Chapter 24: Twelve Plates

My daughter was nine days old the first time I set the table for six.

It was the last Saturday in May, and the house with the yellow door smelled of rosemary chicken and baby shampoo.

Keith had bought it in March, with a mortgage in both our names and a porch that Biscuit, his dog, had claimed within an hour.

"Careful with those," Joanne said from the kitchen.

"I'm always careful."

"You are not. You're the woman who carried twelve plates across a dark lawn in a blue dress."

"That's why I know how."

Milo stood on a step stool at the dining table with a stack of my mother's plates held against his chest.

He was six and three-quarters, with a front tooth missing and a cowlick that no amount of water could flatten.

Wynn had dropped him off at noon with a bag of clothes and a library book, and she had not come in.

She had stood on the porch with her hands in her pockets and said, "He asked for this. I said he could ask you."

"He can come any Saturday."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm a reading specialist, Wynn. I have a shelf of dragon books."

She had laughed, and then she had wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"Nationals was fine," she said. "I came fourth."

"Fourth is good."

"Fourth is mine."