Chapter 15: The Widow's Letter

Truus's letter came three weeks after my son was born, in a brown envelope with no return address.

The prospect brought it up the porch steps himself, at six in the morning, and left without coming in.

I read it at Greet's kitchen table with my son nursing under a blanket and a mug of coffee going cold.

Honey, it began. I'm writing this at my sister's kitchen table in Kalamazoo, because I don't trust my own desk anymore.

I'll tell you the order it happened in, and then I'll tell you what I think.

Sanne's baby was born the eleventh of April, a girl, with Pieter's gray eyes.

For three weeks he held her more than he held his oxygen.

I think it's the only time I ever saw Pieter happy.

Then he died, and everybody was ashamed to say they were relieved.

On the second of June, the club voted Joost president. Thirty-eight hands, and the two that didn't go up belonged to Pieter's oldest friends.

The first thing he did with the gavel was send for Sanne.

He had her stand in front of the whole table.

He said her seat had been bought with a lie, his father's and hers.

He said the plate with her name on it was going back to the engraver for scrap.

Then he asked her one question, out loud, in front of forty patches.

"Whose child is she?"

She said, "Pieter's."

I stopped reading.

My son made a small wet sound, and I shifted him to the other side without looking down.

Greet came in from the porch with a tackle box in her hand and saw my face.

"What?" she said.

"Keep reading," I said, and passed her the page.

Truus went on.

You should have seen the room, honey. Nobody breathed.

Then an old patch at the back, who had been Pieter's driver for years, stood up and said, "We knew."

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