Chapter 24: Leave It Open

The Darien house sold in March to a family with three loud boys.

On the last Sunday of February we ate dinner in it, because I wanted to.

The dining room had been emptied except for the long table.

My mother had set it herself, with the good plates and no flowers.

There were five places.

The housekeeper sat at my mother's right hand, in a blue dress I had never seen, with her sister beside her.

She kept turning her fork over and checking the engraving.

"Eat," my mother told her. "It's your house tonight."

"It was never my house, Mrs. Winslade."

"Diane," my mother said. "Please. Twenty years."

The housekeeper laughed.

It was a surprised, creaky laugh, and I realized I had never once heard it.

Kirk sat across from me with his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He had carved the roast because my mother had asked him to, and he had done it badly, and nobody said a word.

His hair needed cutting.

Under the table his boot pressed against mine, and stayed there.

"Is this a good roast?" the housekeeper's sister asked him politely.

"It's a terrible roast," Kirk said. "I cut it with a box knife."

"It's tender, though," I said.

"It's tender because I can't cut it."

"Kirk."

"I'm only being honest. You said I should be honest."

My mother put her fork down and began to laugh.

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