Chapter 8: Sunday Dinner

On Sunday we drove to my sister's house with a pie on his lap.

It was an apple pie, with a lattice top, and he had baked it himself that morning at six.

He held the dish in both hands.

"Relax," I said.

"What if she hates me?"

"Beth doesn't hate anyone. She hates parking."

"What if she watches the show?"

"She does. She calls you an asshole at the screen."

He winced. "That's fair."

"She'll say it to your face. Don't take it personally."

"Is there anything else I should know?"

I turned onto her street.

Pulled up in front of a brick house with a blue door and a dog barking in the window.

"She's a nurse," I said. "She notices everything. So don't lie."

"I wasn't going to."

"And one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Today you're my guest. At the table you're a man having dinner with my family."

"And after?"

"After, we read the pad."

His mouth curled.

"Sunday review."

"Every Sunday. That's the rule."

We went in.

Beth stood in the hall in her scrubs, holding a wooden spoon, and looked at the pie, and then at Hank.

She was thirty-six and round-faced, with freckles and a sandy ponytail, and she was a head shorter than me.

"You're the asshole," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," said Hank.

"You yell at kids on TV."

"I yelled at line cooks. Grown ones. Mostly."

"Mostly."

"I'm working on it."

She studied him.

"Is that pie homemade?"

"At six this morning."

"Hmm." She took it out of his hands and sniffed it. "Come in."

He glanced at me, bewildered, and I shrugged.

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