Chapter 23: Pass the Rolls

My mother made green beans for the whole table on Christmas Day, and Simone was one of them.

She sat on my left at the long table in a green sweater, holding her fork very carefully.

On her other side my father studied her for three courses.

"You're the one who put the camera in the corner," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"I looked at that video half a dozen times."

"I know. I sent you the file."

"I wanted to say," my father said, and stopped, and put gravy on his potatoes. "Pass the rolls, Photographer."

My mother closed her eyes.

Simone passed the rolls and said, very gravely, "That was beautifully put, Mr. Mercer."

Dustin laughed so hard he had to put his napkin over his face.

It was the same rusty laugh, but it came more easily now.

It went on until my aunt asked what was funny, and he told her.

He had talked all through dinner, in complete sentences, to people who had never heard him do it.

He told the table about a Schwinn he was rebuilding.

He told my uncle his wheel was out of true.

Over the rolls I thought of Lacey on the sidewalk, saying I was only a way in.

I looked down the table at Dustin explaining spokes to my uncle, and I found I didn't mind being the door, if he was who came through.

When my mother asked him to pass the butter, she looked at his face each time he answered.

Halfway through pie, Simone's phone buzzed on the cloth next to her plate.

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