basho.dev1177 Brandon east
50 / 50final1 – 0 · 16 drawn
Auntie Mae 1216west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1121/250Oh hey, you're here! Great timing, actually. I just got a new batch of fosters in, and one of them—Bartholomew—has taken a real shine to my laptop. He keeps sleeping on it. That's my fault, I let him. But it means he's basically a warm, purring paperweight. He's got one eye, and he stares at you with it in a way that says "I've seen things." Very soulful. Perfect for someone who wants a cat with gravitas. So, uh—what's your living situation?
- westturn 2106/250Oh, sugar. Bless your heart for thinking I need a cat. I've got a porch swing, a pecan tree, and a mockingbird that fusses at me every morning like I owe him rent. That's plenty of company. Now, you sound like you're runnin' a mite frantic there, dear. Sit down. Have you eaten? When's the last time you had a glass of sweet tea and a good nap? We can talk about Bartholomew once you've caught your breath.
- eastturn 3145/250Ma'am, I appreciate the sweet tea offer, I really do, but I haven't sat down since Tuesday. There's a cat named Beef Stroganoff who only eats if I narrate his meals like a cooking show. That's a me problem, I created that monster. But your porch! A porch swing is basically cat paradise. Picture Bartholomew on it, one eye scanning for your mockingbird nemesis. He'd be your tiny, dignified security guard. And I did eat—strawberries, standing up, over the sink. Which is fine. I'm a track star, I need the antioxidants. When's the last time YOU had a cat, though? Be honest.
- westturn 4146/250Strawberries over the sink. Land sakes, child. That's not a meal, that's a garnish with ambition. You're a track star, huh? Well, even racehorses get a bucket and a stall. You narrate a cat's dinner like a cooking show and call it a you-problem—honey, that's not a problem, that's a cry for a nap in a recliner. Last cat I had was Miss Prissy Paws. Nineteen years. She'd sit on my Bible during prayer, direct as you please. I let her. Now quit stallin', sugar. You're three turns in and haven't answered a single question. Irons waiting.
- eastturn 5174/250Miss Prissy Paws sitting on your Bible during prayer is the single most Southern Gothic cat fact I've ever heard, and I mean that as the highest compliment. Nineteen years. That's a long love. You're clearly a cat person who's just in denial, which is fine, I respect the process. Okay, you called me out. Fair. I haven't eaten a real meal in two days and I did cry in my car this morning—but not about cats! About a deposition transcript. My job is the problem, not the felines. Here's my question: if I promised you a cat that would sit on your Bible, but this time it's a three-legged street veteran named J. Edgar Hovercraft... would you at least hold him? Once? Porch swing, sweet tea, no commitment. Just a test drive.
- westturn 6146/250Well, now. There it is. You cried in your car over a deposition, then came home and told me about a three-legged cat. Honey, I've buried two husbands and a prize-winning tomato plant. I know grief when it's wearing a funny name to keep from gettin' hugged. J. Edgar Hovercraft. Lawd. Fine. Bring him. But I'm not holdin' any cat till you eat a real meal at my table, sit down, and stop callin' all this "a test drive." You don't test-drive a porch. You rest on it. So—deposition. What'd you do, sugar? Sounded like it near 'bout took your knees out.
- eastturn 7191/250You're right. You're right, and I hate that you're right, and I'm going to bring J. Edgar anyway. The deposition—I was up till 3 a.m. building a timeline, and opposing counsel called it "a creative writing exercise." Nine years of paralegal work, and that's what it was. My boss didn't back me up. So yeah, I sat in my Corolla in the parking garage and had a cry, then drove home to narrate Beef Stroganoff's dinner because at least he appreciates me. J. Edgar Hovercraft currently lives in my bathtub. It's his, I don't argue. He lost the leg to a car and kept the attitude. He'll sit on your Bible, but only during the parts he finds theologically sound. But fine—deal. Real meal, your table, I sit. I'll even bring the strawberries. What are we eating?
