The sleek, varnished coffin, dark as a strong cup of coffee, sat closed and pristine in the living room. Light glanced off the silver handles, and three roses lay on top with their stems crossing and looping between and around each other.
Callused, awkward ranchers’ fingers held cups, tipping them to chapped lips, then lowering them to their saucers, with a slight tremor, afraid of doing something that would draw attention, such as dropping the cups or spilling coffee on their owners. The men stood in suits that didn’t quite fit and hair that wouldn’t quite stay down, even with oil. The light shone off only the tops of their foreheads, where the skin, starting in a straight line halfway up, was bleached from hiding under a hat.
The women did wear hats, colorful ones that matched their dresses, with netting draped from the brims, covering half their faces. They held white lace handkerchiefs to their eyes, dabbing along the bottom lid. Many wore cloth gloves, hiding their own swollen, red hands.
And the smaller children ran among the stiff legs, immune to grief and confused about why this gathering was different from any other except for the beautiful wooden box in the front room.
Lonnie Roberts approached, holding not a cup but a glass with amber liquid and ice.
“Blake, I always thought your mom was someone who would live to be a hundred. She never looked any older or worse for wear, any time I ever saw her.” We shook, then he laid a hand on my shoulder. The alcoholic aroma washed over me.
“I’ve thought that myself, Lonnie.” I sipped from my coffee, staring at the coffin.
“How do you think your dad’s taking it?”
“Hard to say.” I recalled Dad’s face when I returned from the barn two days before. I’d found Mom slumped against the milk cow, the tips of her fingers dipped in the bucket of milk. Dad hadn’t reacted, as if he already knew. His eyes had just gotten narrower, and his head bobbed once.
“Yeah, it takes some time before you can tell with something like this,” Lonnie said. He paused, taking a long look at the coffin. “It should be a little easier for him with you and Rita living here. Those fellas that live alone after their wife passes on, you can sometimes watch them die right before your eyes.”
I could think of plenty of examples, and I nodded, suddenly glad we were living with Dad. I thought about asking Lonnie about Sophie, about how she was, but I decided I didn’t really want to know right then.
Lonnie drained his glass, then looked inside it, to make sure. “Well, can’t let this thing stay empty too long,” he said. “Never know when they’ll run out.” He smiled and patted my shoulder again. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I watched Lonnie waltz through the crowd in his dignified manner, pressing hands and bending to the women. He had lost Ruth two years before when she stormed out of the house during one of their legendary arguments. She froze to death trying to make it to a nearby farmhouse, walking in a dress and heels. But Lonnie was definitely not dying before anyone’s eyes. His response had been just what everyone expected. He buried in the bottle whatever guilt or sorrow might have been lurking, causing some hand-wringing nights for husbands waiting for their wives to come home, or wondering why they had been outside the dance hall for so long. I was amazed every time I saw Lonnie at how he maintained the charm, the appearance. He didn’t look to be tormented. It might be the death of him, I thought, but there’s something admirable about his tenacity, his determination to wring the life out of whatever time he had left.
The noon hour approached, and the service was to start at two or two-thirty depending on whether Muriel and Stan had arrived yet. They were driving from Butte. Already, we had a houseful of people. Several of the neighbor women had taken charge of serving drinks and sandwiches, shooing anyone from our family out of the kitchen when we tried to help.
Jack stood in a corner, removed from the crowd, cradling a cup and watching everyone. When someone approached to talk or offer their condolences, he shook their hand and bowed politely, lowering his eyes. But he didn’t encourage further conversation, and nobody stood next to him for long before getting uncomfortable.
Dad sat in the dining room, his hands resting lifeless on the table. He talked to anyone who approached, his eyes shifting uneasily, as though he was having a hard time paying attention.
Rita moved easily among the guests, sad but gracious, and I couldn’t help but think that if anyone in the family would take this well, without long months of anguish, it would be Rita, who had made peace with Mom in their last years together in this house. Nearly every night before bed, the two of them sat in the kitchen and talked quietly, each flipping cards in their own game of solitaire. They had become friends, best friends, and I imagined Rita’s sense of loss must run deeper in some ways than any of ours. But she had the satisfaction of reaching a part of Mom that most of us never had.
“Where’s Bob? And Helen?” a neighbor asked me in passing. “I haven’t seen them.”
“Oh, they’re at their place. They’ll be at the service,” I said.
He eyed me, puzzled, and I couldn’t think what else I could say. “They’ll be at the service,” I repeated.
He nodded, walking away with the same puzzled look.
I was a little surprised that anyone wasn’t aware of the rift in our family. For as much regard as I have for the people of our county, I do know that news doesn’t travel slowly here.
The conflict had come to a head due to an unlikely source—the death of Art Walters. It had taken the authorities several months to track down Art’s ex-wife, and when they did find out where she was, it turned out that she had also died. So they had to find his son, and that took several more months, as he turned out to be quite a rover himself.
When he was informed of his inheritance, his decision was apparently a quick one, and the place was put up for sale. Because it bordered our place and Glassers’, we were the logical prospects, and the only ones seriously interested. So Dad and Gary settled on a fairly even split, and the deal was struck.
I went to Belle Fourche with Dad to pick up some feed and to draw the check. It was a Tuesday, so the town was quiet, as was the bank.
Dad told the teller that we needed a check for thirty-five hundred dollars—1,750 acres at two dollars an acre.
“All right, Mr. Arbuckle. Let me just check on your balance then, and make sure you have enough money.” The teller, whom we knew well, winked.
