The wind had died, the stars were out. A coyote called somewhere out past the grain elevator, and another one answered him. She thought about the big man with the lake water eyes. She thought about what Roz had said. "One sentence said with your hand shaking."
She thought about Ezra waiting at home, probably in his chair by the window watching the road for her headlights. Except there were no headlights anymore. Just her walking. She turned onto her street, and she stopped. The porch light at her house was on.
That was normal. Ezra always left it on for her, but the front door was open. Just a crack. Just enough that she could see a line of yellow light. Dylia's stomach dropped to her shoes.
She started to run. She hit the porch steps at full speed. She burst through the door. Ezra! And there, sitting in her living room on her mama's old floral couch with his boots on her coffee table and a beer from her fridge in his hand was a man she had not seen in 11 years.
Donny Ray Brennan, her father's second cousin. Sharp-faced, eyes like whetstones, wearing a leather jacket and a smile that did not reach anywhere near his eyes. Ezra was in his chair by the window. His hands were gripping the armrest. His face was white.
"Didi," Donny Ray said, "sit down, cousin. We got some family business to discuss." Dylia did not sit down. "Get out of my house." Donny Ray smiled wider.
"See, that's the thing, cousin. This ain't really your house no more, because your daddy, God rest him, your daddy owed me some money before he passed, and 5 years of interest is a lot of interest." "My daddy didn't owe you anything." "$40,000, Didi, plus what he borrowed for your mama's funeral, and the hospital bills before that. 40 grand. I've got paperwork."
"You're lying." Donny Ray took a long pull of her beer. "I'm going to give you 7 days, cousin. 7 days to come up with $40,000. And if I don't have that money in my hand by sundown a week from today."
He looked over at Ezra. Ezra was shaking. Dylia could see him shaking. "Something's going to happen to that crippled brother of yours, something real bad, and nobody in this town is going to do a thing about it, because this is Brennan business, family business. You understand me, Didi?"
Dylia's hand was on the door. She was going to scream. She was going to throw him out. She was going to Donny Ray stood up, set the beer down, walked past her slow. At the door he stopped.
"7 days, cousin." He stepped out onto the porch. He was gone. She locked every door. She checked every window.
She pulled the curtains. She sat on the floor next to Ezra's chair. He was crying quiet the way he cried when the dreams got bad. She held his hand. She did not cry.
She could not afford to cry. Across town in a cheap motel room with a Bible on the nightstand that had not been opened in 30 years, Wade Caldwell got down on his knees beside the bed. He folded his hands. He did not know what he was going to say. He opened his mouth, and for the first time in three decades, Wade Caldwell began to pray.
Dylia did not sleep that night. She sat on the floor by Ezra's chair until his breathing evened out. Then she helped him to bed. Then she walked through the house, kitchen, hallway, back bedroom. She locked every lock twice.
She slid a kitchen chair under the front doorknob. Then she sat at the kitchen table in the dark. The coffee can was on the counter. $246.50 inside on top of the 83 she already had. $329.50. She needed 40,000. She laughed once, a dry, hard sound in the dark kitchen.
Then she put her face in her hands. She did not cry. Crying was a luxury. Crying took time and took strength, and she had neither to spare. At 4:45 the alarm went off in her bedroom.
She was already up. She got dressed. She checked on Ezra. She looked out every window before she opened the front door. The porch was empty.
She walked to work. Wade Caldwell walked into the diner at 7:30 that morning. He was not wearing his leather cut. He wore a brown flannel shirt, jeans that had seen real work, boots with honest scuffs. He looked like any farmer who had come in off the fields for breakfast, except for his eyes.
Dylia saw him come in. Her hand tightened on the coffee pot. "Morning, ma'am," he said. "Morning, Mr. Caldwell." "Wade'll do, if you don't mind."
"Wade, then. Sit anywhere you like." He took the booth by the window, the same one as yesterday. She brought him coffee. She set it down without a word.
He wrapped both hands around the mug like a man warming himself. "Ma'am," he said, "I'd like the number two, eggs over easy, bacon crisp, wheat toast." "Yes, sir." She started to turn. "And, ma'am."
She stopped. I've got no agenda this morning. I ate here yesterday. Food was good. Coffee was better.
Just wanted to come back. She studied him. He was looking at his coffee, not at her. A man who knew when to take up space and when not to. "All right."
She said. She walked away. An hour later Wade was still there. The breakfast rush had come and gone. A few old ranchers lingered at the counter.
Wade sat by the window with his empty plate pushed to the side. And in front of him open was a book. It was a Bible, a small one, black leather cover cracked along the spine, gold lettering worn off the front. The kind of Bible a man had owned for a very long time. Delia came by to refill his coffee.
She saw the book. "You read scripture, Wade?" "I read it." "Every morning." He looked up.
"Not for a long time, ma'am, but I started again last night." She did not know what to say to that. She poured his coffee. She walked away. Roz was at the register.
She watched Delia pass. She said nothing, but her eyes went to the booth by the window and stayed there for a long moment. Ezra Brennan had not come to the diner in 4 months. He did not like crowds. He did not like unfamiliar men.