Tribute

the sound of an approaching car, then turned at the quick beep-beep as the little red Honda pulled to the shoulder.
    It took her a moment—and brought on a twist of guilt—to recognize the pretty blonde in cropped pants and a crocheted cami who hopped out of the car.
    “Hi!” On a bubble of laughter, Angela McGowan, Cilla’s half sister, rushed forward to catch Cilla in a squeeze.
    “Angie.” The fresh, sassy scent enveloped her as completely as the arms. “You cut your hair. Let me look at you. No! Don’t hug me again. I’m filthy.”
    “You really are.” On another bubble of laughter, Angie pulled back, met Cilla’s eyes with her own enormous hazel ones. Their father’s eyes, Cilla thought. Their father’s daughter. “And you smell a little, too.” Beaming, just beaming, Angie gripped Cilla’s hands. “You shouldn’t still be so beautiful, considering.”
    “You look amazing.” Cilla brushed her fingertips over the very abbreviated ends of Angie’s hair. “It’s so short.”
    “Takes two seconds to deal with in the morning.”Angie gave her head a quick shake so the sunny cap lifted, ruffled, settled. “I had to practically have a blindfold and a cigarette to get it done.”
    “It’s fabulous. What are you doing here? I thought you were at college?”
    “Semester’s done for me, so I’m home for a while. I can’t believe you’re here . And this.” She gestured toward the house. “You’re actually living here, and fixing it up and . . . all.”
    “There’s a lot of all .”
    “These are so pretty. So much prettier than that old gate.” Angie touched one of the curved branches with its blossoms of soft, spring pink. “Everyone’s talking about what’s going on here. I’ve only been home for a day, and already I’ve had my ears burned by all the talk.”
    “Good talk or bad talk?”
    "Why wouldn’t it be good?” Angie cocked her head. “This place was an eyesore. So yeah, it’s not so pretty right now, either, but you’re doing something. Nobody else has. Is it hard? I don’t mean the work, because obviously . . . I mean is it hard being here, living here?”
    "No.” But Angie would ask, Cilla knew. Angie would care. “In fact, it’s easy. It feels right, more than anything or anywhere else. It’s strange.”
    “I don’t think so. I think everyone’s supposed to be somewhere, and the lucky ones find out where it is. So you’re lucky.”
    “I guess I am.” The bright side of optimism, Cilla remembered, was where Angie lived. Her father’s daughter. Their father’s daughter, Cilla corrected. “Do you want to come in, take a look? It’s in serious flux right now, but we’re making progress.”
    “I would, and I will another time. I’m on my way to meet some friends, but I detoured, hoping to see you for a minute. Didn’t expect to see you on the side of the road, so I guess I’m lucky, too. So if . . . uh-oh.”
    Cilla followed the direction of Angie’s glance, noted the white van that slowed and pulled to the shoulder across the road.
    “Do you know who that is?” Cilla asked. “I’ve seen that van pull up out here before, several times before.”
    “Yeah, that’s Mr. Hennessy’s van. His son was—”
    “I know. One of the boys with Janet’s son, in the accident. Okay. Stay here.”
    “Oh God, Cilla, don’t go over there.” Angie grabbed at Cilla’s arm. “He’s just awful. Mean son of a bitch. I mean, sure, what happened was terrible, but he hates us.”
    "Us?”
    “All of us. It’s a by-association kind of thing, Dad says. You should stay out of his way.”
    “He’s in mine, Angie.”
    Cilla crossed over, met the bitter eyes in the thin, pinched-mouth face through the windshield as she crossed to the driver’s-side door. A lift van, she saw now. One designed to handle his son’s wheelchair.
    The slope of the shoulder put her at a disadvantage—slightly off-balance and several inches lower than the man who glared out at her.
    “Mr. Hennessy, I’m Cilla McGowan.”
    “I know who you are. Look just like her, don’t you?”
    “I was sorry to hear you lost your son last year.”
    “Lost him in 1972 when your worthless kin crushed his spine. Drunk and high and not giving a damn about anything but himself, because that’s how he was raised. Not to give a damn.”
    “That may be. I know those three boys paid a terrible price that night. I can’t—”
    “You’re no better than she was, thinking you’re better’n