Chapter 4: Visiting Hours

My key didn't work in the front door of the house I grew up in.

I stood on the porch of 1418 Hird Avenue and tried it three times.

It was a small brick bungalow with a green awning my father had put up himself, and the lock was brand new and shiny.

Across the street, two neighbors were sitting on their steps with iced tea.

They were not even pretending not to watch.

Ewan came up the walk behind me in a clean white jacket, with a covered dish in both hands.

He'd closed the lunch rush early for this.

I hadn't asked him to, and he hadn't said a word about it.

"Changed the lock?" he asked.

"Changed the lock."

I knocked, and Dale opened the door about eight inches.

He was in his stocking feet and a golf shirt, and the television was going behind him.

"Rosie," he said. "What a surprise."

"I'm here to see my mother."

"Visiting hours are Sundays, two to three."

"She's my mother, Dale. It isn't a hospital."

"It's my house."

"It's my father's house."

"It's a house I pay the bills on."

He smiled at Ewan.

"And you must be the chef. I'd shake your hand, but I wouldn't want to get grease on my shirt."

Ewan looked down at the covered dish.

"It's braised short rib," he said. "For Mrs. Hubbard. I'm happy to wait until two on Sunday."

He sat down on the porch step.

He just sat, with the dish on his knees.

I stood there for a second, and then I sat beside him.

Dale looked from one of us to the other.

"You can't sit there."

"It's a public sidewalk," Ewan said mildly. "More or less."

The neighbor across the street raised her iced tea at us.

The silence lasted maybe eight minutes.

It felt like an hour, and Dale shifted from foot to foot and glanced up and down the block.

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