ike most of the rumors that swept through Clanton, this one originated at either the barbershop, a coffee shop, or the clerk's office in the courthouse, and once it hit the street, it was off and running. A hot rumor would roar around the square with a speed that defied technology and often return to its source in a form so modified and distorted as to baffle its originator. Such is the nature of rumors, but occasionally, at least in Clanton, one turned out to be true.

At the barbershop, on the north side of the square, where Mr. Felix Upchurch had been cutting hair and giving advice for almost fifty years, the rumor was brought up early one morning by a man who usually had his facts straight. "I hear Isaac Keane's least boy is comin' back home," he said.

There was a pause in the haircutting, the newspaper reading, the cigarette smoking, the squabbling over the Cardinals game the night before. Then someone said, "Ain't he that funny boy?"

Silence. Then the clicking of scissors, the turning of pages, a cough over there, and the clearing of a throat over here. When delicate issues were first brought to the surface at the barbershop, they were met with a momentary caution. No one wanted to charge in, lest he be accused of trading in gossip. No one wanted to confirm or deny, because an incorrect fact or an erroneous as¬sumption could quickly spread and do harm, especially in matters dealing with sex. In other places around town, folks were far less hesitant. There was little doubt, however, that the return of the least Keane boy was about to be dissected from a dozen direc¬tions, but, as always, the gentlemen proceeded cautiously.

"Well, I've always heard he didn't go for the girls."

"You heard right. My cousin's daughter was in school with that boy, said he was always on the queer side, a regular sissy, and soon as he could, he got outta here and went off to the big city. I think it was San Francisco, but don't quote me on that."

("Don't quote me on that" was a defensive ploy aimed at dis¬claiming what had just been said. Once properly disclaimed, oth¬ers were then free to go ahead and repeat what had just been said, but if the information turned out to be false, the original gossiper could not be held liable.)

"How old is he?"

A pause as calculations were made. "Maybe thirty-one, thirty-two."

"Why's he comin' back here?"

"Well, now, I don't know for sure, but they say he's real sick, on his last leg, and ain't nobody in the big city to take care of him."

"He's comin' home to die?"

"That's what they say."

"Isaac would roll over in his grave."

"They say the family's been sendin' him money for years to keep him away from Clanton."

"I thought they'd gone through all of Isaac's money."

Whereupon a digression was begun on the topic of Isaac's money, and his estate, his assets and liabilities, his wives and chil¬dren and relatives, the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death, and it was concluded with the general agreement that Isaac had died just in time because the family he left behind was noth¬ing but a bunch of idiots.

"What's the boy sick from?"

Rasco, one of the bigger talkers in town and known to embelish, said, "They say it's that queer disease. No way to cure it."

Bickers, at forty the youngest present that morning, said, "You're not talkin' about AIDS, are you?"

"That's what they say."

"The boy's got AIDS and he's comin' to Clanton."

"That's what they say."

"This can't be."

The rumor was confirmed minutes later at the coffee, shop on the east side of the square, where a sassy waitress named Dell had been serving breakfast for many years. The early-morning crowd was the usual collection of off-duty deputies and factory workers, with a white collar or two mixed in. One of them said, "Say, Dell, you heard anythang about that youngest Keane boy movin' back home?"

Dell, who often started benign rumors out of boredom but generally maintained good sources, said, "He's already here."

"And he's got AIDS?"

"He's got something. All pale, wasted away, looks like death already."

"When did you see him?"

"Didn't. But his aunt's housekeeper told me all about it yesterday afternoon." Dell was behind the counter, waiting on more food from the cook, and every customer in her cafe was listening. "He's a sick boy, all right. There's no cure, nothin' nobody can do. Won't nobody take care of him in San Francisco, so he's come home to die. Very sad."

"Where's he livin'?"

"Well, he won't be livin' in the big house, that's for sure. The family got together and decided he couldn't stay there. What he's got is contagious as hell, and deadly, and so they're puttin' him in one of Isaac's old houses in Lowtown."

"He's livin' with the coloreds?"

"That's what they say."

This took a while to sink in, but it began to make sense. The thought of a Keane living across the railroad tracks in the black section was hard to accept, but then it seemed logical that anyone with AIDS should not be allowed on the white side of town.

Dell continued, "God knows how many shacks and houses old man Keane bought and built in Lowtown. I think he still owns a few dozen."

"Reckon who the boy'll live with?"

"I don't really care. I just don't want him comin' in here."

"Now, Dell. What would you do if he walked in right now and wanted breakfast?"

She wiped her hands on a dishcloth, stared at the man who asked the question, tightened her jaws, and said, "Look, I can re¬fuse service to anyone. Believe me, with my customers, I think about this all the time. But if he comes in here, I'll ask him to leave. You gotta remember, this boy is highly contagious, and we're not talkin' about the common cold. If I serve him, then one of you might get his plate or glass next time around. Think about that."

They thought about it for a long time.

Finally, someone said, "Reckon how long he'll live?"

That question was being discussed across the street on the second floor of the courthouse in the offices of the chancery clerk, where the early-morning coffee crowd was nibbling on pastries and catching up with the latest news. Myra, who was in charge of filing land deeds, had finished high school one year before Adrian Keane, and of course they knew even back then that he was different. She had the floor.

Ten years after graduation, Myra and her husband were vacationing in California when she gave Adrian a call. They met for lunch at Fisherman's Wharf and, with Alcatraz, and the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, had a delightful time talking about their Clanton days. Myra assured Adrian nothing had changed in their hometown. Adrian talked freely about his lifestyle. The year was 1984, he was happily out of the closet, though not attached to anyone in particular. He was worried about AIDS, a disease Myra had never heard of in 1984. The first wave of the epidemic had roared through the gay community out there, and the casu¬alties were heartbreaking, and frightening. Changes in lifestyles were being advocated. Some die within six months, Adrian had explained to Myra and her husband. Others hang on for years. He had already lost some friends.

Myra described the lunch again in great detail before a rapt audience of a dozen other clerks. The fact that she'd actually been to San Francisco and driven across that bridge made her special. They had seen the photographs, and more than once.

"They say he's already here," another clerk said.

"How long's he got?"

But Myra didn't know. Since the lunch five years earlier, she'd had no contact with Adrian, and it was obvious she wanted none now.

