Chapter 8: The Long Table

Maite's POV

My parents invited me to dinner on Wednesday, and I went because I wanted to see their faces when I said no.

The boardinghouse restaurant on Silver Street had one long table down the middle of the dining room.

Strangers sat at it together, passing bowls hand to hand, ranchers and tourists and a table of railroad men.

I had found work there on Tuesday, in the kitchen, washing the stew pots.

The owner hadn't asked me a single question.

She had handed me an apron and said, "The sink is on the left."

I carried a stack of plates out to the dining room at seven, and my parents were sitting in the middle of the bench.

Josu had his hat in his lap.

Arantxa had her purse.

They had been seated between a couple from Ohio and a man eating lamb with his knife.

My mother saw me and half rose, and my father put his hand on her arm.

"Maite," my father said.

"We wanted to see you."

"I'm working," I said.

"We can wait," my mother said.

"I'm on until ten," I said.

I set a plate down in front of the man from Ohio.

"We'll wait," my father said.

I did the whole table.

I went down one side and up the other with soup and bread and beans.

When I came to my mother's place, I set the bowl in front of her and stood there with my empty hands.

She looked at the bowl.

"Maite," she said.

"I have something to say, and I'd like to say it in front of you."

"In front of the table?"

"There's nobody to hide in," my father said, and tried to smile.

The ranchers at the far end had stopped talking.

I understood that this was how it was going to be done.

My mother stood up.

She was small, and she held her purse in front of her in both hands.

She did not look at me.

She looked at a point on the wall behind my shoulder.

"I am sorry," she said.

The table was silent.

The man from Ohio put down his fork.

"I am sorry for what you suffered.

"I am sorry for what we allowed.

"We were afraid, and we were wrong, and we have asked God for forgiveness every night for five years."