'She just hated cold,' said Simon. 'Playing "Rather" in the evenings after supper – which would you rather be, blind or deaf; which would you rather die of, heat or cold -she chose heat any day. She had a twenty-pound comforter on her bed, middle of summer.'
'I already said to you -' James began.
'Well, I know,' said Simon, and he started walking faster then and whistling. He whistled off-key, and the tune was carried away by the wind.
When they reached their house, which stood slightly swaybacked by the road with its one painted side facing forward, James stopped to look in his mailbox. There was only a fertilizer ad, which he stuck in his hip pocket to throw away later. 'See what your mail is, why don't you,' he told Simon.
Simon was walking in small neat circles around the three mailboxes. He stuck out a hand toward the box with 'R.J. Pike' painted on it and flipped the door open, and then made another circle and came to a stop in front of the box to peer inside. 'Fertilizer ad,' he said. He pulled it out and dropped it on the roadside. 'Letter for Mama.' He pulled that out too, and dropped it on top of the first. 'She'll never read it.'
James picked the letter up and followed Simon along the dirt path to the house. Halfway through the yard the path split into three smaller ones, each leading to a separate door on the long front porch. Simon took the one on the far left, heading toward James's door, and James took the far right to deliver the Pikes' letter. The Pikes' part of the porch had a washing machine and an outgrown potty-chair and a collection of plants littering it; he had to watch his step. When he bent to slide the letter under the door he heard a scratching sound and a little yelp, and he stood up and called to Simon, 'Your dog wants out, all right?'
'All right.'
He opened the door and a very old, fat Chihuahua slid through, dancing nervously on stiff legs as if her feet hurt her. 'Okay, Nellie,' he said, and bent to pat her once and then stepped over her and continued down the porch. On his way he passed the Potter sisters' window and waved to Miss Faye, smiling and shaking his head to show her he couldn't come in. She was sitting behind closed glass, full face to the window and as close to it as she could get, and when James shook his head the corners of her mouth turned down and she slumped back in her chair. Neither she nor Miss Lucy could climb that hill to the funeral, and they were counting on James to tell them about it.
Simon was standing at James's door, his hands in his pockets. 'Why didn't you go on in?' James asked him, and Simon just shook his head.
'I reckoned I'd wait,' he said.
'Ansel'd let you in.'
'Well, anyway,' said Simon, and stood back to let James open the door for him.
The inside of the house was cool and dim. It had unvarnished wooden floorboards, with no rugs, and when Simon walked in he clicked his heels sharply against the wood the way he did when he was wearing his boots. Walking that way, swinging his thin legs in heavy, too-big strides, made him look younger, like a small child entering a dark room. And he didn't look to his left, although he knew James' brother would be on the couch where he always was.
'Ansel?' James said.
'Here I am.'
James closed the screen door behind him and looked toward the couch. Ansel was sitting there, with his back very straight and his feet on the floor. Usually he spent the day on his back (he had anemia, the kind that never got much better or much worse so long as he was careful), but today he had made a special effort to be up. He was wearing his Sunday black suit, and he had slicked his pale hair so tightly down with water that it was the same shape as the narrow bones of his head. Probably he had thought that was the least he could do for Janie Rose. When James came in Ansel didn't look in his direction; he was watching Simon. He waited until Simon finally turned around and faced him, and then he stood up and stooped toward him in what looked like a bow. 'I hope this day wasn't too hard on you,' he said formally, and then sat down and waited while Simon stood frowning at him.
'We got back before the others,' James said. 'I promised Simon lunch.'
'Oh. Well I doubt that he – Here, you want to sit down?'
He patted the couch where he sat, which meant that he was extending special privileges. Ordinarily he didn't like people sitting there. After a minute Simon shrugged and clicked his heels over to the couch, and Ansel moved aside to give him room.
'I haven't really talked to you since the, uh – It's been quite a few days. But I wanted to say -'
'I been busy,' said Simon.
'Well, sure you have,' Ansel said. 'I know that.' He was sitting forward now, placing the tips of his fingers together, gazing absently at the floor with those clear blue eyes of his. It made James nervous (Ansel had been known to get too serious at times like this) but before he could change the atmosphere any, Ansel had begun speaking again. 'Uh, I wanted to tell you,' he said, 'I been meaning to say to you -sheesh! James, will you close the door?'
James gave the inner door a push and it clicked shut.
'Too much wind,' Ansel said. 'Well. I been meaning to, um, give you my condolences, Simon. And tell you how sorry I am not to go to the funeral. James said I shouldn't, but you don't know how I -'
'You didn't miss much,' said Simon.
'What? Well, I just wish I could've come and paid my respects, so to speak. That's what I told James. But James said-'
Simon sat tight, his hands pressed between his knees and his eyes straight ahead. When James started into the kitchen Simon half stood, with that squinchy little frown on his face again, so James stopped and leaned back against the wall. He wasn't sure why; always before this it was Ansel that Simon followed, leaving James to Janie Rose. But now Simon sank back in his seat again, looking easier, and began kicking one foot lazily in the direction of the coffee table. Ansel rambled on, his speech growing more certain.
'I had never been so shocked by any news,' he said. 'I was saying to James. I said, "Why, she and Simon were over here not but a while ago," I said. "Why, think how Simon must feel."'
'I feel all right,' Simon said.
'I mean-'
'I feel all right.'
Ansel rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked over at James, and James straightened up from his position against the wall. 'Mainly he feels hungry,' he told Ansel. 'I promised him lunch.'
'Why, sure,' said Ansel. 'If he wants it. But I doubt he does. You hungry, Simon?'
'I'm starved,' Simon said.
'You going to eat?'
'I reckon I am.'
'I see,' said Ansel.
Simon stood up and came over to James. When he got to James's side he just stood there and waited, with his eyes straight ahead and his back to Ansel. 'We going to get that pizza?' he asked.
'Anything you want.'
. 'Pizza?' Ansel said, and Simon turned then and looked up at James.
'That's what I promised him,' James said.
'Why, Simon-'
'Hush,' said James. 'Now, Simon, we got three kinds of pizza mix out there. Sausage, and cheese, and something else. I forget. You go choose and then we'll cook it up. All right?'
'All right,' Simon said. He turned and looked back at Ansel, and then he went on into the kitchen. When he was gone, James came over and sat down beside Ansel.
'Listen,' he said.
Away from outsiders now, Ansel slumped back in his seat and let his shoulders sag. There were tired dark marks underneath his eyes; he hadn't slept well. 'You're on my couch,' he said automatically. 'Do I have to tell you, James? Sitting like that makes the springs go wrong.'
'Simon's folks are still on the hill,' said James. 'We've got to keep him here; I promised Joan he wouldn't sit in that house alone.'