Page 23 of Backtrack

“How’s my girl?”

His wife of over two decades sat at one end of their ancient sofa with an old popcorn tin of yarn on the cushion beside her. She wore a yellow cotton muumuu and thick socks. Chemotherapy had taken her golden hair, giving way to a terry-cloth turban, yellow to match her housedress.

Above her head on the wall was a framed needlepoint she’d done years before when their son, Bodie, was small. It paraphrased Michah 6:8—her credo, one of them, anyway.

Do Justice. Love Mercy. Walk Humbly.

She glanced up from her yarn. “Today was sure a scorcher. That old swamp cooler at the church is on its last legs. Pastor Tim got so worked up during his sermon, I thought he might die of heatstroke.”

“Hellfire in real time,” Cutter said.

In Texas, the weather and religion led many a conversation.

“He asked about you.”

“Nice of him,” Cutter said, leaving it at that. If you were explaining, you’d already lost the argument. He was way too tired to talk church.

Lucy looked at him for a long moment but didn’t press.

“You missedWild Kingdom,” she said. “I leftColumboplaying with the sound off for company. Couldn’t tell you who killed whom or why. Too much Sturm und Drang tonight for my blood.”

They’d lived in Germany for several years as young marrieds. Cutter could still communicate in the language, but Lucy was a natural. She read books in German and every so often sprinkled in some Deutsch when English “didn’t quite do.” Literallystormandstress, Lucy certainly had more than her share of Sturm und Drang in her life.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’d rather read than waste my brain cells on television, but this chemo plays thunder with my eyesight. I have to be content with crocheting and listening to the susurration of leaves sliding off the roof.”

“Susurration?”

“Like a whisper,” she said.

“I’ll have to write that one down,” Cutter said, smiling at her newest ten-dollar word. He watched as pale fingers worked on her newest project, a pair of baby socks.

“You can see to crochet?”

She smiled, too frail to laugh like she once had. “I can do this with my eyes closed.”

Cutter switched off the television and gave the yarn a nod. “Blue,” he said. “Bodie must have called.”

She coughed again.

“Our son wouldn’t mind hearing from you,” she said.

Cutter looked at the half-finished baby bootie. “You’d think he and Ursula would have figured out what causes that by now.”

Lucy stifled a chuckle. “I know what you mean, and I don’t disagree … but you still need to call him.”

“You’re right, of course. Time just slips away. …”

“That it does, my dear,” she said. “What’s that my daddy used to say,Life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.”

His heart fell. “Please don’t.”

She blew him a kiss. “Sorry. Anyway, Ursula had an ultrasound yesterday. Looks like we’re getting another grandson.”

“With any luck, he’ll take after his grandmother.”

“Or his grouchy grandpa.” Lucy went back to working on the booties. “I didn’t expect you until way late.”

He glanced at his wristwatch, a Vulcain Cricket she’d given him when they got married. “Eight thirtyisway late.”