Franklin Walton watched his hands in the mirror as he tucked the tail of his blue shirt into his pants. He saw that his tie stopped a full inch above his belt. “I’ll have to redo that,” he muttered, but instead went to the kitchen.

Alberta came in, looked in the refrigerator, and left the room. Frank spent a few futile minutes trying to look over baseball scores. How is it the Cardinals can’t lose in extra innings? He walked from the kitchen, through the living room, to the enclosed patio.

Alberta sat on the love seat looking toward the garden. He felt her stiffen when he entered. “Albie…,” he began but his voice quivered and he stopped. Regaining his composure he stepped into the room, breathed, then paced to the window.

“Are you still going to your sister’s today?” he asked.

“Yes.” Alberta’s voice quivered too. “I’ll be gone by lunch.”

His shoulders sunk. “Albie…” In the garden a bluebird pecked at millet on the ground beneath a hanging feeder. The morning sun shone fierce without mercy.