Chapter 5: Supper at the Table

On our wedding night, at one minute to six, Colby knocked on a door that was standing wide open.

"Come in, for crying out loud," I said.

"It's the rule."

"There's no knocking rule."

"I made it up. I'm keeping it."

He had washed his face and put on a clean shirt.

In both hands he carried a cast iron skillet covered with a dish towel.

"Cornbread," he said. "My mother's. I didn't know what you'd have."

"I have eggs."

"That's all you have?"

"I have eggs and I have toast, and I'm going to be honest, Colby, that's the whole menu."

He looked at the stove.

"Eggs is good," he said, in the voice of a man being brave.

We ate scrambled eggs and cornbread at my grandfather's kitchen table.

The eggs were rubbery.

The cornbread was the best thing I'd put in my mouth since the funeral.

When I got up to refill our water, I noticed what he had done with the chairs.

Colby had taken the hired man's seat, the one on the long side, nearest the door.

The chair at the head of the table sat empty with its cushion still in the shape of Grandpa.

"Sit in his chair," I said.

"No."

"Colby, sit down. It's just a chair."

"It's not mine."

I looked at the cushion.

I thought about Travis sitting in it with his hands spread on the oilcloth.

"Then nobody's sitting in it," I said.

"Good."

We left it empty, and we ate the rest of the eggs without saying anything.

He came at six every night that week, and every night he knocked.

On Wednesday I went hunting for a pot holder in the buffet drawer and found a cribbage board instead.

It was long and worn smooth, with a walnut finish.