Trudy ducks into Claire’s car and turns off the ignition. Closes the door. She walks over to where Fenton is lying on the ground and stands there, hands on hips. “What’s his name, Tammy?”
Mercy says, for no reason, “I think it’s Jonathon. He looks like he’s named Jonathon.”
“Fenton,” says Tammy. “His name is Fenton.”
“What?” Trudy can’t get it. Benson?
Tammy casts her eyes skyward, takes a deep breath, and bellows: “FENTON. HIS NAME IS FENTON!”
At this, Fenton stirs. He rolls onto his side and starts coughing.
“OK, Fenton. Alright. Mercy, take your mom inside and see if you can find something for dinner. We’ll be there in a sec.” And Mercy walks over to her mother, Speckles in tow, takes her hand without looking up at her face, and pulls her toward the house. “Don’t worry. Trudy will take care of Fenton. She knows how.”
Claire and Darren have climbed into his truck and are talking, laughing, crying. Lovestruck. Oblivious. Otherwise engaged.
Trudy kneels on the grass beside Fenton. The breeze is cold and fresh. It smells like the river. She looks at this man curled up on the ground and tries to imagine how he fits into her sister’s life. As a match, it is implausible. There doesn’t seem to be enough of him there to withstand her. He can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty pounds. She is surprised by the tenderness she feels for this stranger, lying there like that on the grass.
“Fenton?” What the hell kind of name is Fenton? “Fenton? Do you think you can get up now?”
“It’s almost over,” he says. “It’s almost over now.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” says Trudy. “Come on, pal.” She pulls him up by both hands. She puts her arm around his skinny waist and jams her shoulder into his armpit to steady him before guiding him toward the house.