"Well," she said.
"Caleb," Marcus said, without looking away from his mother. "Go upstairs. Take Rex. Put your headphones on and put on something loud. Can you do that for me?"
"Is Grandma—"
"Go on, buddy. I’ll come up in a little while. I promise."
Caleb went. He did not look at his grandmother as he went past, and Marcus saw her see that, saw her register it like a small sharp blow, saw her let it pass through her and set her jaw. Upstairs the bedroom door closed. A moment later, faintly, they heard the tinny sound of music leaking from the headphones, something with a lot of drums.
Loretta set her Bible down on the counter. She set her purse down beside it. She did it slowly and with great precision, aligning the edges, the way she had once laid out instruments on a sterile tray.
"I see I’m the last to know where everybody’s going," she said.
"Mama," Marcus said. "Did you take Daddy’s belt to Caleb today?"
She looked at him. She did not look at Danielle. It was as though, from the moment she walked through the door, Danielle had ceased to exist for her; as though this were a conversation between the two of them, mother and son, as all the important conversations of his life had been.