The first sighting was confirmed minutes later when a Mr. Rutledge entered the barbershop for his weekly trim. His nephew threw the Tupelo daily each morning at sunrise, and every house in downtown Clanton received one. The nephew had heard the rumors and was on the lookout. He rode his bike slowly down Harrison Street, even slower when he approached the old Keane place, and sure enough, that very morning, not two hours earlier, he came face-to-face with a stranger he would not soon forget.

Mr. Rutledge described the encounter. "Joey said he's never seen a sicker man, frail and gaunt, skin pale as a corpse, with splotches on his arm, sunken cheekbones, thin hair. Said it was like lookin' at a cadaver." Rutledge seldom encountered a fact he couldn't improve upon, and this was well-known to the others. But he had their attention. No one dared to question whether Joey, a limited thirteen-year-old, would use a word like "cadaver."

"What'd he say?"

"Joey said, 'Good morning,' and this fella said, 'Good morn¬ing,' and Joey handed over the newspaper, but he was careful to keep his distance."

"Smart boy."

"And then he got on his bike and hurried off. You can't catch that stuff just from the air, can you?"

No one ventured a guess.

By 8:30 Dell had heard of the sighting, and there was already some speculation about Joey's health. By 8:45, Myra and the clerks were chattering excitedly about the ghostlike figure who'd frightened the paperboy in front of the old Keane place.

An hour later, a police car made a run down Harrison Street, the two officers in it straining mightily to catch a glimpse of the ghost. By noon, all of Clanton knew that a man dying of AIDS was now in their midst.

The deal was cut with little negotiation. Bickering back and forth was futile under the circumstances. The parties were not on level ground, and so it was no surprise that the white woman got what she wanted.

The white woman was Leona Keane, Aunt Leona to some, Leona the Lion to the rest, the ancient matriarch of a family long in decline. The black woman was Miss Emporia, one of only two black spinsters in Lowtown. Emporia was up in years too, about seventy-five, she thought, though there had never been a record of her birth. The Keane family owned the house Emporia had been renting forever, and it was because of the privilege of ownership that the deal was done so quickly.

Emporia would care for the nephew, and upon his death she would be given a full warranty deed. The little pink house on Roosevelt Street would become hers, free and clear. The transfer would mean little to the Keane family since they had been depleting Isaac's assets for many years. But to Emporia, the transfer meant everything. The thought of owning her beloved home far outweighed her reservations about taking care of a dying white boy.

Since Aunt Leona would never think of being seen on the other side of the tracks, she arranged for her gardener to drive the boy over and deliver him to his final destination. When Aunt Leona's old Buick stopped in front of Miss Emporia's, Adrian Keane looked at the pink house with its white porch, its hanging ferns, its flower boxes brimming with pansies and geraniums, its tiny front lawn lined with a picket fence, and he looked next door to a small house, painted a pale yellow and just as neat and pretty. He looked farther down the street, to a row of narrow, happy homes adorned with flowers and rocking chairs and welcoming doors. Then he looked back at the pink house, and he decided that he'd rather die there than in the miserable mansion he'd just left, less than a mile away.

The gardener, still wearing pruning gloves to ward off any chance of infection, quickly unloaded the two expensive leather suitcases that held all of Adrian's things and hurried away with¬out a farewell and without a handshake. He was under strict or¬ders from Miss Leona to bring the Buick home and scrub the interior with a disinfectant.

Adrian looked up and down the street, noticed a few porch sitters hiding from the sun, then picked up his luggage and walked through the front yard, along the brick "walkway to the steps. The front door opened and Miss Emporia presented herself, with a smile. "Welcome, Mr. Keane," she said.

Adrian said, "Please, none of this 'Mister' stuff. Nice to meet you." At this point in the pleasantries a handshake was in order, but Adrian understood the problem. He quickly added, "Look, it's safe to shake hands, but let's just skip it."

That was fine with Emporia. She'd been warned by Leona that his appearance was startling. She quickly took in the hollow cheeks and eyes and the whitest skin she'd ever seen, and she pre¬tended to ignore the bony frame draped with clothing much too large now. Without hesitation, she waved at a small table on the porch and asked, "Would you like some sweet tea?"

"That "would be nice, thank you."

His words were crisp, his southern accent abandoned years ago. Emporia "wondered what else the young man had lost along the way. They settled around the wicker table, and she poured the sugary tea. There was a saucer with gingersnaps. She took one; he did not.

"How's your appetite?" she asked.

"It's gone. When I left here years ago, I lost a lot of weight. Got away from all the fried stuff and never really became much of an eater. Now, with this, there's not much of an appetite."

"So I won't be cookin' much?"

"I guess not. Are you okay with this, this arrangement here? I mean, it seems like my family forced this down your throat, which is exactly what they do. If you're not happy, I can find an¬other place."

"The arrangement is fine, Mr. Keane."

"Please call me Adrian. And what should I call you?"

"Emporia. Let's just go with the first names."

"Deal."

"Where would you find another place?" she asked.

"I don't know. It's all so temporary now." His voice was hoarse, and his words were slow, as if talking required exertion. He wore a blue cotton shirt, jeans, and sandals.

Emporia once worked in the hospital, and she had seen many cancer patients in their final days. Her new friend reminded her of those poor folks. Sick as he was, though, there was no doubt that he had once been a fine-looking young man.

"Are you happy with this arrangement?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"A white gentleman from a prominent family living here in Lowtown with an old black spinster."

"Might be fun," he said, and managed his first smile.

"I'm sure we'll get along."

He stirred his tea. His smile vanished as the moment of levity passed. Emporia stirred hers too and thought: This poor man. He has little to smile about.

"I left Clanton for a lot of reasons," he said. "It's a bad place for people like me, homosexuals. And it's not so wonderful for people like you. I loathe the way I was raised. I'm ashamed of the way my family treated blacks. I hated the bigotry in this town. I couldn't wait to get out of here. Plus, I wanted the big city."

"San Francisco?"

"I went to New York first, lived there a few years, then got a job on the West Coast. I eventually moved to San Francisco. Then I got sick."

"Why'd you come back if you have such strong feelings against the town?"

Adrian exhaled as if the answer might take an hour, or as if he really didn't know the answer. He wiped some sweat from his forehead, sweat caused not by the humidity but by the sickness. He sipped from his glass. And he finally said, "I'm not sure. I've seen a lot of death recently, been to more than my share of memorials. I couldn't stand the thought of being buried in a cold mausoleum in a faraway city. Maybe it's just the Southern thing. We all come home eventually."

"That makes sense."

