(“Bet you a nickel she does it in the stall,” Por says.)

Dwight’s first ball hit one of the bottles and pushed it back but not over and my cousin Reid groaned in sympathy.

Like Portland and Avery, Reid Stephenson’s an attorney here in Dobbs, and like me, he’s not seeing anyone special these days, so I’d invited him to come along to the carnival tonight to even the numbers.

Dwight pessimistically gave the second ball a sidearm pitch almost level with his belt buckle and over went all the wooden milk bottles with a satisfying clatter.

Sylvia squealed with excitement, and when the concessionaire told her to take her pick of the big stuffed animals at the top of his canvas wall, she said, “Oooh, Dwight, honey, I can’t decide!”

She finally settled on a black-dotted white plush Dalmatian that would have been sticky with elephant ears and corn dogs by evening’s end if it were mine, but would probably arrive at her house as pristine as it began. The thing was the size of a real Dalmatian sitting up on its hind legs and just as cumbersome to carry. I figured Dwight would wind up with it on one of his broad shoulders as soon as Sylvia tired of cooing at it. She’d already decided it would be a perfect guard dog by the door of her bedroom.

“That’s right,” I said pleasantly. “It’s all white, isn’t it?”

I knew for a fact that it was. April and I had stopped by her rented townhouse one day back in July and it hadn’t been hard to get the fifty-cent tour.

(Okay, so I’m nosy, but Dwight’s like another brother and I wanted to see what he was letting himself in for.)

Sylvia’s bedroom reminded me of the inside of an eggshell. Carpet, curtains, rocking-chair cushion, and bed linens were white. Bed, chests, and chair were a pale oak. The coverlet and lampshades were ruffled white eyelet and the bed was piled thickly with white ruffled pillows of various sizes. April told her it was just lovely. I had trouble keeping a straight face and Por had whooped when I described it to her later.

“That was the bedroom my mother decorated for my twelfth birthday,” she said, laughing. “Poor Mama.”

(For her thirteenth birthday, while her mother was out, we striped the walls silver and midnight blue and screwed black bulbs into the dainty milk-glass lamps.)

“More to the point, poor Dwight,” I’d said, and we’d both laughed again, trying to imagine Dwight’s muscular six-foot-three body taking its pleasure amid fluffy white ruffles. Dwight? Who’d once described himself as looking like the Durham bull in a pea jacket? Imagination faltered.

“I’m sure it’ll look darling there,” Portland said with such wicked innocence that Dwight gave her a suspicious glance.

“What about you, Avery?” I said hastily. “Don’t you need to win a teddy bear for the baby?”

“Hey, I won us a goldfish. What else you want?” Avery asked, holding aloft a plastic bag. The bag held about a quart of water and a contused-looking little black-and-orange fish that he intended to add to his koi pond. It’d only cost him about four dollars to win the thing.