Walter stayed pretty much to himself in the cabin, except that nearly every day he drove to town for supper at Gaylord's Tavern, where he joked and gossiped with the bartender and whoever else happened to be there that day. When he paid the rent or when we passed him on the road, he'd stop for awhile, ask about the garden, offer to help in bad weather. And every once in awhile Walter'd go bonkers. He'd let out these kind of banshee yells, shoot at the moon, but we figured he knew what he was doing, and weren't frightened or worried, just figured he'd had a bit too much and would get over it pretty quick.

We guessed he met Terese at Gaylord's. They went square dancing a few times and you'd see them driving around or hiking on old mountain trails. And then one day Terese moved in. She had beautiful hair -- thick salt-and-pepper, hanging straight, half-circling her waist when it wasn't knotted against the back of her head for town -- and the smooth, softly glowing complexion of a much younger woman. Her voice was very low and we strained to hear her at times.

Walter and Terese passed pleasanter seasons rocking on the cabin's porch, talking quietly with each other, counting deer and coons, fox squirrels and rabbits, sometimes drinking margueritas. Subtly, they led us to know, so we wouldn't wander by unawares, that they bathed nude in the pond on some warm summer evenings. They were very close and, as they aged, took care of each other with thought and kindliness. When Terese's diabetes worsened, he nursed her toes and watched her diet. When his back stiffened, she massaged it and piled on heated rags as he lay on the floor. We figured Social Security rules, money matters, kept them from marrying.

When Walter had his heart attack, Terese called his sister, Deidre, in Des Moines who made funeral arrangements with the town's one mortuary.

Deidre and I walked over to the casket banked with flowers and looked one last time at Walter.

Puzzled, as ever, I shook my head. "He was such a nice-looking man. So friendly. It's a shame he never married, had a family."

Deidre stared. "He didn't...?"

"What?"

"Glory, come here a minute please?"

A blond-headed woman with Walter's deep, dark eyes joined us.

"Hanna, this is Gloria, Walter's daughter."

'How do you do?" It was my turn to stare. "His daughter?"

"Walter was married years ago, soon after he left the service. To Glory's mother, Julia."

I shook my head. "How odd."

"Glory, Steve's trying to get your attention."

Gloria turned toward the careful rows of spare wooden chairs as her aunt continued. "They weren't married long. Sometime after Glory was born, Julia went crazy. They'd probably call it postpartem depression now."

I nodded.

"Thought God was talking to her through the toaster, didn't recognize the baby, wouldn’t talk or move, stuff like that."

"What happened?"

"One day Walter came home, she was hanging by a rope from the bannister."

We looked toward the casket, enveloped by an imaging silence. Finally I asked, "And Gloria?"

"He couldn't raise her. Gave her to me. He wrote, sent her gifts. But he never saw her again."

"You say they weren't married long?"

Deidre shook her head, sadly. "She was the love of his life. First, last, always."

I looked toward Terese, sitting peaceably in the second row, touched Deidre's arm and said, "I think he was finally all right."