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Diane called Saturday morning.
“How’s Ralph?” I asked.
“Come see for yourself,” she said. “He’s asking for you.”
I dropped by after lunch, and Diane didn’t mince words when she answered the door. She was wearing sweats and carrying a broad hat, and I counted myself lucky when she used it to motion me inside instead of beating me with it. Ralph was lying on the couch, eyes open but just barely, especially the bruised one. His head looked naked without a baseball cap, as it always did, and his hair looked more gray than I’d remembered. The living room didn’t feel that cold to me, but he wore a FAMU sweatshirt and had an afghan thrown over his legs. A chair had been placed right next to the couch, and I sat in that.
Diane said, “I’ll be in the garden if you need me,” and left us.
“Di
