One Scrap of Paper from Oak Creek Hospital Rewrote Thirty-Four Years of What My Family Remembered

Howard Cobb sat behind a wide oak desk buried under piles of manila folders and legal pads.

He was tapping an unlit wooden pipe against his right palm in a slow, steady beat.

“Arlene called my landline ten minutes ago,” Howard said in his gravelly drawl.

“Have a seat, Mara.”

Claire and I sat down in two green vinyl armchairs across from him while I explained about entry 114 being cut out of the county book.

Howard listened without interrupting, the unlit pipe hovering near his chin as I talked.

When I was done, Howard laid the pipe against a heavy glass paperweight.