—You want a hand?
—I’ve got it.
—You spilled some paint on the tarp over there by the window.
—Yep.
—All right, she said. Just so’s you know.
Then Sally looked up and down the hallway with a bit of a frown, as if she were disappointed there wasn’t another room that needed painting. She wasn’t used to being idle, certainly not as an uninvited guest in another woman’s home.
—Maybe I’ll take Billy into town, she said. Find a soda fountain where we can have lunch.
—Sounds like a good idea, agreed Emmett, placing the brush on the rim of the can. Let me get you some money.
—I think I can afford to buy your brother a hamburger. Besides, the last thing Mrs. Whitney needs now is you tracking paint all through her house.
* * *
When Mrs. Whitney went downstairs to make the sandwiches, Emmett brought all the work materials down the back staircase （having checked his shoes twice to make sure there was no paint on the soles）。 In the garage, he cleaned the brushes, the paint tray, and his hands with turpentine. Then he joined Mrs. Whitney in the kitchen where a ham sandwich and glass of milk were waiting on the table.
When Emmett sat down, Mrs. Whitney took the chair opposite him with a cup of tea, but nothing to eat.
—I need to go into the city to join my husband, she said, but I gather from your brother that your car’s in the shop and won’t be ready until tomorrow.
—That’s right, said Emmett.
—In that case, why don’t you three stay the night. You can help yourself to what’s in the refrigerator for dinner, and in the morning you can lock the door behind you when you go.
—That’s very generous of you.
Emmett doubted that Mr. Whitney would have welcomed such an arrangement. If anything, he had probably communicated to his wife that he wanted them out of the house as soon as they awoke. Emmett felt his suspicion confirmed when Mrs. Whitney added, almost as an afterthought, that if the phone were to ring, they should leave it unanswered.
As Emmett ate, he noticed that in the middle of the table was a folded piece of paper standing upright between the salt and pepper shakers. Following his gaze, Mrs. Whitney acknowledged that it was Woolly’s note.
When Emmett had first come down in the morning and Mrs. Whitney had told him that Woolly had gone, she had seemed almost relieved by his departure, but a little worried too. As she looked at the note, the same emotions returned to her face.
—Would you like to read it? she asked.
—I wouldn’t presume.
—That’s all right. I’m sure Woolly wouldn’t mind.
Emmett’s normal instinct would have been to demur a second time, but he sensed that Mrs. Whitney wanted him to read the note. Putting down his sandwich, he took it from its slot between the shakers.
Written in Woolly’s hand and addressed to Sis, the note said that Woolly was sorry for muddling things up. Sorry about the napkins and the wine. Sorry about the phone in the drawer. Sorry to be leaving so early in the morning without having the chance to say a proper goodbye. But she shouldn’t worry. Not for a minute. Not for a moment. Not for the blink of an eye. All would be well.
Cryptically, he concluded the note with the postscript: The Comptons ate their cabbage in the kitchen!
—Will it? Mrs. Whitney asked when Emmett set the note down on the table.
—I’m sorry?
—Will all be well?
—Yes, replied Emmett. I’m sure it will.
Mrs. Whitney nodded, but Emmett could see that this was less an expression of agreement with his reply than of gratitude for his reassurance. For a moment, she looked down into her tea, which must have been tepid by now.
—My brother wasn’t always in trouble, she said. He was Woolly, of course, but things changed for him during the war. Somehow, when Father accepted his commission in the navy, it was Woolly who ended up at sea.
She smiled a little sadly at her own witticism. Then she asked if Emmett knew why her brother had been sent to Salina.
—He told us once that he had taken someone’s car.
—Yes, she said with a bit of a laugh. That was it, more or less.
It happened when Woolly was at St. George’s, his third boarding school in as many years.
—One spring day in the middle of classes, she explained, he decided to walk into town in search of an ice cream cone, of all things. When he arrived at the little shopping center a few miles from campus, he noticed there was a firetruck parked at the curb. Having looked around and found no signs of any firemen, he became convinced—in a way that only my brother can become convinced—that it must have been forgotten. Forgotten like—oh, I don’t even know—like an umbrella on the back of a chair, or a book on the seat of a bus.