22

           TheThanksgivingdinnerJudandNormaputonwasafineone.Whenitwasover,Louiswenthomefeelingfullandsleepy.Hewentupstairstothebedroom,relishingthequietalittle,flippedoffhisloafers,andlaydown.Itwasjustafterthreeo’clock;thedayoutsidewaslitwiththin,wintrysunshine.

           I’lljustdozealittle,hethoughtandfellasleep.

           Itwasthebedroomextensionthatwokehimup.Hegropedforit,tryingtopullhimselftogether,disorientedbythefactthatitwasalmostdarkoutside.Hecouldhearthewindwhiningaroundthecornersofthehouseandthefaint,huskymutterofthefurnace.

           "Hello,"hesaid.ItwouldbeRachel,callingfromChicagoagaintowishhimahappyThanksgiving.ShewouldputEllieonandElliewouldtalkandthenGagewouldgetonandGagewouldbabble—andhowthehellhadhemanagedtosleepallafternoonwhenhehadmeanttowatchthefootballgame...?

           Butitwasn’tRachel.ItwasJud.

           "Louis?Fraidmaybeyou’vegotalittlespotoftrouble."

           Heswungoutofbed,stilltryingtoscrubthesleepoutofhismind."Jud?Whattrouble?"

           "Well,there’sadeadcatoverhereonourlawn,"Judsaid."Ithinkitmightbeyourdaughter’s."

           "Church?"Louisasked.Therewasasuddensinkinginhisbelly."Areyousure,Jud?"

           "No,Iain’tonehundredpercentsure,"Judsaid,"butitsurelookslikehim."

           "Oh.Ohshit.