Kathleen moved onto the couch and put her arm around him.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, and tried some more tea. “We were together for thirteen years. When he died, he weighed exactly one hundred pounds.”
There was a heavy stillness as they all sat in their places. The fire broke and a log fell and the light redoubled against the curved edge of plates and glasses. Mason was deep in the couch beside Kathleen, and he found and lifted his wineglass half full. “Oh, a toast,” he said, “to Daniel and to the writer Jimmy Brand.”
“To Jimmy,” Frank raised his glass of beer.
In the soft light the teacups and the goblets rose, and the members of the party drank. The room had settled on Jimmy like a shawl.
“You want me to take you home?” Mason asked Jimmy.
“Somebody’s going to have to haul me,” Jimmy said.
“You can stay up here,” Larry said. “Camp in.”
“Absolutely,” Craig added. As he went to get up, he shifted the ottoman, and his knee hit one of the tiered plates, sending a shiver through the fragile architecture of dirty dishes. They all watched it rattle, shift, and settle, spoons rolling in every cup.
“Larry,” Jimmy said, “you and I are the lucky ones here. Because we’re the only ones whose mothers still wait up.” He handed his teacup to Kathleen. “I’ve got to go home.”
Sonny had been sitting on the floor against Frank’s knees. She climbed onto her knees and pointed at the clutter. “Shall we?”
Marci said, “Turn the music up, and let’s clear the table.”
In the immediate clatter, Mason turned to Jimmy and helped him up gradually. They held each other steady there, looking down on the jumbled coffee table, and then they just embraced, Mason’s arms around his neck. For Jimmy Brand it was like being on stilts far above the forbidden city. Whenever he moved these days, his blood took a minute to catch up.
Mason took his friend at both elbows. “You up?”
“Up.” Jimmy said. “Way up here.”
ELEVEN
At the Pronghorn
It was a road trip, and that’s what Craig called out when he finally shut the tailgate of his Cherokee. He was ready for the showdown, and there was a definite bounce in his step, had been all morning. “It is time for us to get out of town!” he called. He went over to Frank, who sat with Sonny in his idling Explorer and put his hand on his forehead by the driver-side window. “Do we know what we’re doing, Sonny?” he said. “Shouldn’t you have prevented this?” He didn’t wait for an answer but held up both hands to show he was done and ready, and he said, “Follow us.” His construction job with young Dr. Marchant had come through this week, and they had signed the contract. He was to build a large guesthouse, almost two thousand square feet, as well as remodel a kitchen and library in the main house. He’d even contracted the foundation work. It was top to bottom, and he was thrilled—the project he’d always wanted. At seven that morning Craig had ordered trusses and plywood and forty square Southwestern Rose tiles for the guesthouse roof. He was under way, and he’d periodically called out, “All right, Mama!” as they’d packed up. He came around the Cherokee as clouds pooled in charcoal banks over the gray town in the darkening afternoon. The forecast was snow, and the wind chittering through the bare scrub oak around the Ralstons’ drive had the scent of ice in it. The SUV was running, the heater on, and everyone was aboard: Marci, Mason, Kathleen, and Larry.
“It takes a hardy man to be whistling about roofing all winter,” Mason said when Craig climbed in into the driver’s seat.
“Not all winter. Two weeks, and we won’t have that privilege until spring. As you know, I’m looking for a nonunion crew. Do you lawyers have a union ?”