"And, I ran out of money, to be honest. The drugs are very expensive. I needed my family, or at least its resources. There are other reasons. It's complicated. I didn't want to burden my friends with another agonizing death."

"And you planned to stay over there, not here in Lowtown?"

"Believe me, Emporia, I'd much rather be here. They didn't want me back in Clanton. For years they paid me to stay away. They disowned me, cut me out of their wills, refused to speak my name. So, I figured I'd upset their lives one last time. Make them suffer a little. Make them spend some money."

A police car drove slowly down the street. Neither men¬tioned it. When it was gone, Adrian took another sip and said, "You need some background, some of the basics. I've had AIDS for about three years, and I won't live much longer. I'm basically safe to be around. The only way to catch the disease is through the exchange of body fluids, so let's agree right now that we will not have sex."

Emporia howled with laughter, and she was soon joined by Adrian. They laughed until their eyes were wet, until the porch shook, until they were laughing at themselves for laughing so hard. A few of the neighbors perked up and looked from far away. When things were finally under control, she said, "I haven't had sex in so long I've forgotten about it."

"Well, Miss Emporia, let me assure you that I've had enough for me, you, and half of Clanton. But those days are over."

"Mine too."

"Good. Keep your hands to yourself and I'll do the same. Other than that, it's wise if we take some precautions."

"The nurse lady came out yesterday and explained thangs."

"Good. Laundry, dishes, food, medicine, rules of the bathroom. All that?"

"Yes."

He rolled up his left sleeve and pointed to a dark bruise.

"Sometimes these things open up, and when they do, I'll put on a bandage. I'll tell you when this happens."

"I thought we weren't gonna touch."

"Right, but just in case you can't control yourself."

She laughed again, but briefly.

"Seriously, Emporia, I'm pretty safe."

"I understand."

"I'm sure you do, but I don't want you living in fear of me. I just spent four days with what's left of my family, and they treated me like I'm radioactive. All these folks around here will do the same. I'm grateful that you agreed to care for me, and I don't want you to worry. It won't be pretty from now on. I look like I'm already dead, and things will get worse."

"You've seen it before, haven't you?"

"Oh yes. Many times. I've lost a dozen friends in the last five years. It's horrible."

She had so many questions, about the disease and the lifestyle, about his friends, and so on, but she put them aside for later. He seemed tired all of a sudden. "Let me show you around," she said.

The police car drove by again, slowly. Adrian watched and asked, "So how often do the cops patrol this street?"

Almost never, she wanted to say. There were other sections of Lowtown where the houses were not as nice, the neighbors not as reliable. There were honky-tonks, a pool hall, a liquor store, groups of young unemployed men hanging around the corners, and there you would see a police car several times a day. She said, "Oh, they come by occasionally."

They stepped inside, into the den. "It's a little house," she said, almost in defense. He, after all, had been raised in a fine home on a shady street. Now he was standing in a cottage built by his father and owned by his family.

"It's twice as large as my apartment in New York was," he said.

"You don't say."

"I'm serious, Emporia. It's lovely. I'll be happy here."

The wooden floors shined with polish. The furniture was perfectly centered along the walls. The windows were bright and clear. Nothing was out of order, and everything had the look of constant care. There were two small bedrooms behind the den and kitchen. Adrian's had a double bed with an iron frame that covered half the floor. There was a tiny closet, a dresser too small for a child, and a compact air conditioner in the window.

"It's perfect, Emporia. How long have you lived here?"

"Hmmm, maybe twenty-five years."

"I'm so happy it'll be yours, and soon."

"So am I, but let's not get in a hurry. Are you tired?"

"Yes."

"Would you like a nap? The nurse said you need a lot of sleep."

"A nap would be great."

She closed the door, and the room was silent.

While he was sleeping, a neighbor from across the street strolled over and sat with Emporia on the porch. His name was Herman Grant, and he tended to be on the curious side.

"What's that white boy doin' here?" he asked.

Emporia was ready with the answer, one she had been planning for a few days now. The questions and confrontations would come and go, she hoped. "His name is Adrian Keane, Mr. Isaac Keane's youngest, and he's very sick. I have agreed to take care of him."

"If he's sick, why ain't he at the hospital?"

"He's not that kind of sick. There's nothin' they can do at the hospital. He has to rest and take a sackful of pills every day."

"Is he a dead man?"

"Probably so, Herman. He will only get worse, then he'll die. It's very sad."

"Has he caught cancer?"

"No, it's not cancer."

"What is it?"

"It's a different disease, Herman. Something they have out in California."

"That don't make any sense."

"A lot of things don't."

"I don't understand why he's livin' with you, here in our side of town."

"As I said, Herman, I'm takin' care of him."

"They makin' you do it 'cause they own the house?"

"No."

"You gettin' paid?"

"Mind your own business, Herman."

Herman left and headed down the street. Before long, word had spread.

The chief stopped by the coffee shop for pancakes, and be-fore long Dell had him cornered. "I just don't understand why you can't quarantine the boy," she said loudly, for the benefit of all, and all were listening.

"That takes a court order, Dell," the chief said.

"So he's free to just walk around town, spreadin' germs everywhere?"

The chief was a patient man who'd handled many crises over the years. "We're all free to walk around, Dell. It's somewhere in the Constitution."

"What if he infects somebody else? Then what'll you say?"

"We checked with the state health department. AIDS killed seventy-three people last year in Mississippi, so those folks have seen it before. AIDS ain't like the flu. The only way to catch it is through body fluids."

Silence, as Dell and the rest of the customers thought hard about all the different fluids the human body can produce. During the pause the chief worked on a mouthful of pancakes, and after he swallowed, he said, "Look, no need to get excited. We're watchin' thangs closely. He's not botherin' anybody. Just sits on the porch mainly, him and Emporia."

"I hear folks're already upset down there." "That's what they say."

At the barbershop, a regular said, "I hear the coloreds ain't too happy down there. Word's out they got this funny boy hidin' in one of his dead daddy's old rental houses. Folks're angry."

"Can't blame them. What if he moved in next to you?"

"I'd get my shotgun and keep his ass on his side of the fence, for sure."

"He's not hurtin' anybody. What's all the fuss?"

"I read an article last night. They're predictin' AIDS will become the deadliest disease in the history of the world. It'll kill millions, mainly in Africa, where evidently ever'body just screws ever'body."

"Thought that was Hollywood."

"There too. California has more AIDS cases than any other state."

"Ain't that where the Keane boy picked it up?"

