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photograph, her son’s face caught in the light of a waning sun. Is he wishing she’d come or is he too busy, too happy to remember her at all? For several weeks after her husband was killed, she took Bobby into bed with her, kept her arms around his tiny sleeping body. Protecting him made her feel safe.
    The driver’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “In a few minutes we’ll be arriving at the bus terminal. You have fifteen minutes to stretch your legs, get a cup of coffee,” which his tired voice sounds in need of.
    The bus pulls up in front of a small depot with a dirty plate glass front. She stares out the window. She can just make out a ticket counter inside and the uncertain flicker of fluorescent lights. Two soldiers bring their coffee outdoors and watch the bus as if it might take off without them. She wonders if they’re bound for Afghanistan. The last time she saw her husband he was in uniform. They’d spent that week in San Francisco huffing and puffing up the hills, eating and drinking and making love like there was no tomorrow.
    Two magazines are stuffed in the mesh pocket of the seat ahead. There is no way can she digest other people’s stories now. She remembers Mila saying that diners are a better source of gossip than beauty salons because salons don’t include men’s input. Rosalyn disagreed, saying men talk half as much as women, and even then you can’t believe a quarter of it.
    She checks her purse for the tenth time, one hundred dollars and a credit card. She also has her checkbook and a roll of quarters in case her cell phone doesn’t work.
    Back on the road, the bus picks up speed. But for one or two reading lights, it’s dark again. Outside, though, there are glimmers of light in the sky. Across the aisle the two soldiers are asleep, something tender in the way their heads nearly touch. Almost two days, now just another few hours and she’ll be there, and she still doesn’t know if what she’s doing is right.
    Loneliness, she’ll say, not used to Bobby being gone. Mark will understand her decision to take him back with her. By next summer her trust will be complete.
    â€¢ • •
    For a while the taxi drives along the same highway as the bus, then turns sharply to begin a gradual climb on rutted dirt roads. Lemony sunlight opens the morning and the beauty of it all silences her. She’ll arrive there at breakfast time and wonders what Bobby’s face will do when he sees her.
    The cab drops her off at the foot of a long driveway leading to a white stucco ranch house. Blue wildflowers march uphill like toy soldiers. She walks slowly between trees in summer glory. A dog barks. Maybe she’ll say hello and go home. If she feels Bobby’s safe, why rob him of this?
    Through a picture window she sees a woman. No sign of Bobby or Mark. What if he gave her the wrong address?
    She knocks. The woman is in her early fifties, sturdy build, blond hair pulled back from a broad-boned face. Jeans, T-shirt, sandals, her arms deeply tanned. Two rings circle her fingers, one pearl, the other a band of gold.
    â€œHi, I’m looking for the Dobson house.”
    â€œThis is it,” the woman says huskily, like a smoker.
    â€œI’m Bobby’s mother.”
    Just for a second, the woman’s expression freezes. “Oh my goodness, hello. I’m Lydia, Mark’s wife.” She opens the door wider and yells out, “Mark! Bobby!” Her eyes settle into a gaze, a calculation. “Come in,” she finally says in a near whisper. They stand in absolute silence. Not a bird sings, not a dog barks. She feels eerily calm. She already knows the problem here isn’t her son’s. It’s been hard enough for her, why should she make anything easy for any of them?
    Suddenly Lydia begins speaking far too quickly.
    â€œWhat a great son. I know you’ve heard that before, but he’s so smart, so easy to