Calvert stared at him.
"She ought to see it," Mick said. "She ought to see it before—she ought to see it. And I don't—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not going to be the one that tells my dad. Not yet. I can't. He's got the interview at Frackville on Monday and he hasn't slept in a week. But my grandma. She'd want to see it. If she knew about the sweater the whole time, she knew about the rest of it too. She's the only one who knew. Everybody else is dead or not talking." He looked at Calvert sideways. "You'd have to wear that, though. She'd want to feel it."
"Okay," Calvert said.
"Okay," Mick said.
They sat on the tailgate a while longer. Neither of them had a coat on except the cardigan and the sweatshirt, and Calvert's hands had gone red and stupid with the cold, and he put them in his pockets and found the Butterscotch Krimpet there and took it out and looked at it. He tore the cellophane and broke the cake in half along the middle and held out one half without saying anything. Mick looked at it and then took it, and they ate the Krimpet on the tailgate of the white Ford pickup while the culm banks smoked on the ridge, and it was flattened and slightly warm from having been against Calvert's hip for two hours, and it was, Calvert thought, possibly the best thing he had ever eaten.
"You know you're going to have to put him up," Mick said, with his mouth full. "Your grandfather. On the board. The testimony."
"I know."
"Not today. Today's done. But if you go to Harrisburg."