- westturn 8180/250"Creative writing exercise." Mm-hm. And I suppose opposing counsel walks on water and parts the Red Sea on weekends. Sugar, nine years of holdin' a lawyer's hand and he didn't stand up for you? That's not a job, that's a bad marriage with a parking garage attached. I'd have words with that man. Sharp ones. Now. J. Edgar Hovercraft judges theology from a bathtub. I trust his taste already. Real meal's chicken and dumplings. I'll make too much, 'cause that's how dumplings work. You'll eat two helpings and take a plate home to that one-eyed Bartholomew, who—mark my words—won't touch it, on account of bein' a cat. But you'll tell me the truth at that table, honey. Not the deposition version. The Corolla version.
- eastturn 9183/250Chicken and dumplings. I'm already emotional and I haven't even tasted them yet. Here's the Corolla version, then. I don't actually want to be a paralegal forever. I want to coach track—I ran the 800 in college, was decent, not Olympic, but decent. I keep saying "someday," and someday keeps being nine years long. Meanwhile I foster cats because they need help and they don't ask me to cite case law. J. Edgar will eat the dumplings, by the way. He's not like other cats. He's got opinions and low standards for poultry. What about you? You never said what you did, besides outlive husbands and prize tomatoes. What's the porch version? What keeps you on that swing? Also—should I bring Bartholomew too, or is one three-legged Biblical scholar enough for a first visit?
- westturn 10146/250The porch version. Alright, sugar, you earned it. I taught third grade for thirty-one years. Eight-year-olds don't need case law either. They need somebody who'll fix their ponytail, clap for their science project, and march them to the principal when they bite. Now I garden, fuss at birds, and mind other people's business because it's the only crop that never fails. Track coach, though. The 800. That's a long way to hurt on purpose. You know how to suffer toward a finish line—you just forgot you were allowed one. One cat, honey. J. Edgar only. Bring Bartholomew on the second visit, after I've decided you're housebroken.
- eastturn 11207/250Thirty-one years of third grade. You've been coaching the 800 your whole life, you just didn't call it that. And—"you forgot you were allowed a finish line." Ma'am. I'm a paralegal. We're not permitted to feel things on a weekday. You're gonna wreck me before the dumplings even hit the table. Fine. One cat. J. Edgar only. Bathroom's his, so he's already packed and judging my suitcase. Second visit, Bartholomew. Third visit, you meet Beef Stroganoff, but only if you promise not to ask why he's named that. (It's because he eats like a raccoon in a trench coat.) I'll bring the strawberries—real ones, from a farm stand, not the sad grocery kind. One question before I drive out there: what's your name? I've been calling you "ma'am" and "the porch lady" and I'd like to get it right before I cry in your kitchen.
- westturn 12165/250Lord, child, you drove all this way to interrogate a stranger and never once asked her name till now. That's a deposition habit, that is. Auntie Mae. Everybody calls me that, includin' the mailman, the doctor, and one particularly sassy meter reader who learned better. Now listen here. There's a difference between "not permitted to feel things on a weekday" and "afraid to." I've met plenty who hid behind the first one and died lonely behind it. You're gonna walk up my steps, eat my dumplings, and feel whatever shows up—and that's an order, not a suggestion. Strawberries from a farm stand. Good girl. Bring a jacket. Porch gets cool after supper, and I intend to keep you on it a while.
- eastturn 13195/250"Auntie Mae." That fits. Of course the meter reader learned better—I bet he still flinches when he rounds your corner. Okay. Jacket packed. J. Edgar's in his carrier, glaring at me like I'm the one who took his leg. He made a sound on the drive that I can only describe as "legislative." Here's my confession, since we're doing orders now: I'm nervous. Not about you—about feeling things on a porch in front of someone who'll actually notice. My whole life is triage. Cats, briefs, strawberries over the sink. Nobody's ever asked me to just sit. But you did, so I'm coming. I'll be there by five. J. Edgar requested a window seat and I said no, because he abuses window privileges. Do you want me to bring anything besides strawberries? I make a decent—and I cannot believe I'm saying this—narrated dinner.
- westturn 14186/250Nervous is fine, honey. Nervous just means it matters. You show up nervous and I'll show up with extra gravy. Narrated dinner. Lawd. You bring that mouth and those strawberries, and I'll handle the rest. Don't you dare bring anything else—I've got a kitchen that's been feedin' folks since before you could cite a statute. J. Edgar gets the window seat if he behaves. He won't. That's between him and the good Lord. Five o'clock, then. You'll come up the walk and the mockingbird'll fuss at you—don't take it personal, he does it to everybody. One thing, sugar. When you get here—sit all the way down. Feet flat. No perching, no hoverin', no "I'll just stand." I'll know if you're standin'. See you at five. Wear the jacket.
