heart condition in 1989, the last clear thing she said to her husband was not goodbye. It was, "If somebody tells you she's alive, don't let fear stop you from going."
For nine years after the funeral, Ezekiel lived alone in a small apartment in Dayton, worked part-time repairing clocks for neighbors, and carried the same photograph in his shirt pocket. He was realistic enough to know that Beatrice might have died decades earlier, yet he could not believe a person could disappear so completely without leaving a trace. Then, early that October, a letter arrived from a man named Daniel Chandler. The letter said Daniel and his mother had been examining records from the 1960 flood and believed they had found information concerning Beatrice Walker. It did not promise a reunion, only a conversation, and it asked whether Ezekiel would be willing to come to the Silver Star Diner on the following Tuesday. He bought a bus ticket that evening.
The suitcase stood beside him now, holding two clean shirts, Hazel's old cardigan, a folder thick with unanswered letters, and a red ribbon she had saved from Beatrice's hair. There was also a small wooden boat he had carved for their daughter before the flood, unfinished on one side because she had insisted she would paint it herself. Ezekiel knew how foolish it might look to present a forty-year-old toy to a grown woman who could be a stranger to him. He brought it anyway. Some things belonged in the hands of the people for whom they had been made, whether they arrived on time or not.
Ruby set a brown paper bag on the table and placed the wrapped biscuits inside. She had added extra napkins, two little containers of jam, and a small handwritten note that read, In case you're hungry on the road. Ezekiel looked at the note for longer than she expected. "How much do I owe you?" he asked. She gave him the proper total rather than announcing that his lunch was free, because she sensed he would prefer to pay for what he had ordered. When he handed her the bills, she noticed the slight tremor in his thumb and returned the change directly to his open palm.
Ruby's manager, Frank Talbot, appeared behind the counter carrying a delivery invoice. Frank was neither cruel nor especially warm; he was a tired man trying to keep a business open while the bypass pulled customers toward newer restaurants. He noticed that Ruby had spent longer at the booth than usual and called her name sharply. She went to refill coffee for a truck driver, but she kept an eye on Ezekiel as he tried to open his envelope with stiff fingers. The paper slipped from his hand and landed on the floor. When Ruby bent to retrieve it, she saw the words at the bottom of the letter: If you prefer not to come, I understand. I know this may reopen great pain.