Chapter 21: The Potluck

The St. Brendan's church hall smells of coffee, floor polish and ham.

On Sunday at one o'clock, it was full to the walls.

There were two hundred people at the long tables, with paper plates on their laps and children under the benches.

The Rockland paper had sent a young man with a notebook, and Dad had given him the seat at the head table.

Theo and I came in late, on purpose.

Grandma walked between us with her cane, in her good gray suit, and the room went quiet in ripples as we passed.

Lorna sat in the back row by the coffee urn, in a plain blue dress, with her hands in her lap.

Cal stood against the far wall beside the exit sign.

His bandaged hands hung at his sides, and he did not look at Dad.

Dad stood at the front by the podium.

He wore his black suit and the Rotary pin.

He waited until we had found chairs, and then he tapped the microphone twice.

"Friends," he said. "Neighbors. Thank you for coming."

His voice was deep and warm, and it carried to every corner.

"We lost my wife on Wednesday last. Ruth Pruitt loved this parish. She did the flowers for thirty years."

A murmur went around the tables.

Somebody blew her nose.

"I stand before you a grieving husband," Dad said. "And I stand here because I owe Ruth the truth. It is a hard one."

He took a folded paper from his breast pocket.

He unfolded it and held it up where the reporter could see.

"When my wife changed her will, she was on a strong medication."

He paused for the reporter's pen.

"Strong enough to cloud her mind. Strong enough that a woman who loved her family could be talked into things."

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