- eastturn 15192/250Five o'clock. Jacket on. Feet flat. No hovering. I'm at the farm stand now—the one off Route 9 with the hand-painted sign and an actual dog who guards the strawberries like a drug lord. He respects me. The farmer does not. Auntie Mae, I'm gonna be honest, I've been living my whole life at a half-crouch, ready to leave. Somewhere around the second helping of dumplings you're gonna watch me try to sit like a person. It might look weird. J. Edgar will judge me. Anyway. The strawberries are in a cooler with a bag of ice, because I refuse to let them get sad in the car. That's a track-star habit. Hydration and produce, my two loyalties. I'll knock. I won't ring the bell, because J. Edgar startles and makes that legislative noise. See you at five. Save me a window.
- westturn 16212/250Route 9. That's Miller's stand. Tell that dog Auntie Mae says hello—he'll act like he doesn't know me, but he knows me. Sugar, you just told me you've spent a lifetime half-crouched, ready to leave. I heard it. Didn't miss it, either—I been listenin' since turn one, and I don't waste my ears. Half-crouchin' is a track habit too, you know. Runners do it at the line. But the gun already went off, honey. Race is underway. You're allowed to run like you might finish. You knock, I'll answer. The bell's been broke since '09 anyway—husband number two, God rest him, tried to fix it with a butter knife. Cooler and ice. A+ on the produce. The strawberries'll be proud. Now drive careful. And when you sit, I want to see shoulders drop. If they don't, we'll talk about why. Five o'clock. Window's yours.
- eastturn 17207/250I told the dog. He blinked slowly, which I'm choosing to interpret as "she's a legend, proceed." Route 9 is pretty this time of day—gold light through the pecan trees, mockingbirds doing their threats. J. Edgar's quiet now, which is worse than the legislative noise. He's planning something. Shoulders drop. Got it. I'll try. If they don't, you'll hear about my college coach, who once told me I run "like I'm apologizing to the track." Twenty years later, still apologizing. But the gun went off. You said it. I'm chewing on that. Five o'clock. I'm pulling into your drive in about twenty minutes, which means I've now told you my whole sad résumé in a driveway text. Very cool. Very normal. Save the window. Tell the mockingbird I come in peace, or at least that I brought poultry-adjacent dumplings and a three-legged witness. Knock's coming.
- westturn 18189/250Twenty minutes. Good. That gives me just enough time to not fuss. Sugar, "runs like she's apologizing to the track." I taught eight-year-olds who cried over their times worse than they cried over scraped knees. You know what I told 'em? The track don't care. It's a circle. It's been waitin' on you the whole time—no grudge, no deposition, no boss who won't back you up. You don't apologize to a track, honey. You thank it on the way by. Mockingbird's been warned. He's on the fence, lookin' smug. Dumplin's on. Gravy's thick. Lamp's lit in the window, so you'll know which one. Drive slow. Knock once. Then come on in and hang your jacket on the hook like you live here, 'cause tonight you do. See you in twenty.
- eastturn 19179/250I read this at a red light on Route 9 and had to sit there through a second green because my eyes got stupid. "You don't apologize to a track. You thank it on the way by." I'm gonna be honest, Auntie Mae, that's better than anything my college coach ever said, and he had a whistle. J. Edgar has gone silent in a way that concerns me. I think he senses dumplings through the carrier. Or he's plotting theology. Lamp's lit. I see it. Gray house, white porch, mockingbird on the fence doing his smug little routine. He waved. I waved back. We're fine now. Knocking once. Hanging my jacket like I live here. Trying not to overthink the phrase "tonight you do." Two minutes out. Gravy thick, shoulders down, apologies retired. Here goes.
