“Your grandfather was respected. In an odd way though I think Mother commanded more respect even than him. Because she walked right up in the face of it. It was her built up the chicken-and-egg business. Time was, it was a regular little industry. Father now, he’d of been happy to continue on as ever before: a little of this and a little of that and it all comes out in the end with food on the table and no spare time. Mother though, was a businesswoman. She put money in the bank. And those same neighbors, they might not tell you what they think, but they respect someone hardworking and clear-headed. Myself, I never ran across any true meanness, except for rude men, and any woman comes across those time to time. After Mother died, it changed a little. There was a little more distance, a little greater gap that people left between themselves and us. Part of that was they did not understand it; we did not broadcast details. We retreated a little bit after that. But it was not shame. It was respect. For her. For whatever her reasons were, those we could understand and those we could not. Does that make sense to you?”

“It does.” Thinking of his own father.

She went on. “But what you should do, you want another view of these things, is go talk to Connie Clifford. That’s Father’s little sister. Her own sons was some of those that tormented your father as a boy. They’re grown men now with little ones of their own. She did not approve of what her boys were up to. But that does not mean she could stop them. Your great-aunt. She’s overstreet to Randolph village.

Evenings after supper he spent in the kitchen with Prudence; Abigail retreated to the parlor to read the paper. Prudence busy without pause throughout the day save but to pass him by with a tease or joke of some sort. It was only evenings when she would grow serious. Times, he felt he had to coax her, as if someway his being there was enough to satisfy her. As if she mistrusted too many words. As if she knew they might not clarify but only confuse what was most essential. Other times she was blunt and direct.

“Is there family,” she asked, “on your mother’s side?”

“She was out of French Canada. Her folks came down so her dad could work the quarry in Barre. He was killed in a accident there. Her mother died sometime after that, I guess. Some years later. So Mama was an orphan time she met Pop. She was a LeBaron. I’d guess there’s relatives somewhere up there in Quebec but I wouldn’t know where to look.”

Prudence nodded, said nothing. He could not tell if this answer pleased her or not. Perhaps, in the way it was for him, it was nothing more than information.