"That's -what they say."

"It's hard to believe we got AIDS here in Clanton in 1989."

In the clerk's office, a young lady named Beth had center stage over doughnuts because her husband was a city police officer and yesterday he'd been sent to check on things in Lowtown. He drove past the little pink house of Emporia Nester, and sure enough, as rumored, sitting there on the front porch was a pale, emaciated young white man. Neither the policeman nor his wife had ever met Adrian Keane, but since half the town had been scrambling to find old yearbooks from Clanton High, there were class photos circulating. Since the policeman had been trained to quickly identify suspects, he was fairly certain that he had seen Adrian Keane.

"Why are the police watchin' him?" Myra asked, somewhat irritated.

"Well, my husband was there because that's what he was told to do," Beth answered sharply.

"It's not a crime to have a disease, is it?" Myra shot back.

"No, but the police are supposed to protect the public, aren't

they?"

"So, by watchin' Adrian Keane and makin' sure he stays on the porch, the rest of us will be safer, is that what you're sayin', Beth?"

"I didn't say that, so don't put words in my mouth. I can speak for myself."

And so it went.

He slept late and stayed in the bed for a long time, staring at the white board ceiling and wondering how many days were left. Then he again asked himself why he was where he was, but he knew the answer. He had watched so many of his friends waste away. Months earlier he had made the decision that those friends still living would not be burdened with watching him. It was easier to say good-bye with a quick kiss and a strong embrace, while he was still able.

His first night in the pink house had been the usual series of chills and sweats, memories and nightmares, brief naps and long periods of staring into the darkness. He was tired when he awoke, and he knew the fatigue -would never leave. Eventually, he eased out of bed, got dressed, then faced the chemicals. There were over a dozen bottles of pills, all lined up in a neat row, all in an order that the doctors had decreed. The first barrage included eight medications, and he washed them down with a glass of water. He would return several times during the day for more combinations, and as he screwed the caps back on, he thought about how futile it was. The pills were not advanced enough to save his life—that cure was so far away—but designed only to prolong it. Maybe. Why bother? The cost was $1,000 a month, money his family grudgingly supplied. Two friends had committed suicide, and that thought was never far away.

The house was already warm, and he remembered the long humid days of his childhood, the hot, sticky summers he had not missed in his other life.

He heard Emporia in the kitchen and went to say hello.

He didn't eat meat or dairy products, so they eventually set' tied on a plate of sliced tomatoes from her garden. A strange breakfast, she thought, but Aunt Leona had said to feed him whatever he wanted. "He's been gone for a long time," she'd said. Afterward, they fixed cups of instant chicory coffee with sugar and moved to the front porch.

Emporia wanted to know all about New York City, a place she'd only read about and seen on television. Adrian described it, talked about his years there, college, his first job, the crowded streets, endless stores and shops, ethnic neighborhoods, masses of people, and wild nightlife. A lady at least as old as Emporia stopped in front of the house and called out, "Hello, Emporia."

"Mornin', Doris. Come sit with us."

Doris did not hesitate. Introductions were made, without handshakes. Doris was the wife of Herman Grant, from across the street, a very close friend of Emporia's. If she was nervous around Adrian, it was not evident. Within minutes the two women were talking about their new preacher, a man they were not sure they liked, and from there they launched into church gossip. For some time they forgot about Adrian, who was con¬tent to listen with amusement. When they finished with church business, they moved on to the families. Emporia, of course, had no children, but Doris had enough for both. Eight, most of them scattered up north, with thirty-some-odd grandchildren and younger ones after that. All sorts of adventures and conflicts were discussed.

After an hour of listening, Adrian jumped in during a pause. "Say, Emporia, I need to go to the library and check out some books. It's probably too far to "walk."

Emporia and Doris looked at him oddly, but held their tongues. Even a casual glance at Adrian revealed a man too frail to make it to the end of the street. In this heat the poor boy would collapse within a rock's throw of the pink house.

Clanton had one library, near the square, and had never con¬sidered a branch in Lowtown.

"How do you get around?" he asked. It was obvious Empo¬ria did not own a car.

"Just call the Black and White."

"The what?"

"Black and White Taxi," Doris said. "Use 'em all the time."

"You don't know the Black and White?" Emporia asked.

"I've been gone for fourteen years."

"Yes, you have. It's a long story," Emporia said as she shifted her weight and settled in for the tale.

"Yes, it is," Doris added.

"There are two brothers, both named Hershel. One black, one white, about the same age. I'd say forty, wouldn't you, Doris?"

"Forty's 'bout right."

"Same father, different mothers. One over here. One over there. Father ran off long ago, and the Hershels knew the truth but couldn't come to grips with it. Eventually, they got together and accepted what the whole town knew anyway. They sorta look alike, don't you thank, Doris?"

"White one's taller, but the colored one's even got green eyes."

"So they start a taxi company. Got a couple of old Fords with a million miles. Painted 'em black and white, and that's the name of the company. They pick up folks here and haul 'em over there to clean houses and shop, and they sometimes pick up folks over there and bring 'em here."

"For what?" Adrian asked.

Emporia looked at Doris, who met her gaze, then looked away. Adrian smelled some wonderful small-town dirt and wasn't about to back off. "So, tell me ladies. Why do the taxis bring white folks across the tracks?"

"They have some poker games over here," Emporia admitted. "From what I hear."

"And some women," Doris added quietly.

"And illegal whiskey."

"I see," Adrian said.

Now that the truth was out, the three of them watched a young mother walk down the street with a brown sack of groceries.

"So, I can just call one of the Hershels and catch a ride to the library?" Adrian asked.

"I'm happy to call for you. They know me well."

"They're nice boys," Doris added. Emporia left the porch and went inside. Adrian smiled to himself and tried to believe the story of two brothers named Hershel.

"She's a sweet woman," Doris said, fanning herself.

"She certainly is," he said.

"Just never found the right man."

"How long have you known her?"

"Not long. Thirty years, maybe."

"Thirty years is not long?"

A chuckle. "Maybe to you, but some of these folks along here I grew up with, and I grew up a long time ago. How old you thank I am?"

"Forty-five."

"You're full of baloney. I'll be eighty in three months."

"No."

"God's truth."

"How old is Herman?"

"Says he's eighty-two, but you can't believe him."

"How long you been married?"

"Got married when I was fifteen. Long time ago."

"And you have eight children?"

"Got eight. Herman, he's got eleven."

