Chapter 5: The Folgers Can

The oldest widow in Millvale lived at the top of the steep wooden stairs.

We walked up together on the Sunday after the boat, with Tomo three paces below me and his hands in his pockets.

The steps ran up the side of the hill past porches and grape arbors, and the church bell rang noon over the roofs.

"She's ninety-one years old," Tomo said behind me. "You'll want to sit down when she tells you to."

"I don't take orders."

"You'll take hers."

The woman who opened the door came up to my shoulder and wore a black cardigan buttoned to the chin.

She looked at Tomo, then at me, then back at Tomo.

"You brought a girl," she said in Croatian. "Finally."

"Teta," Tomo said, red to the ears. "This is Zuzana Bartos."

"The towboat girl. The one who jumped into the Pellegrino boy's party."

"Nobody jumped," I said. "I walked."

She laughed, a dry, short bark, and pulled me into the kitchen by the elbow.

It was a very small kitchen, hot and close, and every inch of it was covered in lace and saints.

A pot of stuffed cabbage sat on the stove.

She sat us down side by side at a table made for two, and our knees touched under it.

I did not move mine. Neither did he.

I looked at the oilcloth and felt the heat of his leg through two layers of cloth.

The widow ladled cabbage onto our plates. She watched us eat and missed nothing.

"Eat," she said. "He stands too far away from you, that one."

"When a man stands that far, he has already decided he doesn't deserve you."

"Teta," Tomo said.

"I'm ninety-one. I'll say what I like."

I ate a forkful of cabbage so I wouldn't have to answer, and it was the best thing I had tasted in two lifetimes.

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