I drove back to the community center, the place where two decades earlier the pig picking had been held to help my family pay Ben’s hospital bills. Neighbors and friends had brought yellowware filled with cole slaw and baked beans and potato salad, gallon jars of sweet tea and homemade ice cream still in the churns. The women covered tables with food and drinks while Daddy and the other men huddled out back with Lou Henson as he basted the pig with a paintbrush.

I’d been inside with Aunt Margaret and the other women. They made a fuss over me, telling me how pretty I was and how much I’d grown. They were good women and they meant well, but it somehow made it all worse, being treated like I’d just been baptized or had a birthday and Ben still in the burn center in Columbia with only Momma there with him. I made my way out the back door, walking as fast as I could down the path to the creek, my hand over my nose and mouth to block out the smell of burning pig.

I sat by myself on the bank until Aunt Margaret came. Though she wore a dress she sat down beside me. “I know this is a hard time for you, girl,” Aunt Margaret had said. “But it’s going to get better.” It could have been five minutes or it could have been thirty, but Daddy came down to the creek as well. He carried two paper plates sagging with food. He handed us the plates and plastic forks and napkins, then went back to get our tea. He sat down beside me on the bank. “I reckon we’ve had about as much kindness as we can stand,” he’d said, as his left hand settled awkwardly on my shoulder.

It was not a convenient memory, because I couldn’t frame it neatly into the black-and-white photograph I’d made of my past.

WHEN I ENTERED THE COMMUNITY CENTER, ALLEN AND ONE other reporter remained with Luckadoo, Phillips, and the Kowalskys. A few river rats lingered at the back, looking lost without Luke.

“You all right?” Allen asked, as we drove back to the motel. “You looked upset when you first came back.”

“I’m fine now.”

“This problem between you and your father, is it something recent?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. Maybe some other time.” Allen’s right hand touched my arm. “We can talk of other things, though. Right?”

“Right,” I said.

At the motel Allen parked the car and turned off the ignition. Neither of us reached for the door latch.

“So what other things do you want to talk about tonight?” I asked.

Allen looked straight at me. “How about that I’m falling in love with you. That I want to be with you tonight, but I’m not sure that’s what you want.”