Ida did it again this afternoon, relating the birth story and the naming of her girls to a pleasant-looking young man in overalls, who leaned against the porch post and looked as if he had all the time in the world. In fact, he made Ida feel that everything she said was of great interest to him.

When June rolled into her mother’s driveway and stopped her car, the man removed his cap and nodded in her direction. She was dropping off groceries, as she did every week, and the stranger took the steps two at a time and offered to carry the bags.

“I can manage quite well,” June said.

“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.” His eyes were clear and brown and disarmingly friendly.

“Who are you?” June asked.

“Ray Wilson,” he replied. “I’ve been working in the neighborhood over there.” He waved his hand in the direction of Elk Road or Loring Valley, but offered no further information about the job he had been working on, for whom, or why he was leaning so casually against a post on her mother’s porch.

Brushing him aside, June settled one bag snuggly in the crook of each arm and climbed the stairs. He was ahead of her and held the front door open. Two empty glasses on the table by Ida’s chair indicated to June that Ida had offered the man a drink of iced tea. Ida kept a pitcher of tea ready at hand in the fridge, a habit dating back to the days when her children were in and out of the house. She had encouraged them to drink tea rather than Cokes, without realizing that tea had caffeine just as Cokes did. With all the sugar Ida used to sweeten the tea, Cokes would have served as well.

“Cokes got too much of that there caffeine,” she’d say, shaking her head, her eyes serious.

“Well,” Ray said to Ida, once June was out of earshot, “you made the right decision to get these things fixed. I’ll be back tomorrow morning and get that driveway done for you.”

“I’ll be watching out for you,” Ida said.

Ray bowed slightly, sauntered down the steps, hands shoved deep in his overall pockets, and strode away from the house, Ida’s home for thirty-two years.

June rejoined her mother on the porch. “What was he saying to you?”

“Nothing. We was just chatting about things.”

“What things?”

“Now, don’t you question me like I was a child, girl. I wasn’t born yesterday. Get on home. It’s past five, and your husband’s waiting on his supper.”