Chapter 12: Casserole

At eight-fifteen, somebody knocked on Maura's door again, with a heavy, patient rhythm I had known all my life.

"That's not a process server," I said.

Maura was still in the doorway, holding the lawsuit.

"How do you know?"

"Process servers don't knock like they're about to say grace."

I opened the door in yesterday's jeans, with no shirt and one sock.

My mother stood in the hall with a suitcase in one hand and a foil-covered casserole dish in the other.

She looked at my bare chest, and then at the unmade bed behind me, and then at Maura, who was barefoot in a gray tank top.

"Well," Peggy said. "Good morning."

"Mom. How did you get here?"

"I saw you in handcuffs on the television Monday night," she said.

"I took the first plane out of Dayton Tuesday. I've been in a motel on Sunset with a very loud ice machine."

"You didn't call."

"I did call. You didn't answer. You were busy."

She walked past me into the apartment and set the casserole on the counter.

"Is that a plant dying by your door, young lady?"

"Yes, ma'am," Maura said.

"It needs water and a bigger pot. Everything needs something." Peggy took off her coat. "I made tuna noodle. I don't want to hear a word."

I stood there holding the door.

Maura had gone the color of paper.

"Mrs. Burdick," she said. "I need to tell you something first. I'm not who you think."

"You're the girl who put my son's wrist in a bandage," Peggy said, without turning. "I saw the gauze. It was nicely done."

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