“What’d you name your baby, Marigold?”

“Maggie.”

“Maggie, that’s a good name. How’d you pick it?”

Marigold smiled. “Oh, it’s silly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard a song playing on a radio when I was a kid.”

“Really?”

“On my grandfather’s radio.”

It was a radio no bigger than a bread box. It sat on a ledge beside her grandfather’s bed. Marigold remembered the exact day she heard the song coming from the speaker through the open window. She remembered the way the tune of this mournful ballad stuck with her. The melody was simple and beautiful. Today, however, the thought of it only made her heart sore. Sometimes she felt so distant from Maggie. Other times an unexplainable feeling within her told her she could reach through the fabric of the universe and touch the child if she tried hard enough.

“Will you sing it for me?” said Helen.

“Oh, you don’t wanna hear me sing. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Please? We both wanna hear it.”

Her voice was not smooth, but shaky and unsure of itself. And she didn’t remember much more than the second verse. But she sang it. Helen closed her eyes and smiled when she did. “The green grove is gone from the hill, Maggie, where first the daisies sprung. The creakin’ old mill is still, Maggie, since you and I were young.”

When she finished, the room was filled with silence for a few minutes. And Marigold had a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Maggie,” said Helen. “I love that name.”

“Yeah,” said Marigold.

“What was your grandfather’s name?”

“Abraham Obadiah Butterfield, but everyone called him Abe.”

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

Helen pressed her nose against the baby’s forehead. “Then that’s what I’ll name him.”

Forty-Nine
Tracks to Nowhere

Coot followed train tracks in the dark. He stumbled forward, one foot before the other. He was singing. He didn’t know why. It was delirium, he knew that. But he had a memory that contained every song he’d ever heard. And tonight he was taking requests.

When he was a boy, he would sing for the revival workers until the sun came up. They would name a song to try to stump Coot. But they rarely ever did. He had a particular knack for song lyrics, even as a child.

The aching located in the center of his face had gotten worse. His nose felt broken, and his head throbbed so bad it felt like he was going to pass out. He wandered on railroad ties, wondering where he was and where he was going.

Nothing looked familiar. He felt unclear in his thoughts. Confused. Disoriented. Dazed. This place looked like the middle of nowhere.