“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to help Mom when it’s time for your sleep, Daddy?” I ask.

But he stares at me blankly. Yes? No? I don’t care? Daddy says nothing.

Mom feeds Daddy a tiny forkful of the butter beans and rice. For a moment I think I see a spark of pleasure in his eyes. She holds a Flintstones juice glass to his lips, and he takes a sip of a little red wine mixed with ginger ale.

He still doesn’t say a word.

Mom looks away. Her own eyes sparkle. I used to think she had a talent for holding back her tears. Now I see she has a different talent, a talent for making her eyes sparkle when the tears come.

Supper ends with the predictable, adorable, inevitable question from Willie.

“Hey, Grandma, how come Mom never makes a supper that tastes as good as yours?”

Hmmm. Visions of Lucky Pot must be dancing in his head.

“Well, you best ask your mom, but my guess would be that she’s working her backside off to earn a living so you can have the finer things in life,” says Mom.

Willie smiles. Then he says, “I think you might be right, Grandma.”

My mother laughs, then says, “You are a clever little faker, Willie boy.”

“It runs in the family,” I say.

“Well,” says Big Lucy, “I’ll take Harold to our room, and I’ll leave you all to the cleanup.”

“I’ll start,” says Willie as he pops up from his place. Then he looks over at his uncle Cabot, who has his eyes closed, sleeping like the anonymous passenger next to you on a long airplane trip.

“I see you lost Cabot already,” says my mother with a laugh as she wheels Daddy toward the little bedroom right off the kitchen.

I shake my head, and Willie says, “I’ll let Uncle Cab sleep. He’ll need all his energy for our big video game rematch.”

I take the platter of shredded pork shoulder into the kitchen. I know my mother will repurpose it once, if not twice, during the week. Tacos? Noodles, pork, and American cheese casserole? I spoon it into a Tupperware container.

Willie walks in with four glasses. He holds them cautiously with the fingers of his left hand. And he balances four dinner plates waiter-style on the inside of his right arm. Amazingly, he doesn’t drop anything.

“Let’s not try that again, buddy. Okay?”

“Don’t be a-scared, Mom. I’m good at this.”

“Did you just say ‘a-scared’?” I ask with a touch of mock shock. “You’ve been in Walkers Pasture less than one day and you’re talking like a West Virginian.”