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herself
overnight, and she and little Jimmie hit it off instantly. He was delighted to
see the pictures of his great-great grandparents, but held the book with the
photos of his grandfather with care approaching reverence. He asked Cora to tell
him the story behind every single picture, but at the same time seemed to have
an innate ability to stop just short of asking embarrassing questions. I was
mostly a spectator, but I was happy to be there.
    He ate three sloppy joes, much to
Cora's delight, and an extra scoop of the ice cream, not to mention potato
chips, cookies, and a handful of carrots.
    By mid-afternoon, he was calling
Cora "Nana," and was accepting little around-the-shoulder hugs from
her. In short, the day was a huge success.
     
    Before I dropped Jimmie at his
bike, however, I had to warn him about a part of my plan that might not make
him so happy.  Since I'd learned Bert was to be out of town (if I could
believe him), I had decided I'd try to talk to Jimmie's mother, Dee. When I told
him I was going to visit her the next day, however, he didn't object at all. He
did say he would stay out all day, that he didn't want to listen.
    He agreed to help me with one
thing, though, because I certainly didn't want to show up before Bert was gone.
Jimmie said he'd wait till Bert left, and then ride past my house as a signal.
But he insisted he couldn't stop, that I'd have to watch for him through a
window.
     
    After I saw Jimmie pedal by in the
morning, I waited another half hour, and then drove over to the truck-house on Alder Road. I carefully pulled into the yard, and climbed the steps to the door. It was
actually a standard exterior door, fitted into an opening cut and framed into
the semi-trailer body. No use hesitating. I knocked firmly.
    After several minutes the door was
opened by a grossly overweight woman in a pink sweat suit. She was breathing
heavily.
    "We don't want to buy
anything," she began.
    I smiled my best I-care smile.
"I'm not selling anything. I'm Anastasia Raven. I bought the old Mosher
house. I've met your son, Jimmie."
    "Oh," she said.
    "May I come in? I'm sorry, I
don't know your name."
    "Dee, Mrs. Dee Pickard."
She seemed uncomfortable, but finally said. "OK. I guess it's all
right."
    She stepped in and I entered the made-over
trailer, expecting the worst. I was shocked beyond any expectations. Instead of
being a mess, the interior was clean, well-lit and tastefully decorated. The
only thing to complain about was a lack of windows. The space had been
transformed to be very much like the inside of a standard trailer.  There
were too many knick-knacks for my taste, but it certainly wasn't my house. The
primary theme was angels. I wondered which one Jimmie had given her for
Christmas.
    "Have a seat." She
pointed to the couch and waddled to the easy chair facing the television. I was
afraid I was going to have to compete with game shows, but she picked up the
remote and clicked the tube off.
    "Mrs. Pickard," I said. I
was still so shocked I hardly knew what to say. "I'm concerned about
Jimmie."
    "But school's over for the
year, isn't it? Did he lie to me and skip the last week of school?"
    "No, nothing like that. Jimmie
seems very responsible."
    "What's he done, then?"
    "Nothing bad. Honestly, Mrs.
Pickard. Let me explain. Jimmie works very hard to earn enough money for things
that are basic needs for a school child."
    The woman didn't answer but she
leaned forward, clasped her hands, extended her arms and pushed them between
her knees. She began rocking forward and back.
    I had to press my argument. It
might be the only chance I'd have. "He has hinted to me that there might
be problems with Bert."
    She continued to rock.
    "Is there something you'd like
to tell me, Dee. May I call you Dee?"
    She nodded.
    I didn't have high hopes for real
information on this visit. I knew abused women often refuse to admit they are
in trouble.
    "Is there a reason Jimmie had
to buy his own winter coat?"
    "Bert won't