Chapter 5: Wipe Your Feet

On the morning of the wedding, someone knocked on my mother's cottage door at eight.

I was at the kitchen table in my black work blazer, checking the day's cue sheet.

Enid opened the door in her green cardigan with a spatula in her hand.

"Langston," she said. "You're early."

He stood on the porch with two coffees.

He looked as though he had not slept.

"Mrs. Marden. I'm sorry. I was looking for Flora."

"She's at my table. Wipe your feet."

He wiped his feet.

He came into the kitchen and saw the boxes stacked by the wall.

My handwriting was on the sides, and one said winter coats.

He set the coffees down very carefully.

"You've been living here."

"Since last Tuesday."

"I checked the garage three nights in a row. Your car was gone." His voice cracked. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You've been at the hotel every night."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one I have."

Enid slid a plate of pancakes in front of him.

"Eat something, Langston."

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry."

He sat down and ate a bite, because it was Enid.

I watched him chew and thought of every Sunday he had sat in that chair, eating her cooking, telling her the hotel would turn around.

She had fed him through the worst year of his first hotel.

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