The Hall Light Left On for Teague

“Thirty-seven days,” he said softly. “He told me about that calendar. I think half the company knows about your red pencil.”

“Does he talk about me?”

“Mrs. Wofford.” He put down his fork. “In nine months, I do not believe he has gone one day without bringing you up. We know about the pound cake. We know the hound. We know the name of every pew in your church.”

I laughed, and then I did not, because my eyes had filled.

The captain was looking past me at the table, at the second cup sitting in front of the empty chair with the cane seat.

“Ma’am. Whose cup is that?”

I had never told a living soul, but I told him. I said it was Teague’s. I said I poured it every morning, and when it went cold I drank it myself so it would not be wasted, and that I knew it was a foolish thing for a woman my age to do.

He did not say a word for a moment. He looked at the cup, and at the chair, and at me.

“It is not foolish, ma’am,” he said, and his voice was strange. “I would be honored if you would let me not sit in that chair.”

“I would not have let you.”

“No ma’am.” Then his face did something I could not read. He cleared his throat, once, loud and deliberate, the way a man does to get attention in the next room.

And behind me, the back screen door opened.

The screen door

I know the sound of that door. I have heard it fifty thousand times. It has a spring that sings, a little off key, on the second note.

I turned in my chair, and the first thing I saw was a pair of tan boots with red clay on the toes.

Above them was a camouflage uniform, creased as if it had been pressed on a borrowed ironing board. Above that was a face thinner than the one on the tablet, tanned dark, with lines at the corners of the eyes that had not been there nine months ago.

It was Teague.

He stood in my kitchen doorway with the cold morning coming in around him, and he did not say anything at all. Neither did I. I do not believe I have ever been so quiet.

I will tell you what I said, because I want you to have the real thing. After all those months of practicing in the mirror, the words that came out of my mouth were these.

“You are letting the cold in.”

He laughed, and it broke in the middle, and he put the back of his wrist to his mouth. Then he was across that kitchen in three steps, and I was out of my chair and in his arms.

He smelled like diesel and soap and the inside of an airplane. He held me so hard my feet left the floor, and I am not a small woman. I said his name over and over and could not say anything else.

“I’m home, Granny. I told you I would be.”

“You told me the twenty-second.”

“I know. I lied.”

“You lied to my face, Teague Wofford.”

“Yes ma’am. I did.”

I hit him on the arm with my open hand, hard. He did not flinch. Then I put my head against his chest and heard his heart going strong and a little fast, like a truck engine on a long hill.

When he finally held me out at arm’s length, just as he had in the armory, he looked me over from head to foot.

“You got your hair done.”

“Vesta did it.”

“I know. I asked her to.” He grinned. “Granny, I’ve been home since Thursday night.”