“Remember that song in there, ’bout how when love comes real strong, ain’t no right or wrong? That’s the truth, Ruth.” She leans forward, looks deeply into my eyes, then pulls back, laughing, slapping her knee. “Oh, yeah. What can you do, it get you by the throat and you pinned to the floor. You got no control.” And then, serious, “But it’s good. It’s good.

“Did you feel that way, Marvelous? About your husband?”

“Old Gerald?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my sweet Jesus. Yes, indeed.” She gets up, opens her refrigerator. “I got macaroni salad. I got hot dogs, too.”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.” And then I wait for her to feed me more.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, I go to a gas station pay phone to check my messages. Two. One from Rose’s doctor, increasing her daily dose of insulin. The other from Diann Briedenbach. I stand perfectly still, watching a well-dressed man pump gas into his car while he admires mine, and listening to Diann’s voice, which has gotten quite low. “Myra! This is Diann Briedenbach! Long time, huh? How are you? Listen, I’m calling because Chip told me about your offer to let me stay with you when I come to visit him. That’s so generous of you! I’d like to talk to you about a few things. Could you call me? Any time. Really, any time.” She leaves the number, but I don’t write it down. Messages can get lost. Power failures, for one thing. It’s a good thing I left the house earlier than usual this morning—she called just after I left.

Chip is waiting on the steps outside when I arrive to pick him up. He’s wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, blue jeans, and his navy-and-white kerchief. I pull up to the curb and he comes over, leans in my side, looks around in the proprietary way men do when they check out a car. “Nice machine!”

“It is.” Oh God, he’s wearing cologne. What can it mean?

“I didn’t notice it yesterday.”

“It was here.”

He walks around to his side, climbs in, slides the seat back. “Okay. Let’s drive to Venezuela.”

“Buckle your seat belt, first.”

“What if we could drive there. Would you?”

I look at him.

“I’m feeling like that guy on TV who had six months to live, remember that show? He looked healthy as hell, and he was running around, living till he died. I mean living till he died. Only he never died.”

“Right. I remember that show.”

“Of course, that guy didn’t have to eat forty pills a day and he didn’t have a cracked skull and he could remember things.”

I say nothing, shift.

“So. Are you ready to make pie?”

“The pie is done.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And I have the perfect plates to eat it on. Yellow and white.”