The boy pumped the ball and saw his man downfield. Just as he was about to throw, Jason jumped on his back and knocked him down fast and hard into the grass. The football flew free, two of the Wildcats chasing the spinning ball. A whole mess of boys falling on it, Caddy on her feet trying to see what the hell happened. She was yelling with excitement.

“Did Quinn ever hunt on the Hawkins land?” Maggie asked. “When we were kids?”

Caddy didn’t answer, watching the referees pulling the boys from the pile, looking down into the mess of arms and legs, trying to find the ball. She stood with her hand on her mouth.

“Did he?” Maggie asked.

The referee jumped up and pointed in the opposite direction. The Junior Wildcats had recovered. Jason pumped his fist and ran toward the sideline with the other boys, his coach reaching out and hugging him. The team exploding into celebration.

“Why don’t you ask Quinn?” Jean said. Always trying to be the damn peacemaker among them.

“I did,” Maggie said.

“And?” Caddy asked, taking a seat, looking back at the clock, as Jason grabbed some water on the sidelines, ready to head back into the game.

“He said he didn’t remember,” Maggie said. “He said he hunted all over the county.”

“That’s about right,” Jean said. “Fishing, hunting, his ass always on a four-wheeler, chasing rabbits and squirrels with Boom. He wasn’t happy unless he was sleeping under the stars, living like it was a hundred years ago.”

“And deer, too?” Maggie said.

“When the season was on.”

“Maybe on the Hawkins land?”

Caddy took a deep breath, feeling the blood rush to her face. She tried to recall a Bible verse that would slow down where she was headed. The most accessible being, Fools give full vent to their rage, but the wise bring calm in the end. Proverbs.

“Let’s just watch the game,” Jean said. “Y’all two just sit.”

As much as Caddy learned about herself, praying and teaching, helping others, she couldn’t hold some things back. She swallowed, trying to keep it down, trying to keep her eyes on a child she loved so much, but then saw Maggie turning with her mirrored sunglasses and waiting for an answer.

Caddy gritted her teeth. Damn this woman for asking such a question. “Quinn isn’t Rick Wilcox.”

Maggie didn’t respond, Caddy not really being able to see her face behind the sunglasses, and turned back to watch the game. As soon as she’d said it, she was sorry for bringing up Maggie’s sorry, two-bit ex-husband, playing basketball and writing cheesy country songs from his cell at Parchman. Maggie was damn lucky to have Quinn and should know it.

“OK,” Maggie said, standing. “I understand.”