Chapter 22: The Door

My mother stood on the stage for a very long time.

Nobody went to her.

The pastor, who had come in late and heard half of it, stood at the side with his Bible against his chest.

The woman who had said "That poor man" now sat with her hand over her eyes.

"Diane," the board chair said. "The church will be calling the county about the building fund on Monday."

"You wouldn't."

"I have to."

"After eleven years?"

"After eleven years," he said, "I should have looked sooner."

My mother turned in a slow circle, looking at every table.

She was looking for one face that would still be kind.

I watched her find none.

She came down the steps with the folder against her hip and walked up the center aisle, past the cake and the punch bowls and the five empty chairs.

She did not look at Dad.

She did not look at Colt.

At my row she stopped.

"You think you've won," she said, quietly.

"I don't think anything."

"You've humiliated me in front of my church."

"You did that."

"I raised you."

"You raised me to pay."

Her mouth trembled.

For a moment I saw something real under the pearls, and it was only fear.

"Where will I go?" she said.

"You have an account."

I said it softly.

It carried.

A man at the next table laughed, one short breath, and then looked ashamed of himself.

My mother's face closed.

She walked out through the double doors alone.

I heard her heels on the gravel, quick and furious, and then I heard a car.

Nobody ran after her.

For one second the hall was silent.

Then the noise started at once: chairs, voices, a baby fussing, someone asking for the punch to be taken away.

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