Clara lived two houses down on the corner, and her heavy green coat was still buttoned up to her chin.

“I made way too much green bean bake for one person,” Clara said, setting the dish down on the trivet beside the stove.

“Where’s Bob?”

“He had to drive out to Maple Street,” I said.

“Another pipe broke under Uncle John’s sink.”

Clara stopped with her palms resting flat on the dish towel.

“Uncle John’s still living out on Maple Street?”

“Five miles out, just past the old lumberyard,” I said, reaching up into the cabinet for two side plates.

“He hasn’t shown his face at the Tuesday social at the Grange hall in four years, Penelope,” Clara said, leaning on the edge of the counter.

“If he only lives five miles away, how come he never comes to church on Sunday?”

I touched the oval silver pendant at my collar, sliding the smooth metal back and forth along its wire chain.

“He sticks close to home because his knees bother him.”

“The hardware store must be holding that old house together with tape and copper,” Clara said, eyeing the untouched silver salt and pepper shakers on the table.

“That’s three plumbing calls since Labor Day.”