Chapter 22: Dishes

Elias's POV

On Sunday at two o'clock I stood on Mrs. Mercer's porch in Parma with nothing in my hands.

I had slept four hours in the truck, outside a gas station.

I had no shop, no bench and no reason to be anywhere.

I had a reason to be here. It was a bad one.

I rang the bell before I could change my mind.

She opened the door in her apron, with a dish towel over her shoulder.

She looked at my face for a while.

"You weren't invited," she said.

"No, ma'am."

"You look like you slept in a truck."

"I did."

"Wipe your feet."

I wiped my feet.

The kitchen smelled of roast chicken and onions and the radiator.

A wooden spoon stuck up out of a pot on the stove.

"Sit," she said, and pointed at a chair.

I sat.

She sat down across from me, folded her arms, and looked at me over her glasses.

"Do you drink?"

"Beer. Not much."

"Do you have a job?"

"I had a shop. As of yesterday, I don't."

"Do you have a mother?"

"In Strongsville. She's praying for me."

"Good. Somebody should." She tapped the table with one finger. "Do you love my daughter?"

I opened my mouth, and it didn't come out.

"I'm not asking to be rude, Elias."

She leaned back.

"I've fed a lot of boys at this table, and I've learned to ask early."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then you can start by telling me what you did."

So I told her.

I did not make it better than it was.

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