Chapter 11: The Bench

On Saturday at eleven my parents drove to a funeral lunch in Elyria.

I watched their car leave from Simone's car, parked at the end of the street with a camera bag between our seats.

"Ten minutes," I said. "He'll text if they turn back."

"He can't text if she's watching his phone."

"Then he'll leave the porch light off."

At eleven fifteen the front door opened a hand's width.

Dustin stood in it in a gray hooded sweatshirt, looking up and down the street.

I got out of the car.

He saw me, and then he saw Simone behind me with her camera, and he stepped back and held the door.

None of us said a word until it was shut behind us.

The house smelled of floor polish and pot roast left in the oven.

The upright piano stood in the front room against the wall.

A crocheted runner lay across the top, with a row of photographs of Dustin and me as boys.

The bench was under the keys, brown leather, with brass hinges.

Simone got to work.

She photographed the room, the piano and the bench from three sides.

She said each shot aloud for the record.

"Saturday, eleven eighteen. Front room, closed bench."

Dustin stood in the doorway to the hall with his arms wrapped around himself.

I lifted the lid.

It was full of old hymnals and sheet music, the sort of thing my mother had not touched for twenty years.

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