“Animals live in the present, don’t they, Mal? They don’t worry about what’s to come. They can forget bad things quickly! Is that a skill, or just a matter of luck? Why aren’t we that way?”

“Oh, settle down,” Mal grumbled. “You never know where an animal’s been. Like a squirrel—they got an agenda, see, ’cause they’s only thinkin’ about themselfs.”

“But Mal, that’s how people are!”

“Heh!” the cook grinned saltily. “True.”

“I miss my dog!” Frances cried then, explaining to Mal how Missie had rather slipped away into the bushes of the backyard, and an altogether wild existence.

“Yull never see that dog again!” Mal shook his head. “Look at yerself—all alone now, an’ with that tumor!”

Frances dried her tears on the cord of an onion-bag. “Gosh, Mal, you’re like all the others in this town—mean! Mean and small and always thinking of catastrophes.”

“Naw, naw, I ’ent,” he said, smoking again, blowing luxuriantly. “No, Frances, I’m jes’ lookin’ out fer you, is all. Y’ don’ understand Mal, now, do you?”

A wave of distaste rolled through her. Munson folks, as a group, were opaque and rambling; they were aggressive, too, and perhaps fearful. Am I as afraid of the unknown as they? Frances wondered, restlessly pinching fingertips along her skirt-hem. She could not determine it, nor did she know if it was the idea of leaving Munson that disturbed her, or virtually any decisive act at all. The thought of a long bus trip certainly made her nervous, yet so did the idea of eating in Mal’s diner, with its possibility of bringing nausea or worse.

Would Frances Johnson find a way?

Mal extended a small key toward her face. “. . . It’s from me t’ you, Missy . . . so any ol’ time, go on down there to th’ cabin an’ relax.”

“You want me to use your forest cabin?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, Frances! We don’t use it anymore; I’m alt’gether too old. You use it! Go on out there. Get a ways outta town, so y’ can rest.”

“But your cabin isn’t far out of town, Mal, not at all. It’s one of those little cabins on the hill near the Hutchinson Dance Pavilion, isn’t it?”

“Well, yep . . . but y’ oughtta use it fer re-laxation, Frances. Why don’t y’ go there t’ ferget about yer dog? They’s a faucet there,” he said, pushing the diminutive key into her hand.

“Well, all right, Mal—thanks,” she said, puzzled, pocketing the key.

He waved her away and began splitting nuts on the board while Frances turned to Lucas. Lucas’ ears, she noticed, were stuffed with cotton, and he stared implacably at a rubber floor-mat. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked, pointing to the cotton.

“Aw,” Mal answered. “Don’t bother with him. He gits scared plums’ll grow in his ears, an’ he means t’ protec’ ’em. I never mind th’ boy comin’ over here. D’ y’ know his mother, Frances? Clover’s her name.” Mal spat into a can.