on the cob; then Bob licked his fingers and saw Bryant across the room. “How much money you got in your pockets?”

Bryant snuffed and tossed his corn cob out the raised window.

“What kind of shape you in, Bitter Creek?”

“I can’t even see the back of my neck.”

Bob turned to Eugenia. “Shall I tell them?”

“If you want.”