Free The Western Light by Susan Swan Page B

table. “Dear Dr. Bradford,” she began, lifting the letter up under a standing lamp so she could see it better. “I am taking pen in hand because a review of John’s case is long overdue …” Mrs. Pilkie put the letter down. “It is no use. My eyes aren’t good today. Can you read it, Sal?”
    â€œLet Mary do that, Georgie. I’ll think better if I hear it read out loud.”
    Reluctantly, Mrs. Pilkie handed me the letter, and I started in:
    As you know, my son is real soft-hearted. He is clever with his hands and he never could stand to see a living thing suffer. When we lived in town, John built houses for the kittens the tourists left behind. He filled their houses with straw so the cats sat warm and pretty all winter. John kept some rats as pets. But I digrress.
    I paused at the misspelled word, “digress.” Sal waved her cigarette irritably, and I read on:
    When John scored the winning goal against the Rangers in the Stanley Cup playoffs, the sports columnist Mr. Miltie Burke said that my boy played with ‘the mad glare of Rocket Richard.’ But John was a real gentleman off the ice. Not like those crooks he worked for. I well remember you telling that manager of the Detroit Red Wings to pay for John’s medical care and I am counting on you to speak up again for my boy when the time comes. John has never been the same after his hockey injury. If he was in his right mind that fire would not have happened.
    Â 
    Yours sincerely, Mrs. Roy Pilkie
    I gave the letter back to Mrs. Pilkie, amazed by how involved my father had been in their lives.
    â€œJohn is a good boy. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, does he, Sal?”
    â€œOh, John has a good side, Georgie.” Sal scowled at the ceiling, her lips compressed in a firm, hard line, and I couldn’t help thinking of Morley’s mother who shamed Morley for being big and full of energy. Did Mrs. Pilkie know what being a good boy meant? Maybe she didn’t read the news reports about her son rough-housing the other players.
    While I sat wondering what to say, Mrs. Pilkie retrieved a photo album from the coffee table. “John put this book together himself,” Mrs. Pilkie said. “See? He’s written his name here. Isn’t that cute?” I leaned over for a better look. The words
Self with Smokey and Blue
had been written in white ink beneath a photo of a skinny, dark-haired boy petting a pair of kittens.
    On the opposite page, the same skinny dark-haired boy stood with a tall, heavy-set man wearing a fedora. The boy was holding a hockey trophy. I took a breath.
    â€œYour daddy always liked John.” A long sigh escaped Mrs. Pilkie and she turned quickly to a photo of the same skinny boy holding a hockey stick and a man with a pockmarked face. A dusting of snow coated their jackets. “Some days at the Light, Jim took a hammer to my coat to get off the ice.”
    â€œWas it like that the November Mr. Pilkie took John’s appendix out?” I asked.
    â€œWell, yes, it was. Poor Jim. His hands were shaking in fear that night.”
    â€œShaking from too much whisky, you mean,” Sal said.
    Mrs. Pilkie gave Sal a dirty look and flipped to a snap of a skinny teenage boy whose ribs showed above his plaid bathing trunks. A round-eyed girl sat beside him wearing a one-piece suit with a flowered skirt. “Why, Sal. Here you are at the Light.” Tapping the girl’s head, Mrs. Pilkie said, “My husband was in Davy Jones’s locker when Sal came to visit. Sal had a real crush on John. Wouldn’t do anything unless John did it first. Isn’t that right, Sal? You were so hurt when he broke your engagement.”
    â€œNo thanks to you, Georgie,” Sal snapped.
    â€œSal was engaged to John?” I asked wonderingly.
    â€œYou bet she was, but Sal didn’t want to leave Madoc’s Landing, and John wanted her to move to