Every night around nine-thirty or ten, those kids would get called in, one by one. Mothers would lean around screen doors and call out names, or a brother or sister might come and round someone up. I knew the first ones called were full of resentment. But they needn’t have been. Nothing ever happened after they left anyway. Things just sort of ended in a slow motion way, like petals falling off a flower. You couldn’t have people leave like that and have anything good happen afterward. Whoever was left couldn’t pay much attention to anything other than waiting for their turn to get called in. So it wasn’t so bad to go first, to head back toward those deep yellow lights and beds made up with summer linens. It was much better than being last, when you would be left standing there alone, finally going in without anybody calling you.

• • •

On Monday, I visit Rose, Ann Peters, and Fitz Walters. Then I go to a convenience store for a tuna sandwich. I eat half of it, then use the pay phone there to call my agency and tell them that as of tomorrow, I’ll be taking an indefinite amount of time off. I tell them that they can take DeWitt off my patient list; this will be the last visit he’ll need. Then I call DeWitt.

He answers on the first ring, and seems surprised to hear me. But he doesn’t start screaming about how I’m calling at the wrong time. Rather, he is extremely cordial. “Yeah, you can come on by now,” he says. “I was just about to make lunch, you can have some with me.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I just ate.”

“You ain’t ate this,” he says. “What I got here’ll put hair on your chest. Well, maybe you rather have it on your head. But I made me some DeWitt’s Chili. It’s three alarm, baby. It’s five star, too. After you do my dressing, we’ll have some.”

“Twenty mintues,” I say, and throw the other half of my sandwich in the trash. I’ve got a feeling DeWitt’s a good cook. And even if he’s not, I’m going to tell him he is. I need a favor.

Chapter 21

This here bring that cook at the Four Seasons to his knees, right?” DeWitt loads up another bowlful of chili for me.

“It is good,” I say. “Where’d you get the recipe?”

“I made it up. First thing you got to do if you want to cook right is throw out the recipes, just listen to your own self. Them cookbooks is all wrote by pussies.” He fills another bowl for himself. “You want more cornbread, too?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suds?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

DeWitt puts the bowls on the kitchen table and pulls up a chair. “How’s Chip? How come he ain’t here?”