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You think you’re ready to go now? the old man said.

Yes.

Let’s go then.

Just a minute, Raymond said. Are you walking?

We walked over here.

You’d better let me drive you home.

You don’t need to do that. We got over here all right.

Sure, but it’s colder now.

Well. The old man glanced toward the door. I don’t like this boy being out like this, I’ll say that.

Linda May looked at Raymond. You haven’t finished your beer. Why don’t you go ahead and run them home and I’ll keep your glass here for you. Then you can come back.

I might, he said.

Do, she said.

They went outside and got into Raymond’s old battered pickup, and he backed away from the curb and turned north up Main Street and followed Walter Kephart’s directions across the railroad tracks and then west into the quiet neighborhood, pulling up in front of their house. The old man and the boy got out. We thank you kindly for the ride, the old man said.

Don’t you take no more sickness, Raymond said.

I don’t plan on it.

The old man shut the pickup door and it didn’t catch, so Raymond leaned across and pushed it open, then slammed it hard. When he looked up they were already halfway to the door of the house. He drove to the end of the block and made a U-turn at the intersection and drove back to Main Street and parked down the block from the tavern. For a while he sat in the cold cab looking at the darkened storefront in front of him. What in hell’s sake do I think I’m doing? he said. His breath smoked in the cold air. I don’t have the first idea. But I guess I’m doing it.

He got out and went back into the warmth and noise once more and walked to the end of the bar where Linda May stood. When he came up to her she smiled and held out his beer glass.

Well, here you are, she said. I didn’t know if you’d come back or not.

I said I might, Raymond said.

That doesn’t mean you would. Men say I might, and it doesn’t mean a thing.

I thought it did, he said.

Maybe it does for you.

He took the glass from her hand and drank the rest of the beer. He looked around and all the people nearby appeared to be having a good time.

Let me buy you another beer, she said. This’ll be my round.

Well, no, he said. Ma’am, I don’t believe I could do that. I better buy you one. Wouldn’t you let me do that?

But the next one’s on me. This is a new day, she said.

Ma’am?

I mean women are different now than they used to be. It’s all right for a woman to buy a man a drink in a barroom now.

I wouldn’t know a thing about that, Raymond said. I don’t believe I ever did know anything about women. There was just my mother and then this young girl that lived with us lately.

You mean the girl with the little child I saw visiting you in the hospital.

Yes ma’am. That would be her. That was Victoria Roubideaux. And her little daughter, Katie.

Where are they now? Don’t they still live with you?

No ma’am, not all the time. They’re off at school. In Fort Collins. She’s taking a course of study at college.

Good for her. But don’t you think you could call me something else? Ma’am makes me sound so old.

I might try, he said.

Good, she said. Now why don’t you tell me about them.

Victoria Roubideaux and Katie?

That’s right. They seem to mean a great deal to you.

Well yes, they do. They mean just about everything to me.

He began to talk to Linda May about the girl and her child, and he told her how it was that they had come to live with him and his brother in the country two and a half years ago, and after a while a table was vacated and they sat down across from each other and he allowed her to buy him a drink, though he insisted on buying the next round himself. He sat there in his hat and winter coat until the place closed, talking to this woman. He had never done such a thing before in his life.

It was late when he drove into the graveled drive and stopped at the gate in front of the old gray house. The temperature had fallen to zero and a pale half-sided moon was coming up