Back to the McCoys
was still contemplating the implications of Albert and Susannah in Biloxi, when Shaherazade, in her typical cyclonic way, changed course. “Did Harlan tell you where he got Uncle Charlie’s bones?” “Not exactly,” I told her. I realized then that Harlan had managed not to tell me anything specific about any of the subjects we touched on in our visit. I drank a good deal of Cynthia’s iced tea and watched magpies play catch-me-if-you-can with one of the stray cats hanging around the McCoy place. Every farmer or rancher has to contend with strays like this half-starved calico. City people seem to think that dropping off their unwanted felines along some stretch of country road is a reasonable thing to do. Like most of the folks around here, the McCoys put out meal scraps, and a bit of milk and let the half-feral cats fend mostly for themselves. Some take up…