Another night, I described my childhood kitchen.
Buttercup-yellow walls. White cabinets. A window over the sink where you could see the pecan trees.
Strangely, he asked about those colors several more times.
Once he asked if it was more butter or more cup.
I laughed at him.
He wrote something on a napkin.
But Gene never once invited me to his house.
“It’s not ready for visitors yet, Nance. Give me until Christmas.”
Then I started noticing sawdust on his trousers.
Yellow paint under his fingernails.
A bandage on his thumb one Sunday, a splinter he wouldn’t let me look at.
Whenever I asked, he just smiled.
“Just fixing a few things.”
My son Kyle wasn’t convinced.
After Ray’s d*ath, Kyle had taken over my online banking, saying he wanted to protect me from scams.
He set up the app. He changed the passwords.
“Just tell me what you need, Mama, and I’ll handle it.”
