He suddenly leaned forward as he remembered the horse out front. "Daddy, you got some feed for that old bay? She brought me a good spell. Least I can do is give her a good feed after the meal I've just had." He winked at his mother as he stood up.
"Sit, Son, sit; talk to your mother. I'll take care of your mount." Joe said, getting up himself. "She got a name?"
"Artillery sergeant who loaned her to me just called her 'the bay,' but I've been calling her 'Sister,'" J. N. said cautiously. Being an only child, his remark about "Sister" might or might not have been hurtful to his folks. His parents smiled at one another and then at their son. He was glad to see they must have buried their shared grief, twice over, for his dead sisters up at the meetinghouse graveyard. Those twin girls had died fourteen years back. They had been three years old.
His father grabbed his broad brimmed black felt hat and brown canvas coat from the peg beside the front door. He put them on and stepped out to the front porch. Scout stirred from his nap, looked at the front door closing and went back to sleep under the kitchen table.
As J. N. settled back to the table, Mary took the dirty dishes to the sink counter and returned to the table and her son. Mary broke the quiet. "John Norman, Son, there's bad, bad news here, too." J. N. was suddenly alert, his relaxed thanksgiving ended. His mother did not use his whole name with that voice except at serious times. When he was little it was her warning of some childhood infraction to her family value.
"Mother, what is it, not Grand John L. or Mama Bear?"
"No, Son, they're fine, getting old with the trouble like all of us but feeding and sleeping in their own house." She paused, holding his eyes and his face in her shining eyes. "It's your Uncle Norman and his John Ross."
"It must be real bad!" J. N.'s mind shouted. It was ordinarily "Johnny," not "John Ross."
His mother's ruddy complexion turned as white as her prized china coffee cup. "They're dead, son, killed ten days ago." J. N.'s head went numb. He just stared at his stricken mother. He slammed his pipe down, knocking his smoke's fire across the worn beaten table. Scout yelped when J. N. jumped up, nearly stepping on the dog. His mother caught his chair before it crashed backward. J. N. whirled and went to the wall, turning his head into the darkness there. His hand throbbed, his eyes watered and his throat was trying to close up. Steadily he patted his good hand on the wall just above his head. He said in a small, choking voice, "How? What happened, Mama?" "Mama," his childhood name for this feisty tomboyish woman, had not crossed his lips since he was nine years old.