This was after supper on a Tuesday, box scores had been reprinted from Monday’s paper. So he was scrolling through Sunday’s games, recreating what he could. A couple of days behind, which was just fine. No rush. The kid from Magnolia, the Womacks’ boy, had gotten into the game against the Padres. Pinch-hitting for the pitcher. One at-bat. Nothing to show for it. Padres over the Marlins. “Hope he went down swinging.” “What’s that?” Ruby asked from across the den, looking up from her crossword. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just mumbling to myself.” She moved an afghan, patted the couch. Took off her drugstore reading glasses. Set them on the side table. “Well, come mumble a little to me.” When he got up to move closer, he heard the gravel pop on the edge of the road in front of their house. A car going slowly along. He walked to the front windows, spread the curtains. The sun was dropping to the tree line in the field across the way, the slowing car in darkness, then light.
