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And she would take her camera wherever she wanted.
     
    On Monday Berenice was in the kitchen looking for the ice cream freezer which hadn’t been used for two years. Mr. Mellowhorn had just come back from Jackson with a recipe for apple pie ice cream and he was anxious for everyone to share his delight. As she fumbled in the dark cupboard Deb Slaver banged in, bumping the cupboard door.
    “Ow!” said Berenice.
    “Serves you right,” snarled Deb, sweeping out again. There was a sound in the hall as of someone kicking a stuffed dog.
    “She’s pretty mad,” said Cook. “Duck didn’t die so she don’t get the million-dollar insurance, but even worse, he’s going to need dedicated care for the rest of his life—hand and foot waiting on, nice smooth pillows. She’s got to take care of him forever. I don’t know if she’ll keep working and try to get an aide to come in or what. Or maybe Mr. Mellowhorn will let him stay here. Then we’ll all get to wait on him hand and foot.”
     
    Saturday came, and out of habit, because she had broken up with Chad and no longer really cared about the Bledsoes or their ranch, Berenice hung around in the hall outside Mr. Forkenbrock’s room. Beth had brought him a dish of chocolate pudding. He said it was good but not as good as whiskey and she poured out his usual glass.
    “So,” said Beth. “At the funeral you met the other Forkenbrocks but they didn’t live in Dixon anymore?”
    “No. No, no,” he said. “You ain’t heard a thing. The ones at the funeral were not the Dixon Forkenbrocks. They was the LaBarge Forkenbrocks. There was another set in Dixon. When Mother died, me and my sisters had a go through her stuff and sort it all out,” he said.
    “I’m sorry,” said Beth. “I guess I misunderstood.”
    “She had collected all Dad’s obituaries she could find. She never said a word to us. Kept them in a big envelope marked ‘Our Family.’ I never knew if she meant that sarcastic or not. The usual stuff about how he was born in Nebraska, worked for Union Pacific, then for Ohio Oil and this company and that, how he was a loyal Pathfinder. One said he was survived by Lottie Forkenbrock and six children in Chadron, Nebraska. The boy was named Ray. Another said his grieving family lived in Dixon, Wyoming, and included his wife Sarah-Louise and two sons, Ray and Roger. Then there was one from the Casper Star said he was a well-known Pathfinder survived by wife Alice, sons Ray and Roger, daughters Irene and Daisy. That was us. The last one said his wife was Nancy up in LaBarge and the kids were Daisy, Ray and Irene. That was four sets. What he done, see, was give all the kids the same names so he wouldn’t get mixed up and say ‘Fred’ when it was Ray.”
    He was breathless, his voice high and tremulous. “How my mother felt about this surprise he give her I never knew because she didn’t say a word,” he said.
    He swallowed his whiskey in a gulp and coughed violently, ending with a retching sound. He mopped tears from his eyes. “My sisters bawled their eyes out when they read those death notices and they cursed him, but when they went back home they never said anything,” he said. “Everybody, the ones in LaBarge and Dixon and Chadron and god knows where else kept real quiet. He got away with it. Until now. I think I’ll have another whiskey. All this talking kind of dries my throat,” he said, and he got the bottle himself.
    “Well,” said Beth, trying to make amends for misunderstanding, “at least we’ve got this extended family now. It’s exciting finding out about all the cousins.”
    “Beth, they are not cousins. Think about it,” he said. He had thought she was smart. She wasn’t.
    “Honestly, I think it’s cool. We could all get together for Thanksgiving. Or Fourth of July.”
    Ray Forkenbrock’s shoulders sagged. Time was swinging down like a tire on the end of a rope, slowing, letting the old cat die.
    “Grandfather,” said Beth