No sooner had he stood up from his prayer than his answer came.

He heard a screen door squeak in protest as it opened and then slammed shut. He turned in the direction of the sound and saw a small home, about one half mile down the road -- too far for him to have heard the door open.

In the yard stood an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair. He was tall and thin, dressed in baggy jeans and a white t-shirt. He took a pipe out of his pocket and started to fiddle with it.

He looked in Chet's direction and Chet hurried over to the house, the man watching him the whole time.

"Hello," Chet said as he got close.

"Hi there," the man replied, eyeing him suspiciously. "What do you need."

"Well, my name's Chet Collins," he said, offering his hand to the stranger. "I'm looking for my mother's grave and I'm wondering if you could help me. Someone told me she might be here in this cemetery. Her name was Mayla Jean Fuson. Did you know her?"

An instant look of recognition swept over the man's face. He stared, open-mouthed, at Chet for a moment or two before blurting out, "You! You're Jean's boy?"

"You knew her?" Chet asked, finally daring to hope.

"Knew her? Of course I knew her. Her pa and my pa was best friends," he said. "And all of us who've been around here a while remember her. It was terrible what happened. Come in. Come in."

He turned and almost ran to the door. Chet hurried to catch up, stepping on the porch just as the older man swung the door open.

"Ethel, we've got company. Guess who's here on our front porch? it's Jean's boy."

"Whose boy?" asked a woman as she stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on a red gingham cobbler's apron.

"Jean's boy. You know them little boys she had while she lived in California. She brought them back that last time she came to visit Allen and Mabel."

Ethel's dark eyes widened in surprise. "Jean's boy!" she exclaimed as she ran her hand through her short, gray hair. "Well, of course you are. Good God, you look just like that boy she married! Come in! Come in!"

"Well, actually, I was hoping you could help me find her grave. I've been looking all over this place," Chet said as he made sweeping motion toward the little church and the cemetery just up the road, "and I can't find anything with her name up there."

"Oh, she ain't buried up there," said Ethel with a wave of her wrinkled hand.

Chet's shoulders drooped at the news, "Do you know where she is buried?"

"No. No, I don't," Ethel answered. Then, at the dejected look that crossed Chet's face she added, "I don't. But you come in here and eat something and I'm gonna find out who does." Then she turned on her heels and disappeared into the house.

"I'm Sterling, by the way," the man said as he showed Chet into a tiny living room.

It was dimly lit by a floor lamp in the corner and crowded with threadbare, shabby green couches. But it was clean and had the air of being well cared for.

"Sterling McCann," the man continued, motioning for Chet to sit down on one of the couches. "My wife Ethel knows everybody. I'm sure she'll figure something out for you. Hey, Ethel! I bet Mrs. Rice'd know where Jean is."

Ethel came in carrying a tall glass of iced tea and a plate with a fried chicken wing, a roll and a heap of potato salad.

"Who do you think I was gonna try first?" She said impatiently. "Now you eat that," she told Chet as she handed the glass and plate to Chet. Then, she started back into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "It's cold, but it's good."

Chet ate gratefully. The food was good and he'd forgotten how hungry he was in all the excitement. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. He shoveled creamy potato salad into his mouth and gazed out the window, watching fireflies begin to dance in the twilight.

This trip was the first time he'd seen fireflies. Or was it? Had his mother held him on her lap years ago and smiled as he pointed, giggling, at the dancing balls of light?