Chapter 14: Sunday Lunch

My mother set twelve places, and eleven of them filled.

Archie ate in the den with the neighbors' granddaughter and a movie about a talking train.

My aunt sat by the window, my cousin and his wife sat beside her, and the pastor took the chair at my mother's right.

I had called Lydia once on Saturday night and said only, "Sunday. Mom's. Noon."

She came in carrying a pie, in the soft blue sweater, with her hair down.

Dane came in ten minutes later, whistling.

He kissed our aunt on the cheek and shook the pastor's hand.

He sat down at the head of the table, because he always did.

"Let's pray," said Agnes.

The pastor said grace, and nobody reached for the food when he finished.

"Before the ham," my mother said, "Willa has something to show you."

Willa had printed her photographs at the old inkjet in my mother's sewing room.

She laid the prints from the safe on the tablecloth between the green beans and the rolls, bracelet on top.

The pastor leaned over and read the bracelet out loud.

"Baby Boy Overholt. Mother, Lydia R. Overholt."

The table did not make a sound.

Dane laughed and shook his head.

"Photographs of papers from my own safe, taken by my wife in the middle of a bad week."

"She's not herself, everybody. We've been quietly worried for a long time."

"Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't want it to happen at your table."

My aunt looked at Willa with a face full of pity, and then at the bracelet, and the pity slid off.

My cousin picked the page up, read it twice, and set it down very carefully.

"Dane," he said. "That's the date of Archie's birthday."

"A coincidence. Lydia was in that hospital that week for a procedure."

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