“Oh, yes, you would be a cussing and swearing,” she broke in. “Hit’s a sure sign that Satan has a holt of you, and it dont surprise me nary a bit. I’ve knowed it since you was borned. Your Uncle Dillon helped with the birthing of ye, and he set the evil eye on you. I knowed it from the way you sucked at my breast, the way you clutched, all greedy, and bit me and drawed the blood. I knowed it—”

I turned and walked out. Pricie stood in the front room with her arms across her chest and her face tight.

“Now you know what I go through,” she said.

“She aint kind to Pricie,” Talcott admitted. “Blames her for taking me away from Winco. But what am I supposed to do, put my own mother out in the street?”

“She could work in the clubhouse or take in washing,” Pricie said.

“Would you do that to your mommy?”

They argued without enthusiasm, for they had lots of practice and took no enjoyment from it. Talcott was miserable at Annadel, working as a janitor at the hotel. He wanted to move to another coalfield and go back in the mines. Pricie wouldn’t hear of leaving Blackberry Creek as long as Ermel and Annadel were alive.

Talcott’s four children were lined up on the couch, squirming and poking one another.

“Younguns, this here is your Uncle Rondal. You dont know him but he is one fine feller. He’s going to be around for a spell.”

“He got a gun?” the oldest boy, Brigham, asked.

“Hell, yes, he’s got a gun,” Talcott said. “What he does, he has to have a gun.”

“Can I see it?”

“Naw,” I said. “You aint got no business till you git older.”

“Daddy lets us.”

I looked at Talcott, who shrugged and smiled.

“That’s up to your daddy,” I said. “But I dont show nobody my gun. Hit’s a big secret. You understand?”

They all nodded gravely. They were the spitting image of the way we were at their age, with their sharp eyes and narrow noses, and I yearned for a moment to have children of my own. But the feeling passed.

I saw Carrie Bishop on the street the next day. Carrie Freeman, I guess I should say, although it was hard to think of her as married. She hadn’t changed. She is the kind of woman who won’t, until one day her hair turns white and you notice she is old.

She’d just left Doc Booker’s office when I saw her. She walked right past me, not even noticing who I was, with that intent look on her face.

I sang softly at the back of her white uniform.

“Weep no more my lady, oh weep no more today.”

She wheeled around.

“Hey, Kentucky,” I said. When I approached she took a step backward.