Chapter 24: The First Fire I Chose

The crew from Dayton finished the last post on a Saturday in October, and Pearl called it a house warming.

It was two buildings, really.

A long low hall faced Route 9, with a kitchen the size of a bus and a table big enough for thirty women and forty men.

Behind it sat a small house with a green door, and across the front of the house ran a porch.

It was the porch my mother had wanted, deep enough for two chairs and a dog.

I stood on the boards with a mug in my hands and felt them hold.

The gray-bearded man was president now, by a vote the wives had watched from chairs set at the table's edge.

They had a seat in church, and the first law the new table passed was that no wife would ever again learn a thing last.

Elena was in the hall kitchen with flour to her elbows, with a trial date and a steady hand.

The eleven men who had taken money were scrubbing the new floor on their knees, because their wives had voted it.

Boone sat at the far end of the porch with his coffee.

He had come at noon and hadn't asked to stay.

I set a plate in front of him anyway.

"Pearl made the pie," I said.

"I'll eat it."

"Sunday dinner's at two."

He looked up at me.

"Boone," I said. "Not anything else yet."

"I'll take it."

"Eat your pie."

He did, and his eyes were wet, and I looked out at the road until they weren't.

At dusk the hall emptied.

The last trucks pulled away with the women's laughter drifting after them, and the porch light came on by itself.

Pearl waved me into the hall kitchen before she left.

The stove was new, white and gleaming, with the oven door still wrapped in plastic.

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