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

I haven’t laid a hand on a pipe since I sold the house on Maple Street.”

“Does Bob ever call you on the phone in your room?” I asked.

“He hasn’t called me in four years,” John said.

“Why are you asking about Bob?”

“I just wanted to make sure you had everything you need,” I said.

“I’ve got my wooden puzzles,” John said, turning his shaky hands back to the tray table.

“Tell Bob he can quit making excuses.”

I left the apples next to his water pitcher and walked out to the parking lot.