Sonny just stands there, slouching in the middle of my room with his hands in his pockets and his mouth half open at the T.V. He’s big. You’d think he’d be a real man by now with his mustache and slick hair.

I start telling him how they gave a baby doll to Hattie across the hall. Every morning they roll her wheelchair into her doorway, and she stares into my room with the baby tucked under her arm.

“She’s out there all day with that thing, except for when they change her,” I say.

He doesn’t seem to hear me, or notice me walking back and forth to hang sweaters in my closet. I always show him how good I get around. 

“Mama, how about I bring you a nice big chair? Something that reclines, so you can watch yourself some T.V. and relax,” he says.

“I don’t need a chair. I’m going home.”

I have to remind Sonny each visit. He brought me here with pneumonia right before Thanksgiving, and promised I only had to stay until I could breathe right again. I got better, and then he said through winter at the most. It was cold and nasty out, and he was worried sick that I might fall and break a hip. He said he only wished he could take good care of me like the nursing home. I reminded him that he hadn’t held a job more than a month, so it wasn’t like he was busy. He didn’t mention hips again, but it’s been spring for a while now. The dogwood tree outside my window bloomed, and the day nurse can’t stop bragging about her kid’s Easter dress. The staff decorated our doors with wreaths of plastic pink tulips.

“I got to get home and get some beans in the ground if I want to see anything this summer,” I say.

Sonny drops his head, crosses his arms, and sways from one foot to the other. All the sudden he looks like he’s 11-years-old and about to get the switch.

“Mama, I’m sorry. I hate to tell you this, but you got robbed,” says Sonny.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Somebody broke into the house,” he says.

I sit on the edge of my bed.

“There’s been a bunch of break-ins all over the county. They think people are coming out from Lexington looking for drug money. There’s all kinds of crazy people out there. I’m just glad you were here, safe.”

“Somebody broke in?” I ask.

“They broke a window. Once I walked in and saw everything gone, it just broke my heart. I’m so sorry, Mama. I know you loved that house.”

“Which window? I can fix a window.”  

“There’s nothing left, Mama. They took everything. They got the T.V., every bit of furniture, all the pots and pans, even the microwave.”

“I don’t cook,” I say.

Richard had always fixed me something to eat, up until he got sick last year. I would have tried harder when we got married, but he said he liked chopping and messing with the stove. He never cared much that I’d rather be outside than in the kitchen.

Sonny starts breathing heavy with his mouth open.

“What are you going to eat? You’re spoiled here. Nobody’s at home making you breakfast, lunch, dinner, and all those snacks you get,” he says.

“I’ll make do.”

I did fine for myself after Richard died. I made sandwiches and read by the window all day. From there I could see the old dog pens. The barn was just a few feet away. I’d left its door open so I could see the tractor parked inside. Richard’s yellow rag bucket was still on the seat. He always seemed to be cleaning the thing for a church hayride. Squirrels had moved in, and spent all day scrambling up and down the tires.

“Nothing’s there, Mama. Your comfy chair’s gone, bed’s gone. And you don’t know if those robbers will come back. They just might. Drug people are crazy.”

“I got a shotgun,” I say.

“I’m telling you Mama, there’s nothing left. Everything’s gone.”

I ask if they got Richard’s books, or his Bible.

Sonny nods.

“His paintings? The one of Wilson’s pond? The fishing boy?”

“They must have figured they could get a lot of money for art,” he says.

“Did they get his fife?”

“Yeah, Mama. I’m telling you, they took everything.”

Richard’s granddaddy marched in the Civil War with that fife. I’d rolled the thing up in old newspapers and hid it in the attic behind a stack of Guideposts.

“People on drugs are just crazy and mean hearted. All they wanted to do was clean you right out so they can get more dope.”

“I’ll come home with you, then, until we get me some things,” I say.

 “I’d love to have you, Mama, but I just got that little place above the hardware store. Remember? There’s not much room, and you’d have to climb about 50 stairs.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve been climbing much,” I say.

Sonny hangs his head again. Two oily wisps of hair fall sideways, showing more of his bald spot.

“What’d Sheriff Pitwick say when you filed the report? He said he’d keep an eye out on the house. They must have been there a while with a big truck to take everything.”

Sonny steps over to my window.

“You know, Mama, this place is nice,” he says. “You got a view, and good food. The nurses are sweet. I’d be loving this.”

“I’m going to call Pitwick. Tell him he best get to the bottom of this. I don’t let him fish my pond for nothing,” I say.

“Mama, I’ll call him. I’ll set him straight. It’s about time you let me take care of you a little. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Sonny took a couple heavy steps and plopped his hand on my shoulder. His face is slick with sweat.

“Now you just take care of yourself, Mama. I think those hair dresser ladies are here this afternoon. You can get yourself fixed up, for free. You got it awfully nice here.”

His breath is mouthwash and cigarettes.

I follow him into the hall. He stoops down and waves at Hattie.

“Hey there, how are you doing?” Sonny asks, loud.

Hattie’s nodding off. She’s got one hand clutched around the doll’s leg. The rest of the baby hangs upside down off her lap. The arms fling out, stiff, by her feet. The neck bends funny, and the bald head sits on the linoleum floor.

Sonny grins and squeezes my shoulder again before turning down the hall. He waddles with his arms out away from him. I try to remember him as a boy, when he must have been something sweet. Richard would have plopped him on his lap to explain thieving. He’d pull out his handkerchief and wipe his glasses as he explained to Sonny that someone must have needed our things more than us. Someone must have been so desperate they’d turned to stealing to solve their problems. He would have talked about forgiveness, then pat Sonny on the head and give him a dollar. But here, the walls are yellow and pink, everything smells like piss and toilet cleaner, and I think God punishes you when you do bad things.