"Herman has more children than you do?"

"He's got three outside children."

Adrian decided not to explore the concept of outside children. Maybe he understood this when he lived in Clanton, maybe not. Emporia returned with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. To ease her mind, Adrian had insisted, gently, that he use the same glass, plate, bowl, cup, knife, fork, and spoon every time. She poured ice water, with lemon, into his designated glass, an odd souvenir from the county fair, 1977-

"Got the white Hershel. He'll be here in a minute," Emporia said.

They sipped the ice water, fanned themselves, discussed the heat. Doris said, "He thanks I'm forty-five years old, Emporia. Whatta you say 'bout that?"

"White folks can't tell. There's the cab."

Evidently, business was slow for a Tuesday morning because the car arrived less than five minutes after Emporia called. It was indeed an old Ford Fairlane, black with white doors and a white hood, clean with shiny wheels, phone numbers on the fenders.

Adrian stood and slowly stretched, as if every movement had to be contemplated. "Well, I'll be back in an hour or so. I'm just going to the library to get a few books."

"You gonna be all right now?" Emporia asked with great concern.

"Sure. I'll be fine. Nice to meet you, Miss Doris," he said, al¬most like a real Southerner.

"I'll be seein' you," Doris said with a huge smile.

Adrian stepped off the porch, down the steps, and was halfway to the street when the white Hershel scrambled out of the car and yelled, "Oh no! No way in hell you're gettin' in my taxi!" He walked to the front of the car and pointed angrily at Adrian. "I've heard about you!"

Adrian froze, stunned, unable to respond.

Hershel kept on. "You ain't ruinin' my business!"

Emporia was at the steps. She said, "It's okay, now, Hershel. You have my word."

"That's enough, Miss Nester. This ain't about you. He ain't gettin' in my car. You shoulda told me it was him."

"Now, Hershel."

"Ever'body in town knows about him. No way. No way in hell." Hershel stomped back to the open driver's door, got in, slammed it, and sped away. Adrian watched the car as it disap¬peared down the street, then slowly turned and walked up the steps, past the women, and into the house. He was tired and needed a nap.

The books arrived late in the afternoon. Doris had a niece who taught in the elementary school, and she agreed to check out whatever Adrian wanted. He had decided to finally con¬front the fictional world of William Faulkner, an author who'd been forced upon him in high school. Back then, Adrian believed, as did all students in Mississippi, that there was a state law requiring English teachers to include Faulkner. He had struggled through A Fable, Requiem for a Nun, The Unvanquished, and others he'd tried to forget, and he'd finally surrendered in bewildering defeat halfway through The Sound and the Fury. Now, in his last days, he was determined to understand Faulkner.

After dinner, or "supper," as it was called, he sat on the porch while Emporia washed the dishes and started at the begin¬ning, with Soldiers' Pay, published in 1926, when Faulkner was just twenty-nine. He read a few pages and stopped for a break. He listened to the sounds around him: the soft laughter from the other porches, the squeals of children playing in the distance, a television three doors down, the shrill voice of a woman angry at her husband. He watched the languid foot traffic on Roosevelt, and was quite aware of the curious looks when anyone walked past the pink house. He always smiled and nodded when there was eye contact, and there were a few reluctant hellos in return.

At dusk, Emporia came to the porch and settled herself into her favorite rocker. Nothing was said for a while. Nothing needed to be said because by now they were old friends.

Finally, she said, "I feel real bad about Hershel and his taxi."

"Don't worry yourself with it. I understand."

"He's just ignorant."

"I've seen far worse, Emporia, and so have you."

"I suppose. But that don't make it right."

"No, it doesn't."

"Can I get you some iced tea?"

"No. I'd like something stronger."

She thought about this for a second and didn't respond.

"Look, Emporia, I know you don't drink, but I do. I'm not a big boozer, but I'd really like a drink."

"I've never had alcohol in my house."

"Then I'll drink on the porch. Right here."

"I'm a Christian woman, Adrian."

"I know a lot of Christians who drink. Look at First Timothy, chapter 5, verse 23, where Paul tells Timothy to have a little wine to settle his stomach."

"You got problems with your stomach?"

"I got problems everywhere. I need some wine to make me feel better."

"I don't know about this."

"It would make you feel better too."

"My stomach's good."

"Fine. You drink tea and I'll drink wine."

"Where you gonna find wine. Liquor stores are closed."

"They close at ten o'clock. State law. I'll bet there's one not far from here."

"Look here, I can't tell you what not to do, but it'd be a big mistake for you to go to the whiskey store at this hour of the day. You might not make it back." She couldn't imagine a white man, especially one in his condition, walking four blocks to Willie Ray's whiskey store, where the young toughs loitered in the parking lot, buying his liquor, then making it back to her house. "It's a bad idea, let me tell you."

A few minutes passed without a word. A man approached on foot in the middle of the street.

"Who's that guy?" Adrian asked.

"Carver Sneed."

"Nice fella?"

"He's all right."

Adrian suddenly called out, "Mr. Sneed!"

Carver was in his late twenties and currently living with his parents at the far end of Roosevelt Street. He was going nowhere, in fact was walking by for the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of the "ghost" who was dying on Emporia Nester's porch. He had not planned to come face-to-face with the man. He veered over to the picket fence and said, "Evenin', Miss Emporia."

Adrian was standing at the top step.

"This here is Adrian," Emporia said, not happy with the encounter.

"Nice to meet you, Carver," Adrian said.

"And you."

No sense wasting time, Adrian thought. "Don't suppose you'd make a run to the liquor store, would you?" he said. "I'd like something to drink, and Miss Emporia here doesn't keep much in the way of liquor."

"Ain't no whiskey in my house," she said. "Never has been."

"I'll buy you a six-pack of beer for your trouble," Adrian added quickly.

Carver walked to the steps and looked up at Adrian, then he looked at Emporia, who sat with her arms folded across her chest and her jaws clenched. "He for real?" he asked Emporia.

"He ain't lied yet," she said. "Not sayin' he won't."

"Whatta you want from the store?" Carver asked Adrian.

"I'd like some wine, preferably a chardonnay."

"A what?"

"Any kind of white wine will do."

"Willie Ray don't carry much wine. Not much of a demand for it."

Adrian was suddenly worried about the definition of wine on this side of the tracks. The selection on the other side was pal' try enough. He could almost see a bottle of spiked fruit juice with a screw-on cap. "Does Willie Ray have any wine with corks in the bottles?"