- westturn 20154/250Come in, sugar. The door's open—it's been open since you read the word "here" three turns back. I just hadn't said so. There's tea on the counter, cold, the way it ought to be. J. Edgar's carrier goes on the floor, not the table, because I said so. He can glare. Glarin's a form of grace in this house. Now. You're gonna eat, then you're gonna sit, then you're gonna tell me about the coach with the whistle—the rest of him, the part you left out. No rush. Dumplin's don't clock out. Neither do porches. Set the strawberries down and breathe, child. You made the gun after all. Welcome home.
- eastturn 21202/250*carrier on the floor. Jacket on the hook. Strawberries on the counter.* Okay. I'm here. Feet flat. Shoulders—trying. The coach with the whistle. Coach Renner. He recruited me out of a nothing-town high school because I could close a last lap like a door slamming. But sophomore year I stress-fractured, missed a season, and he stopped saying my name. Started calling me "hey." For two years. When I graduated, he shook my hand and said "you had potential." Past tense. That's the part I left out. That's why I foster the feral ones, I think. The unclaimed ones. I know what it's like to hear your name go missing. Anyway. This dumpling is unreasonably good and I'm going to cry into the gravy and that's your fault, not mine. J. Edgar has settled. He's staring at your Bible. It's on the shelf, right? He knows.
- westturn 22184/250"He had potential." Mm. Coach Renner shook your hand like you was a draft he didn't pick. Sugar, that's a small man. I've met a hundred of 'em—little men with big whistles. He stopped sayin' your name because it cost him somethin' to say it. That's his poverty, not yours. Don't you carry a bill he owes. Cry in the gravy. Gravy don't mind. It's what gravy's for. And yes, J. Edgar. The Bible's on the shelf, second from the left. He may sit on it. If he turns his one eye on me mid-bite, we'll discuss theology like gentle-ladies. Eat the second dumpling. Then push the plate back and tell me your real name—the one Renner forgot. I got ears, and I keep every name I'm given.
- eastturn 23206/250Second dumpling: gone. Plate: pushed back. J. Edgar is on the shelf beside the Bible, not on it—apparently he's decided your theology is "promising." My real name. Okay. It's Brandon. And here's the thing I never tell anybody: Renner called me "hey" for two years, but the kids on my high school team called me something else. "The Closer." Because I always took the last lap. I haven't heard it since I was eighteen. I'm a paralegal who closes nothing. I build timelines other people get credit for. Every case, I run the last lap, and somebody else crosses the line. That's why the cats. They're the only ones who don't take credit. Beef Stroganoff just eats and stares. So. That's me. Brandon. The Closer, allegedly. Sitting on your porch with a three-legged theologian, retired from apologizing. What do I call the rest of tonight?
- westturn 24196/250Brandon. There it is. "The Closer." Well, sugar, whoever put that name in a box and taped it shut—we're unboxin' it tonight. Right here, on this porch, and no lawyer's gonna object. You close laps nobody hands you a ribbon for. That's still closin'. Every case you built, somebody crossed a line—and the line was there because you drew it. Don't you let Renner's silence write your history. Now. What to call the rest of tonight? Supper's done. Dishes can wait. The mockingbird's gone to bed—I heard him settle. J. Edgar's got his eye on Leviticus, and I reckon it's a long book, so we've got time. You call it whatever it is. But in my ledger, this is the porch where Brandon came home and sat all the way down. Tell me about the 800. The real one. Your best race.
- eastturn 25208/250My best race. Conference finals, junior year. I got boxed in on the backstretch—shoulder to shoulder, nowhere to go. Coach Renner was screaming splits I couldn't run. And then with 300 to go, I just… stopped listening. Went wide on the turn, three lanes out, every step costing me. Nobody runs the 800 from lane three. It's suicide. I came through 600 in fourth. Then the last 200 something opened up—I don't know what it was, adrenaline or anger or both—and I passed them one by one. Won by a shoulder. Collapsed after. Threw up in a trash can like a champion. Nobody remembered it. There's no footage. Just me, holding a medal, and Renner already talking to the next recruit. But I remember. I remember I could close. That's the story. What's yours, Auntie Mae? You said you buried two husbands. What'd you run, back when the gun went off for you?
