Chapter 19: The Envelope

My mother had been cooking since six in the morning.

She said it was for Friday dinner, and it was a pot roast big enough for ten people.

"Martha," I said. "There are three of us."

"Abel eats."

Abel was standing in her kitchen in a clean flannel shirt, holding a bag of rolls he had bought on the way, and he had gone slightly pale.

He had been in the room four minutes.

My mother had already asked him his age, his income, his intentions and whether he snored.

"Forty," Abel said. "Enough. Honorable. I don't know, ma'am. Nobody's complained."

"He's very polite," my mother told me.

"He's terrified."

"Good. He should be."

She put a plate in his hands.

"You sat in a truck outside my daughter's door for two nights," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you bring a thermos?"

"I brought a thermos."

"Sit," my mother said, and the corner of her mouth moved. "You'll do."

I covered my face with a dish towel, and Abel laughed out loud, low and helpless, and she patted his arm.

It was the first time I had been happy in that kitchen since I was twelve.

We were halfway through the roast when someone knocked.

Soft, scared little knocks, the same as the night of the party.

My mother put her fork down.

"If it's your father," she said, "I'm keeping the rolling pin."