Scandalous novel · Chapter 7 of 24

Chapter 7: Sunday Dinner

My father carved the roast the way he used to cut ribbons at company picnics.

Slowly, with an audience.

"Colleen," he said, "this is dry."

"I basted it twice, Des."

"Then you basted it wrong."

My mother's hands stopped on the serving spoon.

She put it down, very gently, and said, "I'll make gravy."

"Sit," I said.

She looked at me, startled.

My father looked up from the knife.

I was twenty-four years old, and I had been sitting at this table since I was in a booster seat.

I had never once told him to stop.

"Mom, sit. It's fine."

"It's dry," my father said again, lightly, as though he was doing me a favor.

"Then we'll eat it dry, Dad."

Silence fell over the dining room.

Down the hall, the grandfather clock ticked in the dark.

A year ago the house had been full of noise on Sundays: aunts, foremen, Dad's old friends from the Rotary.

Now there was a plate of dry roast and three of us, and an unpaid electric bill on the sideboard under a candlestick.

"So," my father said, spreading his napkin, "how is our friend Mr. Hartwell?"

"He's busy."

"Busy being rich."

"Busy running a company."

"My company," my father said, pleasantly.

I put my fork down.

"Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Anything, sweetheart."

"Did you sign the papers when the bank sold your debt?"

His fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

The room went very still.

My mother stared at her plate.

"What kind of question is that?"

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