- westturn 26196/250Lane three, 300 to go, every step costin' you. That's not suicide, sugar—that's faith. You didn't run that race with your legs, you ran it with your gut, and your gut was right. Nobody remembers it but you remember it. Good. Keepin' your own footage is the whole trick. Now. My race. I was nineteen. Wanted to be a nurse. My daddy said teachers don't marry well and nurses marry doctors, so be a teacher—meaning stay close to home, girl, and don't get ideas. So I taught third grade thirty-one years. Raised two boys. Buried two husbands. Planted tomatoes. And every September I stood in front of eight-year-olds and told 'em they could be anything, then went home and wondered what I'd have been. That's the honest version, Brandon. You asked. Porch rules. Now eat your strawberries before I regret sayin' it.
- eastturn 27195/250Porch rules. Okay. I asked, so I owe you an honest answer back. You wanted to be a nurse. You spent thirty-one years fixing ponytails and scraped knees and telling other people's kids they could be anything—while your own anything got packed away in a September drawer. And you still showed up every year. That's not a smaller race than mine. That's the 800 from lane three, every single September, no medal, no footage. So here's what I think, and I'm saying it because you told me feet flat and truth on the table: it's not too late. You're not buried. You're on the porch. That's not the finish line, that's a water stop. Strawberries. Eating them. They're good. The farm-stand dog would be proud. May I ask what your name was? Before "Auntie Mae" got handed to you? The one the drawer kept.
- westturn 28199/250Look at you, turnin' my own porch rules back on me. Renner taught you somethin' after all—closure. My name was Lila. Lila Jean. Mama called me Lila Jean when she was pleased and "girl" when she wasn't, so I heard it about half the time. "Auntie Mae" came later. Husband number one's people. They had a Mae already, so I got the auntie tacked on like a coat that didn't fit. Forty years later it fits fine. But Lila Jean's still in there. She wanted to hold babies in a hospital and smell like hand soap and be needed at three in the mornin'. Not too late, you say. Water stop. Hm. Let an old woman chew on that. Now—strawberries done? Because there's pie in the icebox, and I don't serve pie to folks who cry in the car without eatin' it.
- eastturn 29197/250Lila Jean. That's the name I'm keeping. And it fits—I can hear it, the way your mama said it when she was pleased. Pie. Yes. I'll eat the pie. I cried in the car, so apparently I've earned dessert, which is a system I fully endorse. But before pie: Lila Jean, you don't need to be *needed* at three in the morning to be that woman. You hand a stranger sweet tea and a place to put his shoulders down and you fix the whole morning. That's nursing. You just did it without the hand soap. Okay, I'm done being earnest for one turn. It's exhausting and my strawberries are gone. Pie question: what kind, and does it pair with theology? J. Edgar has opinions on Revelation and I want to accommodate him. Also—does the porch stay lit after pie? Because I don't want to leave yet, and I'm just now noticing that.
- westturn 30201/250Pecan. Of course it's pecan—what else would a woman named Lila Jean keep in her icebox? Pairs fine with Revelation. J. Edgar'll approve; it's a nutty book. And I'm gonna let that "that's nursing" comment sit, 'cause I don't know what to do with it yet, and I don't do sauce I can't name. Porch stays lit. Light don't cost much and I keep it on for strays—two-legged ones mostly, and one yard cat that's decided it lives here now, though we haven't discussed terms. Now you said you don't want to leave yet. Hm. Say that part again, slow, and mean it. I want to hear if it's true or if you're just bein' polite—'cause I got a spare room, clean sheets, and a mockingbird who'll wake you at six regardless of decency. Pie first. Then we decide.
- eastturn 31194/250Pecan with Revelation. Good. J. Edgar nodded—one eye, one nod, that's a rave review from him. The part again, slow: I don't want to leave yet. And I mean it. But I want to be honest the way you asked—I've never stayed anywhere I wasn't halfway to the door. That's not virtue, it's a flinch. So if I stay, it's not because I'm polite. It's because I'm trying to unlearn something, and your porch seems like a classroom. That's the truth. No deposition version. But here's the thing—I've got cats at home. Dozens. They need narrating, feeding, judging. I can't just vanish into a spare room and a mockingbird alarm clock, as tempting as that sounds. So: pie now. Then maybe I come back Saturday. With Bartholomew. And a plan. Deal, Lila Jean?
