Chapter 7: Sunday Dinner

"He means me," Reuben said on the drive up the bluff. "The boy's old seat."

"I figured."

"I sat on his right for fifteen years. Then I blocked a rezoning, and the board put Blaine in my job, and my brother put Blaine in my chair."

"When were you last at this table?"

He turned the gray pickup into the drive.

"Two years ago Easter," he said. "There was ham."

The dining room on the bluff seats fourteen. That Sunday it seated seven.

Earl at the head.

Blaine's father at the foot, a big man with Reuben's jaw and none of his patience.

Blaine's mother beside him in pearls bigger than mine.

Blaine on the left side, with Corrie next to him.

My ring sat on its chain in the hollow of her throat.

And on Earl's right, one empty chair with a cushion that still held the shape of Blaine.

"Obituaries," Earl said. "Sit."

Blaine stood up.

"Grandpa, that's my..."

"It was your uncle's before it was yours. Now it's hers. You can sit by your sister. You like that."

Corrie laughed a little too high.

I sat in Blaine's chair.

Reuben took the far corner on my other side, where nobody had set a place.

His sister-in-law brought a plate from the kitchen without a word and put it down hard.

Then Blaine's mother served.

Roast beef, potatoes, green beans in a white dish.

Earl first. Her husband. Blaine. Corrie. Reuben.

She carried the platter around me twice.

Then she put the last slice on my plate, the end piece, all crust.

"I'm sure you're used to simpler food," she said.

"I am," I said. "I just ate Reuben's eggs for three days."

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