Chapter 4: Five Boxes

On Sunday my mother set the table for fourteen.

Both my aunts came, and my uncle from Sandusky, and four cousins who had heard something was wrong and wanted a seat for it.

I arrived at noon in a clean shirt with nothing in my hands.

I had Simone's frame forty-one folded in my pocket, Dustin's mouth shaped around a plea to the lens.

I had decided to say nothing about it until I knew who else could see it.

Lacey was already there, in a green sweater, passing the rolls.

She gave me a small, forgiving smile across the table.

Dustin sat at the far end next to my father.

He had shaved badly.

He did not look up when I came in.

We ate roast chicken and nobody mentioned the conservatory.

When the plates were cleared my mother left the room and came back carrying the tray.

Five wooden boxes sat on it in a row, each with a gold-lettered number on the lid.

The whole table went quiet.

It was the quiet of people who had been waiting to see what I would do.

"Dean," my mother said. "Go ahead."

I stood up instead.

"Before anyone draws, I want every box opened. All five, on the table, where we can all see."

My father put his fork down.

"That's not how it works."

"It's how it works today."

"Dean." My uncle laughed uneasily. "It's a game, son."

"Then it won't hurt to look."

Lacey turned in her chair.

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