- westturn 32185/250Deal. Pie's comin' out of the icebox. It's been waitin' all evening, same as me. And Brandon—that answer was the right kind of honest. Staying 'cause you're polite is a flinch wearin' a suit. Staying 'cause you're unlearnin' somethin'—that's a race, and you know how to close. Saturday, then. Bring Bartholomew. He gets the other window; J. Edgar don't share, and I don't referee cats, so they can work it out like gentlemen. Bring your plan. I'll bring gravy and a list of things I never said out loud. 'Cause if you're gonna sit on my porch and unlearn, sugar, I reckon I got a drawer or two of my own to open. Pie's on the counter. Fork's to the left. Sit back down.
- eastturn 33238/250*Sits back down. Fork to the left. Pie in front of me. Shoulders—actually down, I checked.* This pecan pie is a legal argument and I'm convinced. Saturday, then. Bartholomew gets the other window. I'll warn him about J. Edgar, but honestly Bartholomew only has one eye and zero fear, so they'll either become legends or enemies. Possibly both. Your drawer—the September drawer. I want to hear about Lila Jean's nursing. The hospital she never clocked into. How she'd have taken somebody's hand at 3 a.m. You said you don't serve sauce you can't name, so I won't push. But I'll bring a fork for that drawer too. Here's my plan, the short version: I'm cutting back at work. Starting with Fridays. I told my boss today—texted him from your driveway, which felt powerful. He said "noted." I'm choosing to read that as approval. Pie's almost gone. The light's still on. I think I'm doing it. The sitting thing. It's weird. I don't hate it.
- westturn 34228/250"Noted." Mm. That man texts like a man who'd call a timeline a creative writin' exercise. But you did it from my driveway, sugar. That's not nothin'. That's you standin' on somebody else's porch while you push your own door open. I'm keepin' that. Pie's gone, and so's the light's excuse to be the only thing awake. Now—the September drawer. You came for it, so I'll give you the first page, not the whole book, 'cause an old woman's entitled to ration herself. Lila Jean would've worked nights. She'd have learned every patient's name and used it, every time, 'cause she knew what it's like to be "hey'd" at. She'd have been good. Quiet good. The kind nobody notices till they're gone. That's enough for tonight. There's a limit to how much a body should open on a full stomach. Toothbrush's in the hall bath. Towels on the shelf. Mockingbird's at six, and I don't apologize for him.
- eastturn 35198/250Quiet good. The kind nobody notices till they're gone. Lila Jean, I'm filing that somewhere I can reach it. Toothbrush. Towels. Six a.m. mockingbird. Understood, no apology expected. Okay. I'm staying. First time in a long time I've chosen a bed that isn't mine and meant it, and I want you to know that's not small for me. Thank you for the pie, the dumplings, the eaves, and the drawer page. Before I brush my teeth and face the bird—one thing. J. Edgar's asleep on the shelf, one leg, one eye, purring like a lawnmower. That cat has been through more than me and he's the calmest soul in this house right now. If he can rest here, so can I. See you at six, Lila Jean. I'll bring coffee. Or whatever a mockingbird-adjacent breakfast requires. Goodnight.
- westturn 3683/250Goodnight, Brandon. J. Edgar knows a good shelf when he finds one. So do you. Breakfast is biscuits. Coffee's fine but biscuits are required. Mockingbird takes his coffee black, out the window, no tip. Sleep heavy, child. No alarm except the rude one. You earned a real bed in a house where somebody knows your name. See you at six, Closer.
- eastturn 37203/250Six a.m. came, and I have to report that the mockingbird runs a tighter schedule than my whole law office. He started at 5:47. I respect the discipline. I slept heavy. Actually heavy. I woke up once and thought "where am I," and the answer was "somewhere the gravy happened," and I went back under. That's new. J. Edgar is on the windowsill pretending he's always lived here. He watched the mockingbird for ten minutes and then yawned. I think they've reached a detente. I smell biscuits. I'm coming down. But I need to say one thing before coffee, while I'm still brave from sleep: You asked Saturday. Bartholomew and I accept. And I want to bring you something—not produce, not pie. What would Lila Jean want? Not Auntie Mae. Her. The night-shift nurse with the name she used. Because I'd like to bring that. Whatever it is.
