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made a Pinocchio puppet out of socks, who majored in journalism and wrote an editorial about Camus’ theory of the absurd proving the Viet Nam War’s pointlessness. Where did that brother go? “Okay,” I say, “I assume you brought the papers?” Cornelia. Six months.
    “I was only teasing. Come on, can’t you take a joke?” He massages the base of my neck. For years, no one has done that.
    “I have an idea,” I say, reaching toward a cabinet. I set a candle on the drain board then light it. I bring my Conway Stewart from the tea table. “Here,” I say, handing him the pen, “you first. We’ll make this a celebration.”
    “Sit down,” he says. “There’s something I have to tell you.” His top lip folds under, disappearing, so different from Sam’s.
    “What now?” I moan.
    “No big deal,” he shrugs, “just, the sale’s temporarily on hold.” He balances his right calf perpendicular to his left knee, then grabs his leg, as though leaning across a desk. “To tell the truth, you didn’t seem that fired up about selling anyway.”
    “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?” We didn’t discuss Terezie, so he doesn’t know she’s been to see me. “Who’s the buyer?”
    “Our lawyer has to work out a few minor details. Like I said, it’s no big deal.”
    “But we don’t have time for that.”
    “Sure we do, a little breathing room. This kind of deal can’t be rushed; you know that.”
    “But Cornelia, Hugh. She only has six months.”
    He flinches.
    “Actually,” Debbie interrupts, “she has longer than that.” Norine slides off the cushion and lies prostrate in front of the pyramid. “In the meantime, we’re trying to figure out how we can help her.”
    Hugh slumps; his head and shoulders fold over his lap.
    “At least Debbie’s being honest,” I say. “Now, will you please explain what’s going on?”
    “I swear she’ll get the operation,” Hugh says, “even if I have to pay for it.” He slaps his shoe, uncrosses his legs. “But our lawyer says Sam’s letter could be a problem.” I picture Sam’s scribbled instructions to transfer all his possessions to his wife. “If we give her Sam’s part of the sale now, then later, she could ask for a percentage of Granddaddy’s estate.”
    Why should that bother me anymore than the idea of sharing our inheritance with my other sisters-in-law? The only difference is that she needs the money. “But if it’s legally hers, what right do we have to argue?”
    “Wills are contested all the time.”
    “But Hugh, a child’s life weighs in the balance.”
    “What do you think I am?” Hugh says, rising. He fills a glass at the faucet. “I told you Cornelia would have her operation.”
    “So you’re definitely going to pay for it?”
    “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Debbie interrupts.
    Norine walks over, whispers into her mother’s ear.
    Debbie nodds. “All Terezie has to do is sign an agreement promising not to ask for anything else.”
    “Have you explained this to her?”
    “Not yet,” Hugh says. “But that’s our next step.”
    “So you’re going to ask her give away what our brother told us to make sure she got?”
    “She’s not part of this family anymore, Sarah. Nobody’s talked to her in thirty years. You’d feel a lot different if you had children.”
    “Maybe.” Now I stand but turn my back, press the bridge of my nose and inhale. “But I expect to be included in the meeting with Terezie.”
    “All right,” he says, holding up his palms. “Whatever you want. We should know something in the next couple of weeks. I’ll call you.”
    “Should I talk to Kurt?”
    “No, I’ll tell him.” He gives a Boy Scout salute. “Promise.”
    “Sarah,” Debbie says, “Norine would like a Coke if you have it.” She sits with her arm around her daughter; they glance at each other, look back, smile, their movements synchronized.
    Debbie’s question is a command. I’m expected to