Marlene answered the door. She was a small, tired woman with gray-blonde hair and a worn gray cardigan. When she saw me, her face did something complicated.
“Karen,” she whispered. “He’s in the den.”
“Is he home?”
“He hasn’t left the house in a week.”
She led me through the kitchen. Dwayne sat in a leather recliner in front of a television that wasn’t on, a heavy, sandy-haired man in a flannel shirt, with Tom’s long jaw and none of Tom’s ease. He saw me in the doorway and went gray under the tan.“I’m not here to fight,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“I brought something.” I held up the envelope. “Can I sit?”
He gestured to the couch. I sat, and set the envelope on the coffee table between us.
“The hay’s back,” I said. “You know that. Arlen and Gene returned it. They told me what you said. That I was selling out.”
