“This is for you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek and placed an envelope in his hand. She stepped back.

Luther looked down at the envelope—simple, cream-colored, standard in every way. He saw his name in the center. Saw the Giddreauxs’ address below it. He recognized the lettering—the way it managed to be tight and looping at the same time. He recognized the postmark over the stamp: Tulsa, Okla. His hands shook.

He looked in Yvette’s eyes.

“What if it’s good-bye?” He felt his lips tighten hard against his teeth.

“No, no,” she said. “She already said good-bye, son. You said she’d closed her heart. Closed hearts don’t write letters to men who love them, Luther. They just don’t.”

Luther nodded, his head as shaky as the rest of him. He thought of Christmas night, of putting her name on the breeze.

“I—”

They watched him.

“I’m going to read it upstairs,” he said.

Yvette patted his hand. “Just promise me you won’t jump.”

Luther laughed, the sound coming out high, like something that had been popped. “I…I won’t, ma’am.”

As he climbed the stairs, terror struck him. Terror that Yvette was wrong, that plenty of women wrote to say good-bye. He thought of folding the letter and putting it into his pocket and not reading it for a while. Until he was stronger, say. But even as the thought occurred to him he knew he had a better chance of waking up white tomorrow than waking up with that envelope still sealed.

He stepped out onto the roof and stood with his head down for a moment. He didn’t pray, but he didn’t quite not-pray either. He kept his head lowered and closed his eyes and let his fear wash over him, his horror at being without her for life.

Please don’t hurt me, he thought, and opened the envelope carefully and just as carefully pulled out her letter. Please don’t. He held it between the thumb and index finger of each hand, letting the night breeze dry his eyes, and then he unfolded it:

Dear Luther,

It is cold here. I now wash laundry for folks that send it down from Detroit Avenue in big gray bags. It is a kindness I can thank Aunt Marta for since I know folks can get there laundry cleaned any old way. Aunt Marta and Uncle James have been my salvation and I know the Lord works through them. They said to tell you they wish you well—

Luther smiled, doubting all hell out of that.

—and hope you are all right. My belly is big. It is a boy Aunt Marta says for my belly points to the right. I feel this to. His feet are big and kicking. He will look like you he will need you to be his daddy. You have to find your way home.

Lila. Your wife.

Luther read it six more times before he could say for sure that he took a breath. No matter how many times he closed his eyes and opened them in hopes she had signed it “Love,” that word did not appear on the page.