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A person could see through the entire house from the front door. She was as busy as a rat in a hen house back there; pots and pans clinked and clattered.

Lucius walked in quietly and set the two gallon pickle jar full of brewed, sweet tea on the last spot left on the table; the rest of the space had been filled up with the food he had sniffed moments before, smelling ever better now that he could also see it. The beans were perfect, the collards smelled like ambrosia, and along with her corn bread there was sweet slaw (a favorite of Lucius'), some left over macaroni and cheese pie that she had made just last Sunday, and a jar of Chow-Chow' relish that they both loved to load over their beans.

"Lawd, woman, you've been at it-haven't you?"

Myrtle set a big pot in the sink and turned around to look. Her expression seemed one of surprise at her own endeavors. Sure enough, there was food there to feed a busy Wednesday night down at the church. "Think I over did it this time?"

"Aw just save you from cookin' for the next few days, and you know I'll be around to help you put it away."

Myrtle giggled and then coughed a harsh ragged hack. She turned back to the sink and gathered herself before continuing. "I was countin' on just that," She said. "Let's have at it and get out on the porch Lawd but it's hot in here!"

The porch was cool; the night breeze, gentle. It rustled leaves that would begin to fall in a couple more weeks. The sound: like so much crinkling paper being handled by too many bony fingers.

On his fourth mouthful, Lucius noticed that Myrtle was hardly touching her own plate.

"What's wrong?"

"Not all that hungry I guess." Her voice sounded listful.

Lucius chewed another mouthful and held a hunk of corn bread to his lips.

"You feelin all right?"

Myrtle sighed. "I don't guess I am, gotta go to see Dr. Bond tomorrow."

Lucius washed down the corn bread with a couple of large swallows of tea. "I'll run you over there."

"I hate to be such a bother," she whined.

"No bother at all, Myrtle, you know that too."

Nearly twenty years had gone by now since Arby had died. For most all that time Lucius had driven Myrtle any place she needed to go, but she still felt the need to go through this charade, as if they had never established that he, at least, could drive and she would not. Myrtle recoiled at the very idea of driving; it terrified her; she would hardly look at the act of Lucius' driving when they rode together.

Once, months after Arby had passed, Lucius

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