Michael took a long pull at his beer and put his feet up on the porch rail. He smiled as he watched Simon, Jack, and Olivia chasing lightning bugs in the late-evening shadows. They darted among the loblolly pines at the back of Michael’s wide lawn, their high voices ringing in the cool air as they called out each new catch. They didn’t seem at all tired, even though they’d spent the day fishing in the pond that glimmered through the trees and riding ATVs in the four-hundred-acre pine forest that stretched out around Michael’s house.
Tammy, her curly dark brown hair blowing around her face, sat on a swing down by the pond with her boyfriend Austin. They were sipping sweet tea and keeping an eye on the younger children. Mama rocked on a well-cushioned chair on the porch, keeping an eye on Austin and Tammy.
Michael turned to his mother. “They remind me of Jess, Deke, and Little Joe when they were the same age.”
She chuckled. “They put me in mind of you and David. I remember many a night watching you two chase lightning bugs.”
“Some things never change, I guess.”
Mama rocked in silence for a moment. “Didn’t Marie write a poem about that?”
“About what?”
“Boys playing.” Mama nodded toward the lawn. “I remember her sitting on this porch and watching my grandsons playing out there. She scribbled something in that little notebook she always carried. I thought it was a poem.”
“It was.” Michael reached for a well-thumbed volume on a little table. “It was published in her last book.” He held the book in the light from a window, found the poem, and read it aloud:
Boys
Yelling, jumping, throwing, catching, fighting, laughing, wrestling, fishing, swimming
Runningrunningrunningrunningrunning
Flop!
Lying on backs, green-smudged and gasping
Turning clouds to dinosaurs and rockets
Mama smiled and nodded. “I like her happy ones. I wish she wrote more of them.”
“Me too, but she said a poet had to tell the truth.” His mind went back to when she’d first told him that. It was a week after the poetry reading. He had “accidentally” run into her in the park where she regularly walked baby Savannah. He quoted one of her poems to her, charming her. They walked together and talked about poetry and TGU. She seemed to know nothing about how her husband’s family had treated the Willards, and Michael didn’t enlighten her. If she knew the truth, she might be more cautious around him, and he didn’t want that.
He’d told her he was writing a poem for his mother’s fiftieth birthday and asked for her help. It was a lie, of course, but he needed an excuse to meet her again. She agreed and they met several times to talk about Mama’s life and go over drafts of the poem. When Michael told her about Winona’s death, Marie was moved to tears—and wrote a verse on the spot that did the same to Michael. She had taken his hand as he wept over the new lines and old grief.
He should have known then that he was laying a trap for his heart as well as hers, but he had been young and stupid.
Mama shifted in her seat. “Savannah Webster calledyesterday. Says she’s going to build that pregnancy center her daddy promised.”
Michael stilled for several long moments. Building the neonatal center was the sort of thing Marie would have done if she were university president. Could Savannah have inherited her mother’s heart? He batted the question away before taking another swig from his beer can. “Do you believe her?”
“Actions speak louder than words.” The porch boards squeaked under Mama’s rocker. “And we both know what Legare words are worth.”
“That we do.”
“It’s probably just a trick to soften us up about Simon.” She sighed. “Such a sweet boy. Too bad you have to take him back tomorrow.”
Michael drained the can. “I may not have to.”
She stopped rocking. “Why not?”
“Because staying here is best for him—and because I just made a persuasive argument to Hez Webster.” He told her about the photos of Hez and Martine.
Mama was silent for a minute. “I don’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s underhanded, it’s cruel. It’s the kind of thing a Legare would do.”
