Chapter 22: Four Chairs

The kitchen on Alder Street has four chairs, and that night there were four people to sit in them.

I stood in the doorway and counted twice.

Nobody had to give up a seat. Nobody had to be moved down. There were no empty ones.

Dad had made Mom's meatloaf, with green beans and the good ketchup glaze.

Mason sat across from me with his sleeves rolled and the burn scar showing on his hand.

Lydia came at six, holding a store-bought pie in both hands.

She wore jeans and no jewelry at all, and her ears were bare.

"Mr. Tanner," she said.

"Frank's fine."

"May I try that?"

"Sure."

"Frank." She said it carefully. "Thank you for having me."

"Sit, honey. It's getting cold."

She took the last chair, the one by the window, and Dad put a plate in front of her.

For a while the only sounds were forks.

Dad told the story of the cook's sink, and Mason asked three exact questions about the trap.

Lydia laughed, once, in surprise, and put her hand over her mouth.

Then she looked at the meatloaf, and her eyes filled.

I watched it happen. There was no lowering of lashes and no hand pressed to a chest.

She cried the way she had on my bedroom window seat.

"Emme," she said, in a small voice. "Could I have a tissue?"

The kitchen got very quiet.

Dad put down his fork. Mason, across the table, did not look at me, which was a kindness.

I took the pack out of the green bag and held it out whole.

"Take the pack."

Lydia took one tissue and blew her nose.

Then she reached into her jeans, found a nickel, and set it on the oilcloth in front of me.

"The first time was four cents," she said, wet-eyed. "I don't want to owe you."

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