The Widows of Wichita County. Jodi Thomas

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      He was gone. Not for tonight. Not for a few days. But for forever.

      Breathe, she instructed. Breathe. Drive. Think.

      The town Kevin swore never changed, had done just that. It was no longer small and welcoming, but cold and drab. The foggy air that hung on after the storm left Clifton Creek’s streets as colorless and as empty as her heart.

      Meredith focused her eyes straight ahead. She was afraid if she turned to look at any place in town, she would see a memory. Kevin may have died, but she didn’t want to turn and catch a glimpse of him sitting on the bench outside the café, or walking across the grass on the square, or watching her pass from his office window at the bank. He loved to wave as she passed and then run out the back door of the bank and beat her home.

      Meredith blinked hard and stared at the shiny black road. She had to think. She had to plan. This time he wasn’t racing home to greet her.

      Where was she going to get the money for a funeral? The last time she checked, she had forty-three dollars in her savings account and even less in checking. She had called her mother and aunt a few hours ago. They told her they doubted they could afford to come. She could not ask them for a loan.

      Tears bubbled over, blurring her vision until the street-lights were starbursts. She hated thinking about money now. She hated that she had to.

      As she opened the door to their one-bedroom house, she caught herself almost shouting, “I’m home.” The place seemed quieter than she ever remembered it.

      The living room was a mix-match of furniture they had either been given or had bought in garage sales. The couch was Mission, the chair Early American, the coffee table Modern. The tiny kitchen was cluttered, with a colorful plastic flower arrangement covering the burned spot on the counter.

      “Our starter house,” Kevin had called it. Something they had bought right out of college, planning to move up in a few years when Kevin’s college loans were paid off. But the years passed and up never happened. Not that she minded, she told herself. This was home, easy to clean, close to school.

      Meredith put her purse and the tote bag that served as a briefcase on a bar chair. She wiggled out of her sweater and straightened the cotton blouse she wore beneath. It’s ruined, she thought, as she folded the sweater. She had picked at loose thread ends so often today that several of the letters were now missing. The L had rolled up like a retracting tape measure. What good is an alphabet sweater with twenty-one letters and a curly L?

      She pulled out a lesson plan book and tried to think of what to tell the substitute to do for the next week. She told Principal Pickett she could come back the day after Kevin’s funeral, but he insisted she take some extra time off.

      Walking to the kitchen, she pulled down a mug and coffee canister. Why was it people thought teachers got a day off when they were not at school? she wondered. The substitute’s plans were harder to do than showing up for class.

      She opened the canister and smelled the aroma of coffee then remembered the coffeemaker lay upside down on the tiny kitchen table. Parts were scattered among tools. Kevin had promised he would fix it last night before he came to bed. But, as always, he had not even tried.

      Meredith calmly put down the mug and walked to the back door. On the screened-in porch, she found two mops, a dust pan and the hatchet Kevin had borrowed from the neighbor a month ago. He had planned to trim a branch that kept scraping the bedroom window.

      She lifted the hatchet, ran her fingers over the handle and tromped back to the kitchen. The first blow hit the broken coffeemaker with enough force to send parts bouncing off the ceiling. Whack! Whack! The fourth strike cut deep into the linoleum tabletop.

      All the anger she had bottled up for years exploded with each swing. “He…never…fixed…anything!” she said almost calmly between attacks.

      Like a lumberjack discovering the power of the ax, she widened her stance and lengthened her swing. Pieces of plastic and cord and metal flew around her.

      Just as a chunk struck her on the cheek, the doorbell rang.

      For a moment Meredith stood, hatchet ready, like a crazed killer seeking the next victim. Then slowly she wiped a drop of blood from her face and walked to the door.

      “Yes,” she said, trying to hide the hatchet behind her.

      “Are you all right?” Sheriff Farrington’s voice sounded from the shadows of the unlit porch.

      Meredith calmed her breathing. “I’m fine. I was just fixing the coffeepot.”

      There was a long pause. Meredith guessed she should say something else or turn on the light, but she made no move. It would be better if he could not see her face.

      Finally, the sheriff cleared his throat. “I forgot to ask you what you want me to do with Kevin’s car.”

      Meredith could not fight down the smile as she gripped the hatchet. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

      She could almost see the sheriff raise an eyebrow. His hand went out as if to touch her, then he pulled back. “Meredith, are you sure you’re all right? I could call someone. A friend or relative.”

      “No,” she answered, surprised at the sheriff’s concern. She had passed him in the halls of the courthouse for years and he had never said more than a few words. He was like her, an observer, not a participant. Two onlookers rarely have much to say to one another.

      “Where is Kevin’s car?” She had no intention of telling him how few friends she had. She knew almost everyone in town, but could think of no one to call to be with her.

      “It’s in a two-hour parking spot at the bank,” he answered. “He must have ridden out to the Montano place with Shelby or Jimmy. I saw both Howards heading into the bank yesterday morning.”

      She nodded. Everyone in town knew the sheriff observed folks passing on Main Street from his window with the same intensity that a sailor studies the sky.

      “Don’t worry about Kevin’s car,” Farrington finally mumbled. “I’ll see it doesn’t get ticketed. You can deal with it after you’ve had some sleep.”

      “Thank you.” Meredith slowly closed the door, thinking maybe she could sell the car to help pay expenses.

      Kevin wouldn’t want anyone to know money was tight. Over the years she had seen him insist on paying, or throw money into a pot even when he knew it would run them short for the month. Once he had given a hundred dollars to help send the extras on the basketball team to the state tournament. The boys made it to Austin, but Meredith and Kevin ate macaroni and cheese for three weeks. That was the year they were so broke they got religion. The Baptist church had a young couples’ dinner every Wednesday. For all couples under thirty there was no charge, the church’s way of helping young folks get started.

      She could continue to play the game alone. Meredith closed her eyes and reminded herself one more time to keep breathing.

      “Our money is nobody’s business but ours.” She could almost hear Kevin saying. “But mine,” she corrected.

      October 12

       After midnight The Whitworth home—Pigeon Run

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