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“What’s his name, Clover? Do you know his name?”
“Jumpin’ Jack Flash” rocked out of her tablet.
“Jack. Well, if you get a chance, maybe you could let Jack know I’m happy to share Yoda with him, and Cleo and I are happy to share the house.”
Not as if she had a choice, Sonya thought, but it made sense to keep the peace wherever possible.
She worked until five. Sometime during the work, Yoda made his way back upstairs and, clearly tuckered out by the play, snoozed by the fire.
When she rose, looked over at him, she saw the Poole family book on the table, open.
Yoda blinked his eyes when she walked over, thumped his tail.
She saw the facing page listed the children of Owen Poole—Agatha’s Owen—and his second wife, Moira.
Michael and Connor, twins.
Charles, born a year later.
Lisbeth, born the following year. Died at eighteen on her wedding day.
Alice, born three years after Lisbeth, married and moved to Virginia, where she lived until the age of sixty-nine.
And John (Jack), born a year and a half after Alice, who died at the age of nine. Scarlet fever.
Poor kid, she thought.
Yoda rushed out; the doorbell bonged.
As she went down, she thought of the boy, suffering, maybe delirious. His desperate parents, his frightened siblings. For more than a hundred years he’d lived this… could it be called a half life?
And now he played with her dog.
She opened the door to another dog, and Trey.
“There’s Mookie. You’ve got a friend, Yoda. And you’ve got a key,” she said to Trey.
“For emergencies, not drop-bys.”
Nothing, she thought, just nothing like Brandon. And wrapping her arms around him, held hard.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just feeling down, I guess. I read about Jack Poole—the boy who plays with Yoda and opens the cabinets. I saw him this afternoon.”
“Saw him?” Trey drew her back to look into her eyes.
“What you’d call a fleeting glimpse. Come on, you can have a beer while I tell you.”
Cleo, already in the kitchen, smiled at Trey. “Excellent, another victim. I’m doing this pork thing and trying my hand at scalloped potatoes. Is it glass-of-wine time, Son?”
“It could be. Did you bring the Poole book into the library today?”
“No.”
“Somebody did. His name’s Jack. He died of scarlet fever. Nine years old.”
“Oh.” Cleo’s eyes went damp. “Poor little guy.”
