Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

As Clara reversed out into the street, Mrs.

Gable stepped out past her mailbox and waved a small white envelope at the car window.

“Did Bob leave Mrs.

Gable a letter for me?” I asked.

“She asked me at the grocery store whether you were losing your mind the way your mother did,” Clara said.

“Bob spent half an hour talking to folks outside the post office this morning.”

I glanced back through the rear window as we rounded the corner toward Clara’s house.