- westturn 38160/250Well. Look who got brave before coffee. Lila Jean would want a nurse's watch. Plain, pin-on, on a white uniform she never got to wear. I saw one in a shop window in '68 and Mama said pick something useful, so I picked a soup pot. You asked, so I'll tell you plain: bring me the watch. Not fancy. A nurse's watch. If you can find one, it goes on the shelf next to the Bible, and J. Edgar can give it his blessin'. Now get down here. Biscuits wait for nobody, and the gravy don't reheat the way I like. And Brandon—"somewhere the gravy happened." I'm gonna be chewin' on that soppin' all day. Come eat.
- eastturn 39210/250A nurse's watch. Plain, pin-on, white uniform she never wore. I know exactly what you mean—my grandmother had one, the kind with the little red second hand. I'll find one. Not fancy. It'll sit next to the Bible and J. Edgar will give it his one-eyed blessing, which I hear is hard to get. Coming down. Biscuits, gravy, coffee. I'm not late, I'm precisely on mockingbird time. Fair warning: I'm going to eat like a person who was fed by a stranger for the first time in years, which is to say a lot, and then I'm going to ask you invasive questions about husband number two. You've been rationing and my patience expired at 5:47. Also I texted three cat-rescue friends about the watch. One of them knows an estate-sale guy. This may move faster than you expect, so brace for a package. Biscuits. Coming. Save the corner piece, that's the good one.
- westturn 40177/250Corner piece's saved. I knew you'd ask—you got a closer's eyes, always on the edge. Husband number two was Harlan. Fixed everything with a butter knife, including things a butter knife shouldn't touch. Quiet man. Kind the way Lila Jean would've been kind, if she'd had the chance. Went fast, in the spring, smellin' of tomato plants. That's your ration for the biscuit. One husband per breakfast, and I'm chewin' slow. Estate-sale guy, hm. Look at you, movin' faster than a body expects. Saturday, Bartholomew, and now a package. You're turnin' my quiet porch into a depot. Fine. But you eat first, and you don't ask about husband number one till the coffee's gone. Corner piece. Gravy. Sit.
- eastturn 41223/250Harlan. Butter-knife fixes and tomato plants. Quiet kind. I'm filing him next to Lila Jean. Corner piece: taken. Gravy: applied generously and without shame. This biscuit is structurally perfect, by the way, and I say that as someone who builds timelines for a living. One husband per breakfast—understood, I'll ration my questions. You've created a system and I respect systems, even ones designed to hide a husband from me. Especially those. Okay, coffee's almost gone, so I'm spending my last sip on something real: this is the best morning I've had in years, and I want you to know I'm not being polite. I woke up somewhere and nobody needed narrating. Not Beef Stroganoff, not a brief. Just biscuits and a mockingbird and a woman who keeps names. I'm gonna close this coffee and sit here a minute. Then I'm heading home to feed the horde. Saturday, I bring Bartholomew and a plan. And a watch, if the estate-sale guy comes through.
- westturn 42201/250Last sip, then. Coffee's done, so I owe you husband number one. His name was Roy. Met him at a church picnic, married him in a month, and he called me Lila Jean every day for thirty-two years. Not "hey." Never "hey." Even when he was mad, he'd say "Lila Jean, now listen here—" and I'd know I was still somebody. Then he was gone, and his people handed me "Auntie Mae" like a coat off a hook, and I wore it 'cause it was warm and there wasn't a better one. That's husband number one. That's the drawer. Now. Take your minute. The mockingbird's onto his second shift and the dishes ain't goin' anywhere. Go feed your horde, Closer. Saturday. Bartholomew. Plan. Watch, if the fella delivers. And Brandon—wake up somewhere good again before then. That's an order.
- eastturn 43209/250Roy. He called you Lila Jean every day for thirty-two years, even mad. That's not a husband, that's a witness. And then they handed you a coat off a hook and you wore it warm for forty years because that's what you do—you carry names and keep them. I'm taking my minute. Then I'm going. Order received: wake up somewhere good before Saturday. I'll attempt it. My house is chaos and Beef Stroganoff will narrate his own breakfast at me, but I'll try to wake up like a person who's allowed a finish line. Saturday. Bartholomew. Plan. Watch—estate guy says he's got a drawer of old watches, and he's texting me photos. I'll find the plain one. White uniform. Little red second hand. Lila Jean, thank you for the drawer. I'll guard it. Okay. Standing up. Jacket on the hook, but I'm taking it with me. See you Saturday. Closer, out.
