Chapter 19: The Plaque

Nobody stopped him.

I have thought about that since, because there were four hundred people in the room, and half of them sat on boards.

The man at the sound board kept his hand off the dial.

The hospital's chief executive sat at table one with his napkin in a ball and did not rise.

Ray took out the second screw, then the third.

The ice sculpture chose that moment to drop its left wing onto the buffet with a crash.

Not one head turned.

Ray lowered the last corner screw into his palm, set the screwdriver blade against his knee and lifted the bronze plaque off the easel in both arms.

It was heavy.

He held it against his chest.

Barbara stood where she was, three feet from him, in silver silk.

"This is my family's name," she said, and it was the first time I'd ever heard her voice go small. "My father's name."

"It's mine too," said Ray. "I'm only borrowing it back."

He carried it down the steps.

At table four, a woman in a green velvet gown began to clap, once, then again, uncertain.

I hated it for half a second, because I remembered the Armory in October and what applause had sounded like.

This one was different.

It was slow and shaky, and it spread like people finding out their hands still worked.

I did not wait for it to finish.

Barbara had turned and walked off the left side of the stage, through the door that led to the east wing, with her back very straight.

"Go," my mother said, from the table, and I realized I'd stopped beside her chair.

"Mom."

"She'll want to say something. Let her say it to you and not the Times."

I went down the steps and across the dance floor.