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He bobs his head at me, clearly relieved that the conversation is over, and I turn to leave. “Ma’am?” he says tentatively as my hands reach for the door. I face him, one eyebrow raised. “There’s just one other thing that, uh—well, we’re still looking into one more thing.” He swallows. “It’s just that the barn doors were—well, they were chained shut. From the outside.”
April 30, 2016 at 3:12 PM Dear Pouty, Crabby, Puerile Twin, And so we finish year two of your stubborn radio silence. Okay, Ava. I get it. I’ll do my time, keep on writing you, wait for you to shake off your huff. Let you have your temper tantrum so that you can save face. It’s fine, I don’t mind; I’ve always been less proud than you. I don’t mind admitting that I MISS YOU and that I’M GOING CRAZY WITHOUT YOU. Do you think that will soften your brittle crustacean shell? Will it weaken your resolve to maintain this transatlantic muteness? I don’t know. You were a soft touch when we were girls, but maybe you’ve toughened up, ensconced yourself in some sort of emotional fortress. I remember you crying pitifully when we saw a homeless man begging in Watkins Glen. He was a raggedy- ass specimen, too tan and wilted, with his cardboard sign entreating us to HELP because HE WAS A VETERAN. As though his life was inherently more valuable because he had the bad luck (or, even worse, the misguided desire) to end up in the military. Oh, but you were moved! You tugged our father’s hand, pleaded with your very best Tender Ava eyes, and he gave you ten dollars to hand to the man. A testament to both our father’s complete inability to deny you anything and his endless profligacy in all things financial. The man chews through cash the same way he devours imported cheese (the two behavior patterns may be related). You gave the old vet the ten
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