Chapter 4: Coffee and a Splinter

I found my robe on the sunroom floor and followed the smell of coffee into my own kitchen.

Vince stood at my stove in his trousers and nothing else, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl.

Tommy sat at the table in his undershirt, with his back against the wall and his eyes on the door.

He had chosen the one chair that faced every way in.

"Morning, angel," Vince said. "You have eleven eggs and no butter. What kind of widow are you?"

"The kind who eats at the hospital."

"We'll fix that."

Tommy poured me a cup of coffee without a word and slid it across the table.

His fingers brushed mine on the handle, and neither of us pulled away.

The house phone rang on the wall.

Only one person in the world still called that line.

"Mama," I said, picking up.

"Celestine Marie." My mother's voice was thin and fast.

"The priest showed me a picture on his telephone. In church, cher. At the door of the church."

"It was a ball, Mama," I said.

"With your husband's brothers. Both of them."

Vince put the spatula down and bowed to the receiver.

Tommy did not smile, but his shoulders moved.

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm better than I've been in years. I'll come to Chalmette next Saturday and tell you all of it."

"Will you wear black?"

"No, Mama."

There was a long silence on the line.

"Good," my mother said, very quietly, and hung up.

I stood there with the receiver in my hand.

She had never once said good about a single thing I'd done.

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