Early Friday afternoon, Daddy left mad.
He carried his guitar. The weather had turned so hot, the sweaty circles on his T-shirt looked like the wings of an insect against his back.
I followed him, dragging his duffel and panting. "Daddy, this thing is too heavy. What all are you carrying in here?"
What, besides his blue suede shoes and tight white jeans, did he need?
"Stuff," he said, and kept on going.
Okay, he needed a round brush and his diffuser and this tube of hair gunk he called "the genuine article." He'd dyed his honey-colored hair so black it made me think of fur, only I couldn't name an animal that would gleam navy blue in the sunlight, coated in Brylcreem.
Daddy always walked with a swagger as soon as he combed his hair in this rolled-over way. But this time it was a fast ticked-off swagger; I had to move it to make the driveway with any time to spare for questions.
I only had one: You're coming back, aren't you? Only I couldn't get up the nerve to ask.
I let the duffel drop next to his feet. He'd hung his white Elvis jacket from a curtain rod installed in the cab of his pickup truck. I saw a yellow butterfly had been trapped inside, drawn to the little rainbows bouncing off the shiny sequins.
That butterfly clamped itself to the back of Daddy's shoulder as he set his guitar case into the leg space of the passenger seat. He took no notice, saying, "I'm relying on you, Elvira."
"Me?" I lost my breath a little bit.
He threw the duffel into the back of the truck. He said, "Don't let things fall apart once I'm gone."
"Like what?"
Daddy looked like he shouldn't have to tell me. He went around and got into...