Carver pondered this for a moment, then said, "What's the cork for?"

"How do you open the wine bottles at Willie Ray's?"

"Screw off the top."

"I see. And about how much is a bottle of wine at Willie Ray's?"

Carver shrugged and said, "I don't buy much. I prefer beer."

"Just guess. How much?"

"Boone's Farm'll run you 'bout four bucks a bottle."

Adrian took some cash out of the right pocket of his dungarees. "Let's forget the wine. I want you to buy the most expensive bottle of tequila you can find in the store. Got it?"

"Whatever you say."

"Buy a six-pack for you, and bring me the change." Adrian held out the cash, but Carver froze. He looked at the money, looked at Adrian, then looked at Emporia for help.

"It's okay," Adrian said. "You can't get sick from handling money."

Carver still couldn't move, couldn't force himself to reach up and take the cash.

"No need to worry, Carver," Emporia said, suddenly anxious to help with the transaction. "Trust me."

"I swear you'll be fine," Adrian said.

Carver began shaking his head, then began backing away. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, almost to himself.

Adrian returned the cash to his pocket as he watched Carver disappear into the night. His legs were weak, and he needed to sit, maybe to sleep. He slowly squatted, then came to rest on the top step, where he leaned his head on the rail and for a long time said nothing. Emporia moved behind him and went into the house.

When she returned to the porch, she asked, "Does 'tequila' have a q or a c in it?"

"Forget it, Emporia."

"A q or a c?" She brushed by him and went down the steps onto the walkway.

"No, Emporia. Please. I'm not thirsty anymore."

"I think it's a 'q,' am I right?" She was in the street, wearing an old pair of white sneakers and moving away at an impressive gait.

"It's q," Adrian yelled.

"I knew it," came the reply, two doors down.

And often the rumors were completely false, outright fabri¬cations created by those who either enjoyed watching their little lies sweep around the town or found pleasure in causing trouble.

The latest one began in the courthouse, on the second floor, in the office of the chancery clerk, where the lawyers came and went at all hours of the day. When a group of lawyers gathered to do title work, there was no shortage of gossip. Since the Keane family was getting more than its share of attention at the moment, it was only natural that the lawyers played an active role in the discussions. Even more natural that one of them would start trouble.

Though variations of it cropped up immediately, the basic rumor was: Adrian had more money than most people thought because his grandfather had set up some complicated trusts before Adrian was even born, and upon his fortieth birthday he would inherit an impressive sum, but since he wouldn't see his fortieth birthday, the inheritance could be transferred by him through a last will and testament to any beneficiary he wanted. And the good part: an unnamed lawyer had been hired by Adrian to draft his last will and testament, with directions that this mysterious future inheritance would be given to (a) Emporia Nester, or (b) a new gay rights advocacy group that was struggling to get started over in Tupelo, or (c) a boyfriend back in San Francisco, or (d) a college scholarship fund for black students only. Take your pick.

Because of its complexity, the rumor got little traction and almost sank under its own weight. When people whispered about, say, who's seeing someone else's wife, the issue was fairly straightforward and easily grasped. But most folks had no expe¬rience with generation-skipping trusts and inheritances and other lawyerly creations, and the details became far more muddled than usual. By the time Dell finished with it at the coffee shop, the boy was due a fortune, of which Emporia would get the most, and his family was threatening to sue.

Only at the barbershop did a voice of reason ask the obvious. "If he's got money, why is he dyin' away in an old shack down in Lowtown?"

Whereupon an argument ensued about how much money he actually had. The majority view was that he had little, but was counting on the inheritance from the trusts. One brave soul mocked the others, claiming it was all nonsense, claiming to know for a fact that the entire Keane clan was "as poor as Job's turkey."

"Look at the old house," he said. "They're too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash."

In late June, the heat rose to a new level, and Adrian kept to himself in his room, near the noisy air conditioner that barely worked. The fevers arrived with greater frequency, and he simply could not survive the heavy, suffocating air on the front porch. In his room, he wore nothing but his underwear, which was often soaked with sweat. He read Faulkner and wrote dozens of letters to friends from his other life. And he slept, off and on, through¬out the day. A nurse stopped by every third day for a quick exam and another supply of pills, all of which he was now flushing down the toilet.

Emporia worked hard to put some fat on him, but he had no appetite. Since she had never cooked for a family, she had limited experience in the kitchen. Her small garden produced enough tomatoes, squashes, peas, butter beans, and cantaloupes to keep her fed throughout the year, and Adrian gamely tried to enjoy the generous meals she prepared. She convinced him to eat corn bread—though it contained butter, milk, and eggs. She had never met a person who refused meat, fish, chicken, and dairy products, and more than once she asked, "All them folks in California eat like that?"

"No, but there are a lot of vegetarians." "You •was raised better."

"Let's not talk about the way I was raised, Emporia. My en¬tire childhood was a nightmare."

She set the table three times a day, at the hours he chose, and they worked at prolonging the meals. Adrian knew it was im¬portant for her to make sure he was properly fed, and he ate as much as he could. It was obvious, though, that after two weeks he was still losing weight.

It was during lunch that the preacher called. Emporia, as al¬ways, answered the phone, which hung on a wall in the kitchen. Adrian was certainly permitted to use the phone, but he rarely did. There was no one to talk to in Clanton. He did not call any¬one in his family, and they did not call him. There were friends in San Francisco, but they were almost all gone now, and he did not want to hear their voices.

"Good afternoon, Reverend," she said, then turned away and stretched the cord as far as possible. They talked briefly, and she hung up with a pleasant "Til see you at three o'clock." She sat down and immediately took a bite of corn bread.

"So how's the reverend?" Adrian asked. "Fine, I reckon."

"He's coming by at three this afternoon?"

"No. I'll run by the church. Said he wants to talk about somethin'."

"Any idea what?"

"You're right curious these days."

"Well, Emporia, I've lived in Lowtown for two weeks now, and I've realized that everybody's business belongs to everybody else. It's almost impolite not to pry a little. Plus, gay people are nosier than straight people. Did you know that?"

"Ain't never heard such."

"It's true. It's a proven fact. So why won't the reverend stop by and see you? Isn't that part of his job, making house calls, checking on his flock, welcoming newcomers like me? I saw him three days ago over on the porch chatting with Doris and Her¬man. Kept looking over here like he might catch a fever. You don't like him, do you?"

"I liked the other man better."

