Abe walked beside Marigold through the maze of straight pines. The sunlight filtered through the thick branches overhead. He was whistling, but unsuccessfully. She’d been trying to teach Abe how to whistle all day. She regretted this because the shrill sound of wind passing through his fat lips was about to drive her to an early death.

Whenever he landed on what sounded like actual whistling, he’d get so excited he’d say, “Did you hear that, Aunt Marigold? I’m whistling, ain’t I?”

“Yep, I was listening,” she’d say. “You’re getting better.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“Really? Wanna hear me whistle some more?”

“Maybe we should take a break from wh—”

More ear-piercing whistling.

She considered strapping the child to a tree using his suspenders and coming back for him after three days.

“Am I getting good?” Abe asked.

“You’re getting so good I can hardly stand it.”

And this was all Abe needed in the way of encouragement. He just needed to know his aunt was listening. That’s what Marigold was to him. An aunt. A second mother.

Abe carried the basket of wild blackberries, his face stained with purple smears. Between bites of berries, he whistled tunes that were not melodies at all but sounded more like a bird getting eaten alive by a house cat.

She stopped walking. She saw an old man waiting on the porch of Cowikee’s.

She remained still and looked at the man who was sweating through his white shirt. She knew he was waiting for her. She could tell it by the serious look on his face.

Abe whistled. “That’s enough whistling for today,” said Marigold.

As Marigold neared the railcar, she saw Rachel sitting on the edge of the porch with a shirtless young man. They held cigarettes between their fingers.

“Got someone here to see you,” said Rachel.

The old man on the porch stood when he saw Marigold.

He seemed uneasy. He approached her with his hand outward. He was dressed nicely. His weathered skin gave away his age.

“Afternoon, miss,” he said. “Name’s Marion. I come from Montgomery, originally I’s from Raleigh, but I come to Alabama when I was . . .”

She nodded and listened to his every word. People seemed to want to tell her about themselves before she touched them. And she always listened. Some people recited an entire dictionary to her before they told her why they were there.

Still, something in her felt that listening to people was more important than touching them. People, she thought, wandered through life feeling alone, lost, and terrified. Sometimes they just wanted to be heard.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, pumping the man’s hand. “What can I help you with, Mr. . . .”

“Marion,” he said. “Call me Marion.”

“Okay, Marion. What can I do for you?”

Abe whistled. “I can do it, Aunt Marigold!” said Abe. “Did you hear that? I can do it.”