Chapter 20: The Note

By seven on Saturday my mother's front room held forty people and a ham.

Bev had cooked for two days.

Every neighbor who had eaten the funeral casserole came back with a dish of their own.

The long brown couch had been shoved against the wall to make room.

Cal and Devin worked the room in clean shirts.

I stood at the head of my mother's table in her gray cardigan.

My uncle came in at ten past.

He wore a pressed jacket, and a thin man in a gray suit stood at his elbow.

He shook hands with everyone on the way in.

"Katie," he said. "What a turnout. This is my friend from Columbus. He'd love to see the house."

"Then he should eat first," I said. "Sit anywhere."

They sat at the foot of the table.

I let the room eat.

I waited until the plates were half empty.

The noise had settled into the low, warm sound of people who had known my mother thirty years.

Then I tapped my glass with a fork.

"Thank you for coming," I said.

"Most of you brought food to this house two weeks ago, and I never said thank you. I'm saying it now."

Somebody said, "Joan would've loved this."

"She would've told you the ham was dry," Bev said, and the room laughed.

I waited for it to stop.

"My mother was paying off a loan," I said. "Fifteen thousand dollars, for the roof."

"She paid four hundred a month for two and a half years."

I looked down the table.

"My uncle says she owed him eighty."

Dale set down his fork.

"Katie, this isn't the place."

"You're the one who told the diner."

"Sit down, honey."

"I'd like to show you something first."

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