Chapter 23: A Seat at the Table

Nobody in the hall breathed.

My father stood in the doorway with his cane, and the whole line of staff turned to look at me.

I walked down the room to him.

"You don't get a necklace," I said.

He nodded slowly.

"I didn't think I would."

"You gave the tin ones to everyone I love, and you gave me nothing in front of sixty people. You don't get the real thing for coming in at the end."

"No."

"But I'm not sending you back to a hospital bed either."

I took his elbow, because his hand was shaking on the cane.

He let me.

I walked him down the length of the hall to the long table.

Chairs stood along both sides, and a high carved chair stood at the head, my great-grandfather's.

I did not take him to the head.

I took him to the middle of the left side, where his own father's guests used to sit, and I pulled out a plain chair.

"You sit here," I said.

"This is the seat for visitors."

"It's the seat for people who stay for dinner."

He looked at me.

Then he sat, with a care that hurt to watch, and he put his cane across his knees.

"Thank you," he said.

"The soup's getting cold," said the cook from the kitchen door.

She had put on her apron again, and she had two enormous tureens on a trolley.

The staff looked at me.

"Sit," I said. "All of you. It's Legacy Day. We are not waiting on each other this year."

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