Chapter 11: The Dark Hour

The Dark Hour was supposed to be an hour of silence with your poverty, and it lasted about four minutes.

Peter's program said every Endicott would sit alone in the front hall with one beeswax candle, which cost ninety dollars.

By the time I carried Arthur's onions out of the kitchen, the front hall held five people in the dark, all breathing in different directions.

"Nobody speak," Peter said, in a shaky whisper. "That's the whole point."

"I can't see my hand," Esther said.

"That's poverty," Peter whispered.

"It's a power cut, dear," Esther said.

Something fell over with the sound of a suit of armor.

"I am fine," Peter said, from the floor.

Winifred sat in a wing chair with her candle in one hand and the six-dollar toaster in her lap, unplugged.

She did not look comforted by it, but she did not put it down.

"Everybody to the kitchen," I said. "The stove is gas. It still works."

"We are meant to sit in the dark," Winifred said.

"You can sit in the dark and be hungry, or sit in the kitchen and be less hungry. It's the same dark."

Nobody said anything for a moment, and then Esther got up.

The kitchen was warm.

The cook had already lit eleven candles along the prep table, and the staff sat on stools around it.

The groundskeeper handed Esther a mug of tea.

Holly came in last, in her velvet gown, and sat on the counter with her bare feet swinging.

"This is the best part of the weekend," she said. "Don't tell anyone."

I set the biggest pot on the stove.

The cook had a bag of frozen ground beef, a can of tomatoes and two onions already sliced.

I had fourteen heritage beans in a saucer.

I put them all in.

"The beans cost thirty-eight dollars," Peter said, watching the pot with despair.

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