Chapter 9: The Canning Kitchen

My mother cans when she can't talk.

I found her on Wednesday evening in the back kitchen, with the windows steamed.

A bushel of crab apples sat on the counter, and nine pint jars were cooling on a towel.

Every few seconds one of the lids gave a tiny ping as it sealed.

"Don't touch those," she said, without turning around. "They're setting."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were reaching."

I put my hands in my pockets.

She wore the blue cardigan with the sleeves pushed up and a streak of red on her forearm.

She stirred a pot of apple butter.

I waited.

At our house you waited for the pot to be done before you started a conversation.

She turned off the burner.

"Well?" she said.

"I came to ask you something."

"I know why you came." She wiped her hands on her apron. "You came to tell me I was wrong at supper."

"I came to ask you about April."

She picked up a jar and held it to the light, though there was nothing to see.

Ping.

"Maddie told you," I said. "On the twenty-third. In this kitchen."

"Maddie tells me many things."

"Mom."

"She was upset. She is always upset in the spring. Your father's anniversary. The weather."

"She said Brandon cornered her in your pantry."

My mother's mouth went flat.

"The pantry is four feet wide, Hannah. A person can bump into a person."

"For ten months?"

She set the jar down so carefully that it didn't make a sound.

"I did not give up on that girl," she said. "I want you to hear me. I prayed on my knees about her. I called her every day that week."