CHAPTER 1APRIL 1926I pull my hand from our mailbox, the letter bent in
my fingers, my mind reeling. An official letter for Daddy from a doctor
. A bud of panic starts to grow in me.
My father is sick.
I drift up our endless front walk, turn a slow circle on the porch before I open the front door. Up and down our street is empty and deathly still, like my heart.
I slide the letter under the mail-order catalogs on his desk and sit on the edge of the divan. He went to a doctor in another town to protect me from the bad news, to avoid the Atchison party line, the gossip. The gaping black...