Chương 13
“Was that Mark leaving?”
Patricia muttered, “Jim.”
“What?”
“Not now.”
“I’m just asking.”
Tara’s cousin Brent leaned back in his chair.
“Mark was here?”
Nobody answered.
Brent looked around.
“That guy owes my dad six grand.”
Patricia stared at him.
“What?”
Brent shrugged.
“For some investment thing.”
Jim turned toward Tara.
“Why was he here?”
Tara went pale again.
Evelyn felt a strange ripple pass through the room.
Not understanding.
Recognition.
Mark’s name already had history here.
That made Tara’s faith in him look less like bad luck and more like denial.
“Everybody needs to leave,” Daniel said.
His voice carried differently than it had upstairs.
Still not loud.
But firm.
Jim opened his mouth.
Patricia touched his arm.
“Not another word.”
He looked at her.
Something in her face finally stopped him.
People began moving.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
No one knew whether to gather leftovers.
That became the next crisis.
Tara’s sister held up a foil-covered dish and whispered, “Do I take this?”
Evelyn almost told her to leave everything.
Then she saw the woman’s embarrassed face and said, “Take what you brought.”
That simple instruction gave everyone something to do.
Within minutes the dining room filled with the ordinary noises of departure.
Containers snapped shut.
Chairs scraped.
Coats came off the hall hooks.
Someone searched for a phone under a napkin.
Jim carried the pecan pie to the front door with the solemnity of a pallbearer.
Patricia hugged Evelyn before leaving.
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
Tara heard.
“Mom.”
Patricia turned.
“What?”
“Don’t.”
Her mother looked at her.
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
Then she left.
The front door closed behind the last guest at 5:47.
Evelyn knew the exact time because the grandfather clock chimed while Daniel stood in the foyer holding an empty wineglass.
The house became terribly quiet.
Not peaceful.
Quiet.
Thirty minutes earlier it had contained twenty-four people if Mark was counted.
Now there were three.
Tara walked into the dining room.
She looked at the abandoned dishes, half-eaten desserts, crumpled napkins, and glasses with lipstick marks around their rims.
Her shoulders began to shake.
Daniel did not move toward her.
Evelyn saw that.
So did Tara.
“I can’t clean this,” Tara whispered.
Evelyn leaned against the doorway.
“Then don’t.”
Tara wiped her face angrily.
“I always clean after.”
“No, you don’t.”
The correction came before Evelyn could soften it.
Tara looked at her.
Evelyn sighed.
“I usually do.”
Tara turned away.
“I know.”
That surprised Evelyn more than an argument would have.
Tara picked up one plate.
Then another.
Her hands trembled.
Daniel set down the wineglass.
“We need to leave the dishes.”
“I can’t.”
“Tara.”
“I need to do something.”
She carried the plates into the kitchen.
A few seconds later water began running.
Daniel looked at his mother.
“Do you want me to stop her?”
“No.”
He sat at the table.
Not his usual place.
One of the chairs near the corner.
Evelyn remained standing.
The absence of her own chair suddenly felt absurd now that nearly every seat was empty.
Daniel followed her gaze.
Without speaking, he got up.
He walked through the kitchen and into the garage.
The water continued running.
Evelyn heard a scrape.
Then another.
A minute later Daniel returned carrying her chair.
He held it awkwardly around the back.
One leg bumped the doorway.
“Careful.”
The word escaped Evelyn automatically.
Daniel froze.
Then a tired smile touched his face.
“I know.”
He carried the chair to its old place.
The ceramic turkey was in the way.
Daniel picked it up.
He looked at it.
Then at his mother.
“Where does this go?”
Evelyn considered.
“Not the trash.”
He almost laughed.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Put it on the sideboard.”
He did.
Then he pulled Evelyn’s chair away from the table for her.
The gesture was so familiar it hurt.
Walt had done it every Thanksgiving.
Not ceremoniously.
Usually while talking about football or telling somebody to pass the rolls.
Evelyn sat.
Daniel returned to the corner chair.
Neither spoke.
From the kitchen came the clink of plates and the steady hiss of water.
After a while Daniel said, “I’m sorry.”
Evelyn looked at her hands.
“For which part?”
He nodded as if he deserved that.
“The chair.”
She waited.
“The house.”
She kept waiting.
“The way I’ve acted.”
His voice dropped.
“The way I let things become normal because changing them meant conflict.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“It isn’t.”
“That might be worse.”
He rubbed one palm over his knee.
“I don’t know what words you want.”
“I don’t either.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
They sat in silence.
The clock ticked loudly behind them.
Evelyn could smell dish soap now, lemon mixed with turkey and candle wax.
Daniel looked toward the kitchen.
“I don’t know what happens with us.”
“You and Tara?”
“Yes.”
“That is not my decision.”
“I know.”
Evelyn watched his face.
“Do you love her?”
He laughed softly and looked exhausted.
“That’s a terrible question right now.”
“It’s a simple one.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He looked toward the kitchen again.
“Yes.”
Evelyn nodded.
Daniel swallowed.
“I’m also furious.”
“You can be both.”
“I don’t know if I trust her.”
“That may take longer to answer.”
He looked down.
“I should have been paying attention.”
“Yes.”
He looked up, almost offended.
“You could soften one answer.”
“You’re forty-two.”
“That’s cold.”
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
That earned a short laugh.
Evelyn smiled despite herself.
Then Tara appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Her sleeves were wet to the elbows.
Mascara had smudged beneath both eyes.
She looked at Evelyn sitting in the restored chair.
Something passed across her face.
Pain.
Shame.
Maybe both.
“I put it there because I thought your chair made the table uneven,” she said.
Evelyn studied her.
Tara continued before either of them could answer.
“That’s what I told myself.”
Daniel stayed quiet.
Tara gripped the dish towel in both hands.
“The truth is I didn’t want you sitting beside Mom.”
Evelyn frowned.
May you like
“Why?”
“Because she asks questions.”
