Part 7 – Supper by the Curb
By the time the sun began to sink, the street had the look of an old photograph—colors muted, shadows long, people gathered in small clusters like they’d been standing there for years.
Someone down by the Hendersons’ had set up a grill on the only dry patch of pavement. Smoke curled into the evening air, carrying the smell of hamburgers and onions. A card table held bags of chips, paper plates, and a tub of sweet tea with condensation running down the sides.
Thomas and Kathleen walked down together, boots leaving wet prints on the road.
“Evening, Tom,” called Bill Howard’s sister, Clara—the same Clara who’d babysat Kathleen once or twice when she was small. She handed him a plate heavy with food. “I heard you got my brother’s letter.”
“I did,” Thomas said. “Thank you for sending it on.”
Clara’s eyes softened. “Bill found that photo while cleaning out a trunk. Said it belonged home.” She hesitated. “Your Evelyn… she was something else.”
Thomas managed a small smile. “She was.”
They sat on the curb with their plates, the warm air humming with talk and the occasional burst of laughter. Kids darted between the adults, their sneakers slapping against the damp pavement.
Kathleen tore a piece of her hamburger bun and fed it to a stray dog that had been making rounds between groups. “Who’s this?” she asked.
“That’s just Scout,” Thomas said. “Been hanging around for a month or two. Sleeps under my porch.”
“He’s got good taste in real estate,” she said, smiling.
They ate mostly in silence, listening to the sounds of the street. For a moment, it felt like the neighborhood of thirty years ago, when summer evenings meant open windows, porch swings, and the smell of someone’s grill drifting across the block.
After a while, Mr. Rayburn shuffled over with a folding chair and settled beside them. His face was a map of deep lines, his voice still carrying the firmness of the Army.
“You know,” he began, “your mama once chewed me out for letting you ride your bike to the levee.”
Kathleen blinked. “She did?”
“Oh, yes,” Rayburn said. “Came right up my driveway, hands on her hips. Said if anything happened to you, she’d hold me responsible.”
Thomas chuckled. “Sounds about right.”
Rayburn leaned back, looking between them. “She loved you both something fierce. I think you know that.” His gaze lingered on Thomas. “Even when she was sick, she talked about the two of you like you were her whole world.”
Thomas’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “She didn’t… talk to me much, near the end.”
Rayburn’s voice softened. “She was protecting you. Said she didn’t want you to see her smaller than you remembered. Didn’t want that to be the picture you carried.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water—ripples touching places Thomas hadn’t felt in years.
Kathleen was quiet beside him. She glanced at her father, then back at Rayburn. “I didn’t know that.”
Rayburn gave a slow nod. “She was proud. Maybe too proud. But love was in every bit of it.”
When Rayburn wandered off to refill his tea, the two of them sat without speaking. The air had cooled just enough to bring out the scent of damp earth. Somewhere down the street, someone had started picking at a guitar, a low, wandering melody that seemed to fit the evening.
Kathleen broke the silence. “I used to think she left us before she had to. That she pulled away because she was tired of us.”
Thomas shook his head slowly. “She stayed as long as she could. I think… I think I stayed angry because it was easier than being hurt.”
Kathleen looked at him, her eyes catching the orange light of the setting sun. “Maybe we’ve both been doing that.”
He thought about that as the last of the day slid behind the houses. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, their glow catching the silver edges of the wind chimes back on his porch.
Somewhere inside him, something shifted—not a clean break, but the start of a crack where light might get in.
Part 8 – The Letter in the Floorboards
They walked home slow, letting the evening air cool the sweat from their necks. The river had gone quiet—no more restless knocking at porch rails or sucking at the curbs. It lay still now, like a dog finally worn out after a long chase.
The house looked different in the low streetlight. Less like a ruin, more like a place that might forgive them for leaving it.
Inside, the smell of mud still hung thick, but the wind chimes by the door gave a soft note as they stepped in, as if to mark their return.
Kathleen went to the kitchen to make tea. Thomas wandered toward her old room, drawn by the sight of the music box on the dresser. He picked it up, wound it just enough for the first three broken notes, then set it back.
That’s when he noticed it—the floorboard under the dresser, just slightly raised, as if the wood had swollen and then settled wrong. He knelt, pressing his palm to it. It shifted under his weight with a hollow sound.
“Kathleen,” he called. “Bring me that screwdriver from the drawer.”
She came in holding it like a surgical tool. “What’s down there?”
“Let’s find out.”
The screws on the old plank were rusted, but they gave way with a slow, complaining twist. He lifted the board, and a puff of cool air rose from the gap. Inside was a shallow space lined with newspaper from the late ’80s.
And in it—an envelope. Thick, yellowed, tied with a faded ribbon.
Kathleen crouched beside him. “It’s addressed to you.”
His name, written in Evelyn’s hand.
The ribbon crumbled when he untied it. Inside was a letter, the ink just a shade paler than fresh.
Tom,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to say the things I should have said while I could. You’ve always been stronger than me in some ways, but not when it comes to letting go. I know you’ll keep the house. I know you’ll keep everything, even the fights. Please don’t. Keep the good things. The laughter. The smell of the river on a good day. Our girl’s smile. Let the rest go before it rots you from the inside.
I love you. I always will.
Evie.
The words blurred before he reached the end.
Kathleen laid a hand on his arm. “She hid this here?”
“She knew I’d find it one day,” he said. His voice was rough. “Maybe she hoped it’d be when I was ready.”
They sat there on the floor, the letter between them, the open shoebox on the dresser. Outside, the wind stirred the chimes again—one clear note, then another, like an answer to something neither of them had said aloud.
Kathleen leaned her head against his shoulder. “Maybe it’s time we both started keeping the good things.”
He let out a long breath, one he felt he’d been holding for years. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”
