There was a knock at the front door.

“Daddy!” Loreda yelled, leaping to her feet.

She ran for the door, jerked it open.

The man standing there was dressed in rags, his face filthy.

He yanked off his tattered newsboy cap, curled it in his dirty hands.

Hungry. Like all the hobos who stopped by here on their way “there.”

This was what her daddy wanted? To be starving and alone, knocking on some stranger’s door for food? That was better than staying?

Grandma moved in beside Loreda.

“I’m hungry, ma’am. If you’ve got any vittles to share, I’d be much obliged.” The hobo’s shirt was so discolored by dirt and sweat that it was impossible to determine its original color. Blue, maybe. Or gray. He wore dungarees with a belt he’d cinched tight at his waist. “I’d be happy to do some chores.”

“We have cereal,” Grandpa said. “And the porch could use sweeping.”

They were used to hobos stopping by at mealtime, begging for food or offering work for a slice of bread. In times this hard, folks did what they could for those less fortunate. Most hobos did a chore or two and then headed off again. One of the tramps had drawn a symbol on their barn. A message to other wanderers. Supposedly it meant, Stop here. Good folks.

Grandpa studied the vagrant. “Where are you from, son?”

“Arkansas, sir.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-two, sir.”

“How long you been on the road?”

“Long enough to get where I was a-goin’, if ’n I knew where that was.”

“What makes a man just up and leave? Can you tell me that?” Grandpa asked.

They all looked at the hobo, who seemed to wrestle with the question. “Well, sir. I reckon you leave when you just can’t stand your life where it is.”

“And what about the family you left behind?” Grandma asked sharply. “Doesn’t a man care what happens to his wife and kids?”

“If he did, he’d stay, I reckon,” the hobo said.

“That ain’t true,” Loreda said.

“Let’s get you that cereal, shall we?” Grandma said. “No use talking the day away.”

“LOREDA.” ANT TUGGED ON Loreda’s sleeve. “Sumpin’s wrong with Mommy.”

Loreda pushed the tangled hair out of her eyes and leaned on the broom. She’d been sweeping long enough and hard enough to work up a sweat. “What do you mean?”

“She won’t wake up.”

“That’s silly. Grandma said to let her sleep.”

Ant’s shoulders slumped. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Fine.”

Loreda followed Ant into their parents’ bedroom. The small room was usually as neat as a pin, but now there was dirt everywhere, even on the bed. It was a sharp reminder that Dad had abandoned them; Mom hadn’t even bothered to sweep before going to bed. And Mom was crazy about clean. “Mom?”

Mom lay in the double bed, her body positioned as far to the right as she could go, so that there was a big blank space to her left. She wore a dirty kerchief and a nightdress so old the cotton showed her skin in places. A blue chambray work shirt—Daddy’s—lay coiled around her neck. Her face was almost as pale as the sheet, with her sharp cheekbones standing out above sunken cheeks.

Mom was always pale. Even out in the summer sun, she burned and peeled. She never tanned. But this . . .

She pushed Mom’s shoulder gently. “Wake up, Mom.”

Nothing.

“Go get Grandma. She’s milking Bella,” Loreda said to Ant.

Loreda poked her mom’s arm, this time not gently. “Wake up, Mom. This isn’t funny.”

Loreda stared down at the woman who had always seemed indomitable, unyielding, humorless. Now she saw how delicate her mother was, how thin and pale. Lying in bed, wearing Daddy’s shirt as a scarf, she looked fragile.

It was scary.

“Wake up, Mom. Come on.”

Grandma walked into the room, carrying an empty metal bucket. “What’s wrong?” Ant was right behind her, staying close.

“Mom won’t wake up.”

Grandma put down the metal bucket and lifted the cement-sack towel that covered the cracked porcelain pitcher on the nightstand. Silt-fine dust sifted to the floor. She dipped a washrag into water and wrung the excess into the basin, then placed the washrag on Mom’s forehead. “She isn’t feverish,” Grandma said. Then: “Elsa?”

Mom didn’t respond.

Grandma dragged a chair into the room and sat down by the bed. For a long time, she said nothing, just sat there. Then, finally, she sighed. “He left us, too, Elsa. It is not only you. He left all the people he said he loved. I’ll never forgive him for that.”

“Don’t say that!” Loreda said.

“Silenzio,” Grandma said. “A woman can die of a broken heart. Do not make it worse.”

“It’s her fault he left. She wouldn’t go to California.”

“In your vast experience with men and love, you decide this. Thank you for your genius, Loreda. I’m sure it’s a comfort to your mama.”

Grandma dabbed the cool wet washcloth on Mom’s forehead. “I know how much it hurts right now, Elsa. You can’t unlove someone even if you want to, even if he breaks your heart. I understand not wanting to wake up. Lord, with this life of ours, who could blame you. But your daughter needs you, especially now. She is as foolish as her father. Ant worries me, too.” Grandma leaned closer, whispered, “Remember the first time you held Loreda and we both cried? Remember your son’s laugh and how he squeezes so hard when he hugs you. Your children, Elsa. Remember Loreda . . . Anthony . . .”