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Show too a. in the road. We stopped at a diner. "This place has the best hamburgers in town,"Danny declared. "Give me a dime," I said to Brian, then strode across the s t r e e t. My legs felt strong, connecting squarely with the pavement, unafraid of pain. The phone rang only once before Becky answered. "Have you eaten?" I asked. "Mama. Call Grandma." Her eight y e a r - o l d ' s voice was dramatic. "What did she say?" I asked, trying to ignore the hitch in my heart. "She needs you." The phone went dead. I looked for reassurance toward the pink and gold sun s e t t i n g over the lake. I fumbled in my pocket for another dime, and my hand trembled as I dropped it in the s l o t . Becky had been so g r i m . . . but she was such a theatrical child. Like her great-Grandfather, the Shakespeare-lover who named most of his kids a f t e r the bards famous characters. My mother sounded far away, as though we spoke long distance. "Mama, what's wrong?" There were t e a r s in her voice and a new, t e r r i b l e tenderness. "Honey, I'm so glad you c a l l e d ." "Something's wrong." "Yes." Her voice was deliberate. "Darling, it's Daddy... he's been shot." "Not dead! He's dead?" "Yes, darling." The phonebooth whirled. I could hear cries echoing from its stlarp corners. "Mama. Oh, Mama. I'll be right there." |