Chapter 11: Sunday Dinner

I showed my mother the page on the Thursday.

She read it standing at the kitchen sink with her glasses on.

She folded it in thirds and put it in her purse.

"I'll handle it," she said.

"Mom, don't sign anything."

"Annika. I said I'll handle it."

On Sunday the twenty-third there were twelve at the long table.

The pastor sat at Gunnar's left.

Gunnar's sister and her husband sat across from them, with two of his best customers and their wives.

My mother sat at the foot, in the hostess's chair she had been told to take.

Nils sat beside me.

Under the cloth his hand lay open on his knee, and he did not look at it.

The roast went round.

Gunnar talked about the yard, the new tug, a contract in Thunder Bay.

He talked for forty minutes, and nobody else did.

When the plates were cleared, he reached into his jacket.

"A small thing," he said. "While we're all together."

He laid the leather folder in front of my mother and a pen on top of it.

"It's the paperwork we spoke about, Birgit. The trust. Just a signature, and the pastor can witness."

My mother put her hands in her lap.

"Gunnar, I'd like my own lawyer to read it first," my mother said.

"There's no need," Gunnar said.

"I'd still like it."

"I have a lawyer," Gunnar said. "He drew it up."

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