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that.”
    “No. He said—Hey, Joan.”
    “What.”
    “I got an idea.”
    “All right.”
    “Why not you and me go
out
and eat. You like that?”
    “We can’t,” Joan said.
    “We could go to that place with the chicken.”
    “We have to stay home, Simon.”
    “I would pay for it.”
    “No,” Joan said, and she touched one upright piece of his hair again. “Are you the one that doesn’t like using other people’s forks? That makes twice in two days you’ve had that idea.”
    “Well, anyway,” said Simon. But he must have been expecting her to say no; he sat back quietly and began drumming his fingers on the table. Above them was the sound of Mr. Pike’s footsteps, crossing the hall and beginning to descend the stairs, and Joan remembered why she was in the kitchen and went back to the refrigerator. She opened the door and stared inside, at shelves packed tightly with other people’s casseroles. At the kitchen doorway her uncle said, “I only want a Coke, Joan,” and came to stand beside her, bending down to peer at the lower shelves.
    “You have to eat something solid,” Joan told him.
    “I can’t.” He straightened up and rubbed his forehead. He was a lean man, all bones and tough brown skin. Ordinarily he did construction work, but for the month of July he had been laid off and was spending his time the way Joan did, helping Mr. Terry get his tobacco in. Years of working outdoors had made his face look stained with walnut juice, and his eyes were squinted from force of habit even when he wasn’t in the sun. They were narrow brown slits in his face, the same shade as Simon’s, and they were directed now at Joan while he waited for her to speak.
    “There’s a chicken salad here from Mrs. Betts,” said Joan.
    “No, thank you.”
    “The kind you like, with pimento.”
    “No.”
    “Now, eat a
little
something,” she said. “I could be perking coffee for you to take Aunt Lou, if you’d sit down a minute.”
    “Oh, well,” he said.
    He sat down awkwardly, across from Simon, giving his Sunday pants a jerk at each knee to save the crease. “How you been getting along?” he asked Simon.
    “Okay.”
    “Not giving Joan any trouble.”
    “No, sir.”
    “He’s been just fine,” said Joan. She set the salad out and laid three plates on the table. Her uncle studied his own plate seriously, hunching his shoulders over it and working his hands together.
    “I’m glad to hear it,” he said finally. When Joan looked over at him he said, “About Simon, I mean. James and Ansel feed you okay, boy?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Well. Joan, Dr. Kitt left a prescription for your aunt but I don’t see how I can go into town and leave her. I wonder, would you mind too much if—”
    “I’ll see to it after we eat,” Joan said.
    “All right.”
    He accepted his chicken salad wordlessly, keeping his eyes on Joan’s hands as she dished his share out. When she had passed on to the next plate, he said, “Thank you,” and the words came out hoarse so that he had to clear his throat. “Thank you,” he said again. Even then his voice was muffled-sounding. In the last three days he had been talking steadily, always mumbling something into Mrs. Pike’s ear to keep her going. It was probably the most he had talked in a lifetime. Ordinarily he sat quiet and listened, with something like awe, while his wife rattled on; he seemed perpetuallysurprised and a little proud that she should have so much to say.
    When Joan had sat down herself, after filling the others’ plates and passing out forks, she said, “Eat, now.” She looked at the other two, but neither of them picked up his fork. “
Come
on,” she said, and then Simon sighed and tucked his paper napkin into his collar with a rustling sound.
    “This feels like Sunday-night supper,” he said.
    “It does.”
    “Not like afternoon. Why’re we eating in the afternoon? What the
day
feels like, is Wednesday.”
    “Wednesday?”
    “Feels like