Chapter 8: The Notebook

Mom wanted Sunday dinner at our house this time.

She said it was because Grandma's chairs were bad for Dad's back.

Everyone knew it was because the head of the table at our house was mine to give, and my mother wasn't going to give it to anyone.

I brought Caleb.

He stood on our porch at five forty-five in a clean shirt, holding a bakery box, with his hair combed flat and wet.

"Is it a pie?" I asked.

"It's a pie. I bought it at your bakery. I thought that was subtle."

"It was not subtle. My boss texted me a heart."

He laughed, and Mom opened the door before he could knock.

She gave him a long, calm look, and then she took the pie.

"Caleb," she said. "You'll sit next to Frank."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am. It makes me feel like Bernadette."

Dad shook Caleb's hand at the door, and he held it a moment longer than he needed to.

"Thank you for not putting a lien on my kid's name," he said.

"Nobody put a lien on anything, Mr. Dunleavy."

"I know. I'm just saying thanks."

By six-fifteen Grandma and Dennis had arrived, because Dad had called them himself.

Dennis wore the same blazer. He had a gray look about the mouth and he didn't take off his coat.

Grandma sat in the chair my mother pointed to, which was the one nearest the kitchen.

She looked at it, looked at my mother, and said nothing.

We ate Mom's pot roast in a silence that nobody wanted to break.

Caleb passed the potatoes to Grandma and she took them without looking at him.

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