Chapter 23: Eleven Months

On the second Sunday of the eleventh month, my husband burned the roast.

"It is not burned," Harvey said, from the kitchen doorway of the Alder Street house, holding the pan at arm's length.

"It's black, Harvey," said my mother.

"It is deeply browned."

"It's a hockey puck with a bone in it."

She sat at the head of her own table in her cardigan, with a cane hooked on the chair.

There was color in her face that I had not seen in years.

She had walked up the front steps by herself in March.

I had stood behind her with my hands out and not touched her.

She said it was the best present I had ever given her.

The table had five chairs, and for the first time in years every one of them was taken.

My friend from the dental office sat on my left, the one who had sent me eleven texts in capital letters.

She was cutting bread and watching the roast with deep interest.

On my right sat the old director who had worn the black armband.

He had taken it off in the summer and told no one why.

He had come to every Sunday dinner since, and he always brought a pie he swore he had made.

"Russell is selling used trucks two states away," said my friend, taking a slice of the black meat anyway. "Somebody on the internet found him."

"And Mallory?"

"Posting about wellness. Nobody follows her."

"Good," said my mother, and she ate her bread.

I looked at Harvey over the candles.

He had taken off his jacket, which he never did, and rolled his sleeves to the elbow.

He caught my eye, and a corner of his mouth moved.

Nobody at that table had ever heard him laugh, and I was working on it.

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