Page 120 of Wreckage and Rain

"I went."

"You said what you needed to say."

"I did, all of it."

"You okay?"

"I'm shaking, Mama."

She doesn't reach across the table. She knows me. I'm not a touch-me-when-I'm-shaking person. I'm a let-me-sit-in-it person. She sits in it with me. She doesn't fill the silence. She drinks her coffee.

The shaking goes from my hands to my shoulders to a deep tremor in my back that I haven't let myself feel in too long. It comes up in waves. I let it. I've done what I went to do. The body is allowed to come down now. Mama gets up. Crosses to thekitchen. Comes back with a plate of biscuits and a small bowl of strawberry jam. Sets the plate in front of me and sits.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat one anyway. The shaking goes down faster with bread in you. Sarah King's medical advice."

I eat a biscuit. The shaking goes down a quarter inch.

"She say anything that got through?"

"She cracked, her eyes watered and she grasped at her pearls. She knows that she bet on the wrong team."

"Hmph."

"I gave it back to her. In her own voice."

"Good."

"I'm not proud of it."

"You're a little proud of it."

"I'm a little proud of it."

"That's allowed."

I eat the rest of the biscuit. The shaking has gone down to a tremor in my fingertips that the coffee mug catches and quiets. Mama refills my cup and adds a splash of cream.

"Where is Colt?"

"At the B&B. He knew I was coming. He didn't ask when."

"You want him here?"

"In a minute. Not yet."

"Okay."

"I just wanted to sit, Mama."

"You can sit."

The diner is quiet in the slow hour, the small hum of the cooler, the radio low on the gospel station Daddy likes, the bell over the door not ringing because the supper crowd is still an hour away. A regular comes in for coffee to go. Mama gets up, pours it, takes the money, gives the change, comes back. Sits.

"I'm going to call him in a minute," I say.