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handful of times
    during the course of a year, and talked briefly on the phone when she was
    trying to reach Craig. Nevertheless, he sat on the floor with this woman,
    trying his best to comfort her, not sure if he was doing it right. Unable to
    draw on anything in his past experience, he held on tight, hoping it was the
    right way for her sake.
    He was unsure how long they stayed this way. It was long enough that his
    entire shirt front was completely soaked, long enough that his back began to
    ache. She continued to cling to him, quietly weeping and rocking within his
    embrace. After a while he gently took her shoulders in his two hands and
    balanced her as best he could against the foyer wall.
    “Wait here,” he told her looking into her tear-reddened eyes. Her long,
    dark lashes, spiky from crying so long, clung together and looked like dark
    crowns over each eye. He got up slowly, every part of his body creaking
    from being confined in one spot for so long, and went down the hall. Clay
    stopped in one of the two bedrooms off the hall, which had baseball and
    football paraphernalia all over the walls, which had to be Tony’s room. He
    foraged under the bathroom sink in there and finally came up with half a box
    of Kleenex. Grabbing the tissue box, he rushed back down the hall toward
    Vi. Sitting down again, he put the box on her lap, pulled out several tissues
    and handed them to her.
    She lay against the wall where he’d left her, disjointed and limp as a wet
    towel, her tears now leaving a darkened trail over the front of her denim
    skirt. He moved her back away from the wall and gently put his right arm
    around her shoulders and rested her head against his shoulder once more.
    Deciding he would give her all the time in the world, if she needed it,
    Clayton laid his cheek against the top of her head and absently began to
    stroke her arm. Outside, the noise of cars passing by and the sprinkler
    reached his ears. In the front yard, the lawn sprinkler continued its
    monotonous task, saturating the same spot in a long, splattering sweep.
    After a time, she stirred, took in a ragged breath and sat up. Her face, wet
    and warm against his shoulder, stuck slightly because of their close contact.
    He looked at her and asked, “Mrs. Simpson, where are Tony and Janae?”
    Vi looked at him, then closed her eyes and whispered, “Oh, God.” Janae
    and Tony didn’t know about Craig, she thought. Vi’s first instinct was to put
    off telling them, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Ignoring the skirt she
    wore, Vi pulled her knees into an Indian style sitting position, propped her
    elbows on each leg and buried her head in her hands.
    29

    Gently removing her hands from her face, Clay held them and repeated his
    question.
    “Ja…Janae is in....Florida… with her friend Carol…”
    “And Tony?” He pressed her when she would have recovered her face.
    “He...he’s at the Washington’s house for the weekend, over on Maple
    Street.”
    “Someone will have to call them,” he said, stating the obvious.
    Again, she buried her face in her hands, as he made that statement.
    Clayton didn’t know what to do. Should he take charge? His brow furrowed
    in frustration, it wasn’t his place to take charge here. Then, thankfully, he
    remembered Mrs. Simpson’s sister worked at her hair salon. He released her
    and rose so that he was facing her on bended knee.
    “I’m going to call your sister. Is she working today?”
    His words caused a wave of momentary trepidation, which she dismissed
    instantly. Instead of voicing her feelings she simply nodded her head
    slightly. Kneeling in front of her, he looked down on her bowed head, a neat,
    curly crop of light auburn hair with copper highlights. “I’m going to call her
    so she can be here for you, okay?” he told her.
    Suddenly raising her head, she looked up at him and began to rise. “It’s
    okay, I’ll call her.”
    Using his strong arms as an anchor, she pulled herself