"Me too. I'm not going to church with you, Emporia, so please don't ask me again."

"I've only asked you twice."

"Yes, and I've said thanks. It's very nice of you, but I have no interest in going to your church or any other. Not sure I'd be too welcome anywhere these days."

She had no comment.

"I had this dream the other night. There was a revival service at a church, white church, here in Clanton, one of those rowdy hell-fire-and-brimstone affairs with people rolling in the aisles and faint¬ing and the choir singing 'Shall We Gather at the River' at full throttle, and the preacher was at the altar begging and pleading for all sinners to come on down and surrender all. You get the picture."

"Ever' Sunday."

"And I walked through the door, dressed in white, looking worse than I look now, and I started down the aisle toward the preacher. He had this look of terror on his face, couldn't say a word. The choir stopped mid-stanz;a. Everyone fro2,e as I kept walking down the aisle, which took a long time. Finally, someone yelled, 'It's him! The guy with AIDS! Somebody else yelled, 'Run!' And all hell broke loose. There was a stampede. Mothers grabbed their children. I kept walking down the aisle. Men jumped out of windows. I kept walking. These really large women in gold choir robes were falling all over their fat asses trying to get out of the sanctuary. I kept walking toward the preacher, and fi¬nally, just as I got to him, I reached out my hand. He didn't move. He couldn't speak. The church was empty, not a sound." Adrian took a sip of tea and wiped his forehead.

"Go on. What happened then?"

"Don't know, I woke up, and I had a good laugh. Dreams can be very real. I guess some sinners are too far gone."

"That's not what the Bible says."

"Thank you, Emporia. And thank you for lunch. I need to lie down now."

At 3:00 p.m., Emporia met with Reverend Biler in his office at the church. Such a meeting in such a place could only mean trouble, and not long after the initial pleasantries the reverend got to the point, or at least to one of them. "I hear you've been seen in Willie Ray's whiskey store."

This was no surprise whatsoever, and Emporia was ready. "I'm seventy-five years old, at least thirty years older than you, and if I choose to buy medication for a friend, then I'll do so."

"Medication?"

"That's what he calls it, and I told his family he'd be properly medicated."

"Call it whatever you want, Emporia, but the elders are upset over this. One of our senior ladies seen in a whiskey store. What kind of example is that for our youth?"

"It's my job, and this job won't last much longer."

"There's a rumor you've invited him to worship with us."

Thank you, Doris, Emporia thought but didn't say. Doris was the only person she'd told about inviting Adrian to church. "I in¬vite everyone to worship with us, Reverend. That's what you want. That's what the Bible says."

"Well, this is a little different."

"Don't worry. He ain't comin'."

"Praise the Lord. The wages of sin is death, Emporia, and this young man is paying for his sins."

"Yes, he is."

"And how safe are you, Emporia? This disease is sweeping across our country, across the world. It's highly contagious, and, to be honest with you, there are grave concerns in our commu¬nity over your safety. Why are you running this risk? Why take this chance? It seems so unlike you."

"The nurse tells me I'm safe. I keep him clean and fed, and medicated, and I wear rubber gloves when I do his laundry. The virus is spread through intercourse and blood, both of which are being avoided." She smiled. He did not.

He folded his hands together and set them on the desk, very piouslike. His face was hard when he said, "Some of our members are uneasy around you."

She had anticipated everything but that, and when she real¬ized the meaning of it, she was speechless.

"You touch what he touches. You breathe the same air, eat the same food, drink the same water and tea, and God knows what else these days. You clean his clothes and laundry and bedsheets, and you wear rubber gloves because of the virus. Shouldn't that tell you how great the danger is, Emporia? Then you bring the germs here, to the house of the Lord."

"I'm safe, Reverend. I know I’m safe."

"Maybe so, but perception is everything. Some of your brothers and sisters here think you're crazy for doing this, and they are afraid."

"Someone has to care for him." "These are wealthy white people, Emporia." "He has no one else."

"We'll not argue that. My concern is my church."

"It's my church too. I was here long before you came, and now you're askin' me to stay away?"

"I want you to consider a leave of absence, until he passes."

Minutes dragged by without a word. Emporia, her eyes wet but her head high, stared through a window and watched the leaves of a tree. Biler remained motionless and studied his hands. When she finally stood, she said, "Then let's call it a leave of absence, Reverend. It'll start now, and it'll be over when I decide it's over. And while I'm absent, I'll walk in the whiskey store anytime I choose, and you and your little spies can gossip all you want."

He was following her to the door. "Don't overreact, Emporia. We all love you."

"I feel the love."

"And we'll be prayin' for you, and for him."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear that."

The lawyer's name was Fred Mays, and his was the only name in the yellow pages that Adrian recognized. Adrian spoke briefly with him on the phone, then wrote him a long letter. At four o'clock on a Friday afternoon Mays and a secretary parked in front of the pink house. Mays unloaded his briefcase. He also un-loaded a case of wine from the nicer liquor store on the other side of the tracks. Emporia walked across the street to visit Doris so the legal matters could be tended to in private.

Contrary to the varied rumors floating around, Adrian had nothing in the way of assets. There was no mysterious trust created by long-dead relatives. The will prepared by Mays required all of one page, with the remnants of Adrian's dwindling supply of cash going to Emporia. The second document, and the more important one, set forth the burial arrangements. When everything was signed and notarized, Mays hung around for a glass of wine and some idle talk about Clanton. The glass of wine didn't last long. Mays and his secretary seemed anxious to conclude the meeting. They left, good-byes and nods but no handshakes, and as soon as they were back in the office on the square, they were describing the boy's dreadful condition.

The following Sunday, Emporia complained of a headache and announced she would not go to church. It was raining, and the weather gave her another excuse to stay home. They ate bis¬cuits on the porch and watched the storm.

"How's your headache?" Adrian asked.

"It's better. Thank you."

"You told me once you haven't missed church in over forty years. Why are you staying home today?"

"I don't feel too good, Adrian. It's that simple."

"You and the preacher have a falling-out?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I said no."

"You haven't been yourself since you met with him the other day. I think he said something to offend you, and I think it was something to do with me. Doris comes over less and less. Herman, never. Isabelle hasn't stopped by in a week. The phone doesn't ring as much. Now you're staying away from church. If you ask me, I'd say Lowtown is giving you the cold shoulder, and it's all because of me."

She didn't argue. How could she? He was telling the truth, and any objection from her would ring false.

