Anvil novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Supper

Lizzie lets Tucker come to dinner at her house while it is still light. He reads Birdie her spelling words, his hand covers hers on the salt, and afterward she finds fresh scratches on the lock of the hall closet.

He came at half past four, while the light was still gold on Linden Street.

I watched him from the kitchen window.

He parked the bike at the curb and sat there a full minute with the engine off.

Then he unbuckled the saddlebag, pulled off his leather vest, folded it over once and put it inside.

He walked up my front steps in a gray flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

The burn scar on his left forearm was still there.

I had put cold cream on that scar when it was new.

I opened the door before he could knock.

"Wipe your boots," I said.

He wiped them.

"You can come in."

"Thank you, Lizzie."

"Don't thank me. Birdie asked three times if you were coming. If you hadn't, I would have had to explain it."

"Then I'm glad I came."

I turned my back on him and went to the stove.

Birdie hit the top of the stairs at a run.

"Mom! Is he here? Is he here yet?"

"He's in the hall, baby. Walk."

She did not walk.

She stopped two feet in front of him with her hands behind her back and her chin up.

"I'm allowed to show you my room," she said. "Mom said it's okay if I leave the door open."

"I'd like that very much," Tucker said.

Their feet went up the stairs together, hers quick and his slow.

I stood at the stove with the wooden spoon and listened to the ceiling.

I heard her explain the red boots, and the glow stars, and why the stuffed rabbit had one ear.

I heard him say "huh" and "that's good" and "no kidding" in a voice I had not heard in seven years.

The meatloaf had to come out in twenty minutes.

I put my hand flat on the counter and told myself to breathe.

My phone buzzed on the counter with a text from Rhett.

It said: Dutch has me tied up. Groceries tomorrow. Tell Birdie I owe her oranges.

I set the phone face down.

Supper was loud because Birdie was.

She told him the whole plot of the book on the bus.

She told him all the rules of four square.

She told him what the neighbor's dog did to our fence.

Tucker ate with his elbows in and his eyes on her.

Twice he reached for his fork and forgot to pick it up.

"Salt, please," Birdie said.

It sat near my plate.

I reached for it. He reached for it.

His hand came down over mine on the glass shaker, warm and rough and wide enough to cover my whole fist.

Neither of us moved.

His thumb lay against the inside of my wrist, right on the pulse.

I felt my pulse hit his thumb three times.

Then I pulled my hand out from under his and passed the salt to my daughter.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Eat your peas."

Tucker stared at the table.

His jaw was set hard, and when he picked up his water glass his hand was not steady.

He was tired. He had ridden a long way. That was all it was.

After supper he read her the spelling words at the bottom of the stairs.

She spelled "motorcycle" correctly on the first try and told him she'd learned it the hard way.

At seven, she went up with her teeth brushed and her braids undone.

Tucker stood at the bottom of the stairs, and I stood at the front door with it open.

The sky had gone dark gray behind him.

"Rule one," I said. "Daylight."

"I know." He took his keys out of his pocket. "Lizzie, thank you for dinner."

I should have said you're welcome.

What I thought was: stay.

I thought: take off the flannel and stay, and let me hear that voice in my house at midnight.

"Good night, Tucker," I said.

He went down the steps, and I watched the taillight until it turned the corner by the church.

I locked the door.

Birdie wanted her blanket, the yellow one, and it was in the hall closet, three feet from where Tucker had stood.

I opened the closet door and reached up past the coats.

My hand stopped on the green toolbox.

It sat on the top shelf, padlocked, behind the winter coat, where it always sat.

But the coat was crooked.

I took the padlock in my fingers and turned it toward the hall light.

There were bright new scratches across the brass, fine and shallow and fresh.

Someone had worked a pick against my brother's lock.

The house had been empty from six that morning until four, and then it had been full of people.

Someone had been in here, and I did not know when.

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