Moira Belle Chesley leaned on the doorbell. From inside the half-brick house, she heard the chimes: the first ten notes of "Lara's Theme," the same as when she was growing up there.

The door opened; Shane looked out at her. "Auntie, hey." She gave him a squeeze and stepped into the house.

He shut the door, and she immediately felt cooler. "God, Shane, that A/C feels good."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks for getting it fixed. I'll pay you back."

"Son, you look like somebody kicked your dog."

"Nope, animals get treated better than people around here. Wishes brought home steak for Marty. Know what I ate last night? Corn flakes. Marty gets steak." Marty was Martian Fighting Machine, the three-legged terrier mutt Wishes had brought home after a freak lawn care accident.

She looked around. "The place looks better than usual. Not so much like a rat's nest. Where's your new housemate, that nice tall girl?"

Shane turned away, heading for the kitchen. "Ronnie; she went out to buy veggies. Or something. I think she's meeting somebody."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's real mysterious, though. Everybody's got secrets and junk. You want a soda? You've lost weight."

"No I haven't, just had my hair done at Aardvark's. He seems pretty impressed with Ronnie."

"Yeah, so it goes. He sent the cat back with his head fur all moussed." He opened the freezer. "We've got fudgesicles in here, you want one?" His last words trailed off and he let out a deep sigh ending in a little high huh.

"Thanks." They sat down at the kitchen table. Moira ran her thumb down the inside of the table leg. She could feel her initials, the MBC she'd carved in the oak when she was little. Sitting under there, listening to her mother talk while she cooked. Sometimes talking to Moira; sometimes to the latest man of the house. After the fourth, Moira called them MOTHs. Made her mother laugh.

Over forty years later, Moira still carried the same knife, a fine Italian switch stiletto, given to her by the third MOTH, Leslie. ("A girl's name but a man's everything else," her mother had said.)

"Wishes is getting ready, he already opened up a peanut butter jar on the back porch table and loaded up the McGill."

"The which?"

"That coin changer he wears on his belt like a Good Humor man."

"Lord, he's still doin' that?"

"Yeah, he saved every nickel, dime and quarter he ever got up to age 25, now he's living on his peanut butter jars full of coins, and it takes a while at the checkout. So I hope you're not in a hurry about this shopping trip."

"Well, he needs new clothes for that job."

"Gotta be patient then. Wait it out." He had that shut-in look she remembered from when he was little. Damn, don't they ever grow up?

"I'm buying, so he can leave it at home."

Shane nibbled at his fudgesicle and stared out the window. She kicked his leg under the table. "Your Mamaw and I used to talk about everything in this kitchen."

"Want me to call her? You can talk on the phone."

"Okay, if you won't talk to me, how about that new prototype, the Merry Widow?  Is it ready to show me?"

Another deep sigh. "Parmie says we have to — she calls it 'talking through it.' About that thing that time. Before we can get back together. I don't want to talk about it."

"With her, or with me?"

"With nobody."

"Don't be a jackass, Boy. Call her right now and do it."

"Eh, she's in Chattanooga for the weekend at her stupid ex-husband's wedding."

"Do it when she gets back. Do it."

"I don't know."

She kicked his leg, a lot harder.

"Ow! Auntie, that doesn't help."

"Do it. Do it."

"Jesus, okay."

Wishes was thumping down the stairs. He called out, "Hey Shane, I think I got a play date for Marty."

Shane got to his feet, went past him and up the stairs. "Great. I'll live vicariously through a three-legged dog." He called back to Moira, "You can try it on when you get back, Auntie."

Wishes came in the kitchen and gave Moira a hug. She held him at arm's length. "That old shirt is on its last legs. Let's get you some clothes that haven't been previously owned. Pull up your pants!"

Wishes tucked in his stained golf shirt and tightened the belt on his corduroy shorts. The polished metal coin changer hanging on his belt shone in the morning light.

"How much does that thing hold?"

"Twenty-six dollars and forty-five cents."

"That's not gonna do it. Just let me buy."

"It's okay, I've got a peanut butter jar in my backpack." He shrugged to settle the pack in place on his shoulder. It jingled.

"You're not taking that pack either, they'll think you're a shoplifter."

His forehead wrinkled up. "I don't look like a shoplifter, do I?"

"You look black, Son, you just plain look black. 'Specially with that thing dragging your pants down. Your drawers are showing. Good thing you've got an ass, or your pants'd fall down, you're so skinny."

Wishes grinned wide, his missing molar showing. "I'll get suspenders."

"Oh no, let me buy you a suit. A man should have at least one good suit."

"Thanks, Auntie Moira Belle. I'll pay you back."

"Wishes, you call me Moira. Nobody except the family calls me Moira Belle."

"When my mother wanted me to come in right away, she used to call 'Aloysius J Tanager'. Nobody's called me that since she died."

"I forget — what's the J for?"

"Nothing, just a letter. It doesn't even have a period. "

She pulled her keys out of her purse. "Come on. We'll get ice cream on the way home."

"Okay, excellent news. It's 305 degrees Kelvin today. What if I spill on my new suit? Let me bring my backpack, I keep a cape in there."

"A what?"

"Like the barber puts on you."

"Son, don't wear a new suit home from the store. Leave the backpack, for Pete's sake."

"What about my shirt?"

"We're burning that shirt."