Eunice Zimmerman was her real name, Deena’s mother-in-law. She liked to tell the story over and over. How she was the youngest of six children, survived the Depression, grew up during World War II. Deena married Mrs. Z’s only son, who’d bought this old farmhouse thinking they could raise chickens and breed dogs and maybe have a kid or two of their own. They built a coop and bred a few huskies. But their only child died at eight months. Heart problem. Then Frank OD’d, and everyone agreed it was accidental. After that, Mrs. Z moved in, and they’ve lived together for the last couple years. Neither of them were city people, and they kept each other company.

I was raiding the fridge.

Mrs. Z, a large lady, waddled into the kitchen to see the baby. Taking her away from Deena, she wedged her spotted hands underneath the thing’s head and butt and lifted her up onto her fleshy shoulder. “Do you have a bottle, Dennis?” she said.

“In that blue bag.” I nodded toward the bag on the floor.

“Get your lazy ass over there and pick it up,” said Deena.

“I’m hungry,” I said as I picked up the bag and tossed it to Deena.

“Thanks a lot, asshole,” she scoffed as she dug in the bag for a bottle and formula.

“Welcome.” I pulled out some bread and salami from the fridge and made myself a couple sandwiches.

Mrs. Z had taken the baby back to her comfy chair in the living room. She sat there waiting for Deena to heat up the bottle and bring it to her. Talking to the baby, having an imaginary conversation, she said, “You do? . . . Oh, I see . . . What else? . . . Uh-huh . . .”

As soon as the bottle got into the kid’s mouth, the noise stopped, thank God. Deena put on her jacket and motioned for me to follow her outside for a smoke.

“We’ll be out on the porch, Z,” said Deena, closing the back door behind us.

We lit up and exhaled into the backyard. Acres of dark fields, the outline of the chicken coops, occasional barks from the dogs.

“I heard you sold some puppies,” I said.

“Just the runt.”

“Well, the waitress at the Blue Anchor is pretty happy about it.”

“Oh yeah? So you’re going around town talking about me? You in the market for a sled dog or what?” said Deena.

“No, she carded me and saw my name.”

“I changed mine back to Wilkins.”

“Makes sense,” I said. We smoked and let it sit.

“So what’s with the baby? Is that my early Christmas present, because it ain’t what I asked for,” she said with her hand on her hip.

“First of all, it’s not mine,” I said.

“Well, that’s good, because Ma would skin you alive if she knew you knocked up some girl,” said Deena.