Ha. Pammy-Putt. She’d almost forgotten they used to call her that. Pammy-Putt. With the pigtails. At the end of one pigtail a pink tie and at the end of the other a yellow. Because Pammy-Putt wanted it like that. Little Pammy-Putt, standing on the footstool, confidently directing the pigtailing. She hadn’t thought of that in—she could smell that kid’s head now. Sort of sweet. Cloverish. Where had that smell gone? Where had that confident little gal—­

Once Pammy-Putt came home from second grade asking what a laughingstock was. And what was a philanderer? Who’d said those things? Alma demanded. Who’d been telling those filthy lies? She’d had a few nips. So was forceful. Pammy wouldn’t cough up a name. So she’d had Pammy stand on one foot awhile. Then Pammy-Putt got her mouth good and scrubbed with soap for disobeying a direct—­

The church bells at St. Caspia’s rang once, twice, three times.

Now here came the rain. Perfect. Stupid Pammy. Eight blocks from home. Her knees were shot. What’s the plan, Pam? You carrying me? Pammy had a bad back. Pammy wasn’t carrying shit.

Some little hail thingies came bouncing up off the sidewalk.

Pretty.

Ouch. Not pretty.

Hey! Damn! What the—­

“Ma, we better run for it,” Pammy said.

Run? You run. I can’t, dummy, I haven’t run in—­

Then she was. Running. Kind of. Behind Pammy. God, the shuffling funny way they ran now. The hail stung her arms like wasps. Wasps coming straight down. A lemon-sized hail thingie smashed on the sidewalk in front of them like a sno-cone.

Holy crap, if that hit a person?

Pammy had her sweatshirt off now and was holding it up. Over Alma’s head. Lord, what a kid. Standing there in her bra, bare pink arms up. So her ma wouldn’t get zoinked. Hair full of the smaller-sized hail thingies, like the plastic beadlets on them old Catholic—­

She felt a rush of tenderness for Pammy.

Something clipped Pammy in the head and a red mini-divot appeared at her hairline. Pammy seemed stunned. Too stunned to move. A tree? By the Obernicks’. She pushed Pammy over by the tree. That was better. No, it wasn’t. The hail was cutting right down through the branches now. A shower of snapped branches crashed down on the Obernicks’ fence: one, two, threefourfive. Jesus, they had to get out of here. One more branch came down, caught her on the shoulder. Hey, that hurt, clown! Like the time Karl Metz had whacked her with that hammer.

Someone was calling her name.

From across the street.