Chapter 23: Dormont, Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving my father's table had four chairs, and for the first time in my life I sat at the head of it.

The neighbor had brought a turkey and a second casserole, in case the first one wasn't enough.

"It's tuna noodle," she said, setting it down. "Everyone eats it."

"Nobody has ever asked for this," the estate lawyer said.

"You ate three helpings at the funeral."

"I was grieving."

Alexander caught my eye across the gravy boat and bit down on a smile.

He had brought rolls, a bottle of cider and a pie he swore he had baked himself.

The lawyer turned the pie dish over.

"There's a bakery sticker on the bottom."

"It's a family recipe," Alexander said. "From a family I'm not related to."

The neighbor laughed so hard she had to put down her fork.

I sat at the head of the table and let the noise fill the room.

My father had eaten in this kitchen alone for eighteen years, and I had come on Sundays and left early.

We said grace, because the neighbor insisted.

When it was my turn I said, "Thank you, Dad."

Nobody spoke.

The lawyer reached over and put her hand over mine.

Afterward the two women washed the dishes and wouldn't let us near the sink.

"Go," said the neighbor, flicking a dish towel at us. "Do something young."

Alexander took my hand and led me upstairs.

My room was warm, and the lamp was on, and my mother's quilt lay across the foot of the bed.

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