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Dale came in. Francie had been moving fast and there was batter all over the counter and a mess in the sink. She wasn’t crying, but Dale’s glance made her feel as if she had been. “I was just over putting up some streamers for tonight. Oh, it’s amazing what you’ve done, you and Tom,” Dale said. She began to pace the kitchen without picking up any of the mess. She had the look she got when she was going to pray. “Francie, we’ve had some bad news.”

    Francie turned away. She didn’t want any of the sadness Dale tried to coax from them. The only thing worse was when she put effort into cheering them up.
    â€œMaxine passed away. We got a call this afternoon, from the infirmary.” Dale never said prison. “She had such bad diabetes, you know. I’m sorry. I know you loved her.”
    Loved her? Dale was always telling them they loved this person and that person and each other, as if that would make them do it. Maxine. Francie wiped her eyes.
    Dale wiped hers too. “So many changes. You know, Francie, you’ve added so much to our lives here.” Francie got behind the butcher block island Tom had built. Dale came around the island and took up a position in front of her as if she might shake her hand. “And I must say we’ve relied on you. But lately I think—and maybe you think so too—that it might be you don’t need us as much anymore.”
    Francie didn’t say, But I do. I need one of you. Not you.
    â€œWhat I think is that you’re pretty much ready for your own place. You’re not on parole like Rhonda or Georgette. You can do whatever you want. You can get started in your own place. I think before you know it we’ll be blessing your apartment.”
    â€œYou mean,” Francie said, pressing her eye to relieve it, “leave your son alone.”
    This did not seem to surprise Dale. But nothing surprised her; she was like one of those blocking sleds they had at football practice, that couldn’t be knocked over. “No, dear,” Dale said. “No, I mean find your life.”
    â€œMy life. How about if we picture it.” It didn’t matter what she said, Dale was going to hug her. When they finished hugging, she gave Dale a thumbs-up. She didn’t say, I won’t leave, I can’t, not yet, I love him.

    IT WASN’T THAT she fell. She simply slid down the steps, six or eight of them. She had climbed the rickety outside stairs to Rafael’s room. When he didn’t answer her knock she yelled that the cake was made and he had said he would ice it.
    She heard Tonya’s voice, muffled, asking a question. Then Rafael’s, louder. “Bitch is up in my business, that’s how come.”
    Francie’s sight grayed over and that was when she grabbed the railing, which buckled and came with her. By the time they got to the door she was halfway down. She must have made a racket getting there.
    Broken posts rolled down the steps as she tried to think of the word Tom had taught her for them. “Whoa momma,” said Tonya’s voice. “But she’s OK, aren’t ya.” Francie had slid on her back; nothing was hurt except her tailbone. Tonya bent over her. “Not gonna talk.”
    â€œYou’d talk, if it was you,” Rafael said to Tonya.
    Tonya slapped his arm. “I would, you be running out here to save me like that.”
    Rafael squatted down beside Francie. He said, “Would you look at that. Dry rot. How you doing?” Francie could tell by his voice that he was scared and sorry. He closed his hand around her wrist, to show her.
    â€œYou took a tumble.” Tonya bent over them, showed the sweat between her breasts. “Well, help her up why doncha?”
    Rafael pulled Francie to her feet. “I slipped,” she said, dusting off her hands.
    â€œBetter watch that,” he said, in his old way.
    â€œHere.” Tonya got her arm