Chapter 7: The Gravy

Joan's Sunday dinners had been the shape of my week for four years.

At two o'clock I stood in her kitchen on Cedar Court with a dish towel over my shoulder, and I did what I always did.

I peeled the potatoes and stirred the gravy, and I did not look at her hands.

"You're so quiet today," Joan said, and put a spoon of gravy to her lips. "A little more pepper. You always know."

"I'm only thinking about Monday," I said.

"Monday." She patted my arm. "Don't think about it at all, darling. Kyle will carry you through it."

Joan's two sisters arrived at three, with a lemon pie and their coats still on.

Kyle came behind them with Brooke, who looked greenish and held a saltine.

We sat in the dining room under the framed picture of the Sacred Heart.

Joan had set the table the way she always did, and the way she always did, she put Brooke in my chair at the foot.

I stopped beside it.

"Brooke, you look unwell," I said. "Sit by the window and get some air. I'll take the foot."

Brooke looked at Joan.

Joan looked at me for a very short time.

"What a thoughtful girl," she said. "Yes. Change, Brooke. Go on."

Brooke moved, and her face was red.

I sat down in the chair that had been hers for eleven months, and I put my napkin in my lap.

It was a good chair.

It had a view of everyone.

Kyle sat across from me, and I watched him not meet my eyes.

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