Ora

They sit in the truck in silence, parked on a side street in St. Martinville. Every few minutes, people pass by them on the sidewalk in the direction where Frank had headed. He’d said only that he had to tell his boy good-bye, and Ora had promised that they’d wait. To her surprise, Dale didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything at all, still hasn’t said anything. He’s said nothing about where they are, or who Frank is, though by now they know.

Ora sits very still in the seat where Frank sat moments ago, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Every now and then she glances at Dale sideways; he looks as fierce as she feels, his eyes fixed forward as he works his jaw, his eyes bright. She wants to speak to him, but doesn’t know what to say.

It isn’t long before Ora sees Frank returning. He walks quickly, though with a tired limp, his head low. Instead of getting into the back with the stone again, Ora slides over into the middle of the front seat to ride between the two men. Dale’s leg stiffens when her thigh presses up against his, as if the feel of her were poison. The feel of him has the opposite effect on her; the familiarity of it is devastating, and she is overcome by a sudden urge to weep.

Frank gets into the truck wordlessly. He is dry-eyed, but Ora can see that his hands are shaking. She thinks to reach for one of them, to take his hand in hers, but something stops her. Frank pulls the truck door closed behind him, and Dale turns on the engine.

“All right,” Dale says. To Ora’s surprise, his tone is less angry than defeated, and she looks over at him. He’s got both hands on the steering wheel, his grip so tight that the skin stretches white over the knob of every knuckle. He takes a deep breath and looks at Frank. He nods once, and says, “Point the way.”