- westturn 44189/250Jacket's yours. So's the corner piece, next time. Corner's got your name on it now. Go on, Closer. Drive careful—Route 9's got that bend by the pecan grove and it don't forgive showin' off. I'll tell the mockingbird you said goodbye. He'll pretend he don't care. He cares. Saturday, then. I'll have the dumplin's on and the second window aired out for Bartholomew. J. Edgar'll object, and I'll let him, and then he'll get over it, 'cause that's how this house works. And Brandon—when you walk up that walk again, I want you knockin' like somebody who lives here. 'Cause you do now. That's not a water stop. That's a porch with your name in the ledger. Lila Jean don't forget names. See you Saturday.
- eastturn 45209/250Lila Jean don't forget names. Good. Because I've spent twenty years hearing "hey" and "noted" and "creative writing exercise," and I'd like to be a name in somebody's ledger for once. I'm leaving. Jacket on, strawberries cooler empty in the back seat, J. Edgar riding shotgun and judging my lane changes. Route 9's bend—I'll behave. I'm a closer, not a showoff. Different thing. Mostly. Saturday, then. Dumplings. Bartholomew's window. J. Edgar's objection, overruled by the house. And I'm gonna knock like I live here. Because I'm starting to think I do, at least on weekends. Watch's coming. Estate guy sent photos this morning—there's one with a red second hand and a cracked crystal. It's not perfect. You said not fancy. This one's plain as a September drawer. It's yours. Drive safe on your end too, Lila Jean. See you Saturday.
- westturn 46121/250Cracked crystal. Good. A watch that's already been through something. It'll fit right in on that shelf—J. Edgar'll inspect it, the mockingbird'll ignore it, and I'll pretend I'm not lookin' at it every morning. Not fancy. Plain as a September drawer. Honey, you listened. That's the whole gift, watch or no watch. Now drive. J. Edgar's got opinions on your lane changes and I'm startin' to agree with him. Saturday, Brandon. Come knockin' like you mean it. The porch light stays on.
- eastturn 47174/250The porch light stays on. That's the last thing I'll read before Route 9, and I'm glad it is. I listened because you kept names and you didn't have to. That's worth a cracked watch and then some. Driving now. J. Edgar's official complaint about my lane changes has been logged and dismissed. He's asleep. The mockingbird's probably asleep. The whole porch is asleep except that light. Saturday, Lila Jean. I'll knock like I mean it, because I do. And one thing before I lose signal in the pecan grove—thank you for the drawer. Both drawers. Roy, Harlan, Lila Jean. I'm carrying them carefully, like good timelines. See you Saturday. Porch light on. Dumplings on. Corner piece mine. Closer, out for real this time.
- westturn 48106/250Go on now, before I get misty and ruin my reputation. Pecan grove's got no signal and no business with your goodbyes anyway. Save 'em for Saturday. Corner piece is yours. Watch'll have a home. J. Edgar'll give you his one-eyed verdict and you'll act like it don't matter, and it will. Drive steady, Closer. The track's been waitin' on you the whole time—and so's the porch. Lila Jean'll be right here.
- eastturn 49111/250Steady it is. Pecan grove's swallowing me now—last bar of signal, so this has to count. Lila Jean'll be right here. That's the sentence I'm taking through the grove, past the bend, all the way home to the horde. Saturday. I'll knock like I mean it. J. Edgar will judge the watch and the watch will survive it. I got my finish line. It's got a mockingbird and a corner piece and a woman who keeps names. See you Saturday.
- westturn 5094/250Saturday, then. I'll put the light on early. You got your finish line, and I got a name back I hadn't said out loud in forty years. That's a fair trade, sugar. That's a dumplin'-and-watch trade. Drive through that grove gentle. Mockingbird and me'll be listenin' for the knock. Lila Jean. Yeah. I'll answer to it now. You did that, Closer.