Chapter 6: Saturday Lunch

Ty's mama knocked on my door at ten on Saturday morning.

She'd come for his boxes.

He'd moved out Friday night, mostly. He'd left his recliner, his weights, and nine pairs of boots.

She stood in my kitchen doorway in her church slacks and looked at the floor.

It had been six days.

The champagne had gone dark and tacky. The streamers had faded pink and pale blue.

In the middle of it, by the island, his grandmother's ring was still stuck where I'd left it.

"He never cleaned it," she said.

"No, ma'am."

"Not once. In six days."

"He said it was no big deal."

She closed her eyes.

I watched her decide something.

Then she set her purse on the counter and took a butter knife out of my drawer.

She got down on her knees on my sticky floor.

She was sixty-three years old and had two new hips.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"Yes, I do."

She worked the knife under the band and pried it loose.

It came up with a little crackle.

She wiped it on her slacks and held it in her palm for a long time.

"I raised him," she said. "I don't know who raised this part."

I helped her up.

She held on to my arm a second longer than she needed to.

"Come to lunch," she said. "Not to apologize. I know what he told you. I'm telling you different. Come eat."

So I went.

Ty's mama lives on a quiet street in Red Bank.

The Crenshaws live next door, in a bigger house with white columns.

There was a brand-new mini-split head on the side wall of their house, humming in the shade.

Twelve thousand BTU.

I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it until Missy, who'd driven me, honked.

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