Chapter 5: Sunday at Wanda's

Aunt Wanda's flat in Garfield Ridge smelled like dill and onions and floor wax.

She was seventy-six, four foot eleven, and she hugged me at the door hard enough to bend my ribs.

"Renia," she said. "You're thin. Sit by me. Stanisław always said you didn't eat."

Stan had said it to me, too, every dawn, across the table, while pushing the bread at me.

I sat at Wanda's right hand at a table set for seven.

Cas sat across from me.

Rudy took the chair on my left, and Joey the one on my other side.

The seating had been arranged without a word, and I understood it.

Lenny sat at the far end.

He was fifty-four, tan in January, with white teeth and a gold watch and a sport coat the color of butter.

He had been the family's realtor for twenty years.

He looked me over once, from my braid to my boots, and pointed his smile at his plate.

"So you're the tenant," Lenny said.

"I'm Ren."

"Renata. That's right. Behind on the rent, I hear."

The table went quiet.

Wanda put down the pierogi.

Under the tablecloth Rudy's hand found my knee and rested there, warm and heavy, and squeezed once.

"I'm working it out with your cousins," I said.

"I'm sure you are." Lenny smiled at Cas. "A five-day notice, Cas. That was last Friday. It's Sunday. Why is she at the table?"

"She's at the table because Wanda invited her," Cas said.

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