“Oh, I was scared when Joseph got shot, more scared than I ever been, and believe me, I’ve been pretty scared before. Once I was so scared, I didn’t sleep for three days. But this was worse.”

“What made you unscared?”

He turned toward her. She heard the cot springs squeak when he did. “You,” he said. “You made me feel that way.”

“Me?” she said. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know. You didn’t have to.”

Eighty-One
Newspapermen

When Coot awoke, Marigold’s hand was resting on his own. He could feel warmth coming from it. He didn’t want to move it. He wanted to hold it, wanted to place his hand atop hers and touch her soft skin.

He looked at her hand. And he remembered how red it had gotten when she’d touched Joseph earlier. It had looked red and raw. But here it was pale white and a little clammy. He had kept his left arm so still the circulation had been cut off and his limb had fallen asleep up to his elbow.

He let his eyes fall shut, but he was not asleep. He was lost in the rapture of hand holding. It was something teenagers experienced but he had never known.

The moment was short-lived. The sound of shoes startled him. When he opened his eyes, he saw shoes with hard heels making clicks on the jailhouse floor.

Coot sat up straight and saw four men in suits holding paper pastry boxes, paper bags, and tin thermoses.

“Thank God,” said Joseph, who was already awake. He pinched out his cigarette and wedged the butt behind his ear. “The food committee finally arrives. I’m starving myself half to death.”

But the men paid no attention to Joseph; they only whispered to each other. They set the pastry boxes down and scanned the cells with quick eyes.

“Over here,” said Joseph. “Let’s have that breakfast. I could eat an elephant, one leg at a time.”

“That must be her,” said one suit, pointing toward a sleeping Marigold.

“That must be the old man,” said another suit.

“Better move quick,” the suit said. “That sheriff’s a real jerk when he gets mad.”

“Hey,” said Joseph. “Pass that food this’a way, son.”

One suit walked toward Joseph and removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Are you the one?”

“The one?” said Joseph. “I’m the one who wants whatever’s in that box.”

“I’m with the Herald Tribune, sir. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Huh?”

“Was it true that you were dead for nearly an hour, sir? How did that feel?”

“Hey, what is this?” Joseph said. “I’ve already answered these questions with the sheriff. Now I’m hungry enough to eat your foot, son, and I ain’t talking without food.”

But there was no food. The men were opening the pastry boxes and removing cameras with flashbulbs attached to the fronts.