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Zeb's moon swayed a little in the high winds that day, but the installation went well, and people clapped once the last bolt was in place. Pastor Speedwell never came out to pray a blessing over the name change, and Zeb always felt slighted. But he never said anything to anyone but me.
    The inside was pretty much what you’d expect, with a long counter and vinyl upholstered stools that turn all the way around like an amusement ride. I used to think they were bolted to the floor to keep folks from walking off with one, but my mother said it had more to do with safety and stability. Agnes could never understand why anyone would want to spin while they ate.
    Booths upholstered with the same blood-red vinyl sat in a row across from the counter, and large round lights illuminated the place. But I have to admit that what I liked the most was the aroma that wafted around the room on currents of warm diner air. I guess there isn’t anything like the bouquet of grilled hamburgers, baloney, and coffee mixed with occasional cigarette smoke and perfume. The café had a smell all its own, and I often wished I could bottle it and bring it home to Agnes. She missed so much. I couldn’t have stood being imprisoned like her in my own home. But Agnes managed to take it all in stride and never complained or let on that she would like to step out into the sunshine or the snow. Truth is, I doubt Agnes could even have gotten through the door of the Full Moon anymore, and I know the tables would never have accommodated her.
    Boris and Studebaker sat at a table looking over what I could only imagine were plans for the sign. Studebaker, long since retired from the coal mines, moved to Bright's Pond in 1967 from Carbon County. Stu was truly one of the more generous people in town. He tithed regularly from his meager pension and Social Security, although word had it that Stu had stock holdings that might have qualified him to be a millionaire. That was only speculation that came out during the time of his illness. Then he started giving away money right and left to everyone in town and every charity that plucked his heartstrings.
    Boris, as always, wore one of his lawyer suits and sucked a cigar while they talked and pointed to things on the papers.
    I sidled over to their table. “Afternoon.”
    They stood politely. “Griselda,” said Stu, “did you tell Agnes about the sign?”
    “I sure did and I got to tell you, she—”
    “Sit,” interrupted Boris. “Excuse us for being rude.”
    I sat next to Boris, but before I could finish my thought Zeb was standing over me with a pot of coffee.
    “Thanks, and bring me a grilled cheese, please.” My stomach rumbled.
    “Sure thing, Grizzy.”
    I hated it when he called me that. But, Zeb seemed to get a kick out of it. We graduated high school together—class of 1950. He was a good-looking fellow—always wore a white tee shirt and blue jeans. Zeb had asked me out a couple of times but we never seemed to make it. Something always came up with Agnes and I got stuck at home.
    “I’ll bet she was thrilled to the tips of her toes,” said Studebaker.
    I reached for the cream. “Actually, she wasn’t.”
    Boris snuffed his cigar into a glass ashtray with an image of a boar's head in the middle. “What are you saying?”
    “I told you last night. Agnes doesn’t care for the whole sign thing.”
    “Pish,” said Studebaker. “She's just being shy or something.”
    I looked at the pages on the table.
    “Are these the plans?”
    Boris smiled at me. “Studebaker here had another great idea. He thought instead of painting Agnes's picture up on the sign—”
    “I already told her,” said Stu. “I told her about the statue.”
    My first instinct was to laugh again, but the horror of the idea was just too terrible.
    “I told you, Stu, you can’t do this. If she doesn’t want a sign, what makes you think she’ll okay a statue.”
    Studebaker stared out the window. “Look, Griselda, she saved