It felt like Lee didn’t want to talk, like he was nudging me away because we might be headed in separate directions this time tomorrow. It might take me a while to find my dad, but when I did I wanted Lee to stay too. Sandhorn wasn’t too far from Lake Superior, and on the way in we passed lots of roadside shops advertising summer boating charters and holiday cabins with tranquil water views. Another small town, a main street, a white church at the edge of a tidy green lawn. Lee pulled up to the curb beside a phone booth. “Moment of truth,” he said. Maybe one of many. I got out with my notebook and change purse and shut myself in the booth, and with trembling fingers I flipped to the back of the phone directory. There was only one entry. Yearly, Barbara. The address, the phone number. It was so simple. * * * I found my father’s mother as she was mailing a letter. She stood at the bottom of her driveway in a gray shawl cardigan and natty shearling slippers, lifting the flag on the mailbox with a long white hand.
