Chapter 24: The Last Friday

On Friday the sun went down on a house that still belonged to us.

The buyers' agent had called that morning to say goodbye.

Warren had thanked her and hung up.

Then he had gone out to stand among my mother's roses for a while.

When he came in he said only, "She's at peace with it."

"Who?"

"Your mother," Warren said. "I asked."

I didn't laugh.

I took his hand.

By nightfall the long room smelled of sawdust and rye.

Caleb had swept the worst of it and laid a drop cloth over the gap in the floor.

The poker table stood in the middle, where the wall had been.

The leather chair was at one end of the room and my old bed at the other.

Nothing hid anything from anything.

I put five glasses on the table.

I poured them myself.

The bottle was my grandfather's rye, the one Warren had kept for Fridays, and there was exactly enough.

Graham came in last, in a clean shirt, with his sleeves rolled.

He looked at the table and the open space where the wall had been.

"No door," he said.

"No door."

"I was getting used to the door."

"You can bring one next week," Owen said.

"I'll draw up a lease."

"Sit down, Graham."

He sat.

The four of them took their places.

Warren sat by the window, with Owen across from him.

Graham took his usual angle, and Caleb the far end, with no wall at his back.

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