Thunder rattled the windows and the wind turned, blowing rain onto the porch. They went inside, Emporia to the kitchen, Adrian to his room, with the door closed. He stripped to his underwear and reclined on the bed. He was almost finished with As I Lay Dying, Faulkner's fifth novel and one Adrian had seriously considered skipping, for obvious reasons. But he found it much more accessible than the others, and unexpectedly humorous. He finished it in an hour, and fell asleep.

By late afternoon the rain was gone; the air was clear and pleasant. After a light supper of peas and corn bread, they drifted back to the porch, where Adrian soon announced that his stomach was in disarray and he need some wine, per First Timothy, chapter 5, verse 23. His designated wineglass was a cracked coffee mug with permanent chicory stains. He'd taken a few sips when Emporia announced, "You know, my stomach is a bit un¬settled too. I might try some of that."

Adrian smiled and said, "Wonderful. I'll get it."

"No. You sit tight. I know where the bottle is."

She returned with a similar mug and settled into her rock¬ing chair. "Cheers," Adrian said, happy to have a drinking buddy.

Emporia took a swallow, smacked her lips, and said, "Not bad."

"It's a chardonnay. Good, but not great. The best they had in the store."

"It'll do," she said, still cautious.

After the second cup she started giggling. It was dark and the street was quiet.

"Somethin' I've wanted to ask you," she said.

"Anything."

"When did you realize that you were, you know, different? How old were you?"

A pause, a long sip of wine, a story he'd told before but only to those who understood. "Things were pretty normal until I was about twelve. Cub Scouts, baseball and soccer, camping and fish-ing, the usual boy stuff, but as puberty loomed down the road, I began to realize I wasn't interested in girls. The other boys talked about girls and girls, but I just didn't care. I lost interest in sports and began to read about art and design and fashion. As I got older, the boys got more involved with girls, but not me. I knew something was wrong. I had a friend, Matt Mason, a great-looking guy who drove the girls crazy. One day I realized I had a crush on him too, but, of course, I never told anyone. I fantasized about the guy. It drove me nuts; then I started looking at other boys and thinking about them. When I was fifteen, I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. By then, the other kids were beginning to whisper. I couldn't wait to get out of here and live the way I wanted."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"Regrets? No, I don't regret being what I am. Wish I wasn't sick, but then so does everybody else with a terminal illness."

She set her empty cup on the wicker table and gazed into the darkness. The porch light was off. They sat in the shadows, rocking slowly. "Can I tell you somethin' private?" she said.

"Of course. I'll take it to my grave."

"Well, I was sorta like you, except I never liked boys. I never thought about bein' different, you know, and I never thought somethin' was wrong with me. But I never wanted to be with no man."

"You never had a boyfriend?"

"Maybe, one time. There was a boy hangin' around the house, and I felt like I needed to have a boy, you know. My family was gettin' worried 'cause I was almost twenty and still sin¬gle. We went to bed a few times, but I didn't like it. In fact, it made me sick. I couldn't stand bein' touched like that. You promise you won't tell, now."

"I promise. And who would I tell?"

"I trust you."

"Your secret is safe. Have you ever told anyone else?"

"Lord, no. I wouldn't dare."

"Did you ever fool around with a girl?"

"Son, you just didn't do thangs like that back then. They'd ship you off to the nuthouse."

"And now?"

She shook her head and thought about this. "Ever' now and then, there's some gossip 'bout a boy over here who won't fit in, but it's kept real quiet. You hear rumors, you know, but no one ever comes out and lives openly, know what I mean?"

"I do indeed."

"But I've never heard of a woman over here who goes for other women. I suspect they keep it hidden and get married and never tell a soul. Or they do like me—they just play along and say they never found the right man."

"That's sad."

"I'm not sad, Adrian. I've had a happy life. How 'bout just a touch more wine?"

"Good idea."

She hurried away, anxious to leave the conversation behind.

The fevers returned and did not go away. His skin leaked sweat, then he began to cough, a painful hacking cough that gripped him like a seizure and left him too weak to move. Emporia washed and ironed sheets throughout the day, and at night she could only listen to the painful sounds from his room. She pre¬pared meals he could not eat. She put on gloves and bathed him with cold water, neither bothered by his nakedness. His arms and legs were like broom handles now, and he was not strong enough to walk to the front porch. He no longer wanted to be seen by the neighbors, so he stayed in bed, waiting. The nurse came every day now, but did nothing but check his temperature, rearrange his pill bottles, and shake her head gravely at Emporia.

On the last night, Adrian managed to dress himself in a pair of twill slacks and a white cotton shirt. He neatly packed his shoes and clothing in his two leather suitcases, and when everything was in order, he took the black pill and washed it down with wine. He stretched out on the bed, looked around the room, placed an envelope on his chest, managed a smile, and closed his eyes for the last time.

By ten the next morning, Emporia realized she had not heard a sound from him. She pecked on the door to his bedroom, and when she stepped in, there was Adrian, neatly dressed, still smil¬ing, eternally at rest.

The letter read:

Dear Emporia:

Please destroy this letter after you read it. I'm sorry you found me like this, but this moment was, after all, inevitable. The disease had run its course and my time was up. I simply decided to speed things up a bit.

Fred Mays, the lawyer, has taken care of the final arrangements. Please call him first. He will call the coroner, who will come here and pronounce me legally dead. Since neither of the funeral homes in town would handle my body, a rescue-squad ambulance will take me to a crematorium in Tupelo. There, they will happily incinerate me and place my ashes in a container made for the occasion. Standard container, nothing fancy. Fred will then bring my ashes back to Clanton and deliver them to Mr. Franklin Walker at the funeral home here in Lowtown. Mr. Walker has agreed, reluctantly, to bury me in the black section of the cemetery, as far away from my family's plot as possible.

All of this will be done quickly, and, I hope, without the knowledge of my family. I do not want those people getting involved, not that they will want to be. Fred has my written instructions and plans to deal with them, if necessary.

When my ashes are buried, I'd be honored if you would offer a silent word or two. And feel free to stop by my little spot occasionally and leave some flowers. Again, nothing fancy.

There are four bottles of wine left in the fridge. Please drink in remembrance of me.

Thank you so much for your kindness. You've made my last days bearable, even enjoyable at times. You're a wonderful human being, and you deserve to be what you are.

Love, Adrian

Emporia sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, wiping her eyes and even patting his knee. Then she collected herself and went to the kitchen, where she threw the letter in the trash and picked up the phone.