Dad smiled, nodding, but it was clear when she approached us again that something was wrong.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Arbuckle, but it turns out that you don’t have enough in your account. Your balance is about seventeen hundred dollars.”
Dad smiled at her. “Gloria, now, don’t fool around with me. That’s just downright cruel.”
But Gloria shook her head. “I wish I was fooling, Mr. Arbuckle. But it’s true.”
Dad just stared at her.
“Can we see the books?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Dad echoed. “Give us a look here. There’s got to be a mistake. That can’t be right.”
“Certainly.” Gloria retrieved the balance book, spinning the cloth-bound ledger around on the counter. And there, plain as day, were three withdrawals, totaling over twenty-five hundred dollars, from Bob Arbuckle.
I don’t know whether I’ve been more afraid of dying than I was on the drive home that afternoon. Dad was pushing his old pickup to its limit, swerving on the curves. When we nearly fishtailed off the road a few times, I finally yelled at him to slow down. It was uncharacteristic behavior for both of us.
He pulled right up to Bob and Helen’s stoop, and we raced for the door, bursting in. Helen was alone, and she looked shocked at first. But Dad and I both started yelling at the same time, and once she realized what we were there for, her face took on a completely impassive expression, as if she didn’t hear a word we said.
“You are never welcome in our house again,” Dad was yelling. “Don’t even think about coming in that door.”
At the same time, I shouted, “You could have had a nice piece of this place if you’d just shown a little common sense.”
We both ranted for a few minutes, and the whole time Helen acted as if we weren’t even in the room. And it was as if we both realized at the same instant that we were wasting our breath. We stopped yelling, and just glared at her for a moment. She still didn’t bother to acknowledge us, and looking at her expression made me tremble with anger. I couldn’t stop shaking. Dad turned and left.
“Don’t think for a minute that you got away with something here,” I said, looking around at the nice furniture and decorations that were the fruits of their extortion.
Finally, she looked up, and a slight smile came to her face. She shook her head. “That’s okay, Blake.”
I gritted my teeth, feeling as if I could strangle her on the spot. I had to leave to keep from acting on my rage.
Bob was no more apologetic than Helen, although the first time I saw him after that, his face did a horrible job of hiding his guilt. But none of us had been to their house since that day. Nor had they been to the big house.
“Blake?” I looked up to see Rita standing before me, her forehead twisted with concern.
“Yes?”
“Muriel and Stan just pulled up.”
“Great,” I said, looking at my watch. “They made good time.”
“Blake?” Rita rested her hand in the small of my back.
“What?”
“Are you all right?” She rubbed my back lightly, and I looked down at her.
“Yes, I’m fine. Why?”
“I just wondered. You looked like you were thinking, or worrying about something.”
“Yeah, I guess I was thinking, but I’m all right. Just trying to keep track of everything that needs to be done.”
“Blake?” One of the women came from the kitchen. “We’re running out of cups. Do you have some more somewhere?”
I thought. “Teddy!” I yelled across the room.
Teddy came over, his face uncharacteristically unhappy. “Hm?”
“Get some of the other kids, run down to the your dad’s house and bring back some cups.” I held his arm, stopping him from running off, and turned to the woman. “Is there anything else we need?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
I turned back to Teddy. “Okay.”
He walked away, a slouch in his narrow, teenage shoulders. His pant legs stopped a few inches short of the tops of his shoes.
Rita was next. “Blake, Pastor Ludke wonders if you want to start early since Muriel and Stan are here.”
“No, I don’t think we should. I’m sure there are other people who aren’t planning to come until the service.” I was thinking of the house down the way, the second gathering.
Rita nodded. “That’s what I was thinking too,” she said. “I just thought I’d better make sure.” She turned and walked back over to Pastor Ludke, who nodded as she explained.
I made my way to the back door, hoping to catch Muriel and Stan so I could greet them privately, without an audience. But they were already in the door. I shook Stan’s hand and held Muriel, who cried softly.
“Where are the kids?” I asked.
“We decided to leave them with my folks,” Stan said. “It’s going to be a quick trip anyway. I have to get back to work day after tomorrow.” He shook his head.
“Sorry to hear that,” I said. Muriel pulled back from me, still holding my forearms, and smiled, her cheeks wet.
“How are you, Blake?”
“I’m holding together all right,” I said. “What about you?”
“Oh, Blake, it’s so strange. I never thought about Mom dying. I’ve always been so worried about Dad, I didn’t even consider her.”
“She’s just always been there,” Stan said. “She’s been there for so long, we always expected her to be there.” I saw a glimmer of moisture in the corner of Stan’s eye. “You’re a lot like her that way, Blake.” He looked right at me as he said this, and I felt a lump rise from my gut, right up past my heart, through my throat, and against the back of my teeth, sitting like a mouthful of oatmeal on my tongue. I knew if I said anything at that moment, it would come out in tears, and I looked down, swallowing hard. The blood ran to my neck, and needles of sweat tickled my forehead.
“That’s right, Blake,” Muriel said, pulling me against her again.
I relaxed into her arms, breathing deep, and felt a lone stream trickle from a corner of one eye. But I quickly wiped it away before stepping back and asking, “What do you two want to drink? We have coffee or stronger stuff. Might even be able to dig up some castor oil if you want.”
Stan laughed, and as always, his single, cheery “Ha” lifted my spirits.
It felt strange, wrong, not to have Bob among those of us who lifted the coffin to our shoulders and carried it out to the pickup. We drove the half mile to the hill where the other graves were and, once there, the same six unloaded the coffin, setting it next to the hole some of the neighbors had dug the day before.
Within minutes, the other, smaller group arrived. Bob and Helen led them to the site. They gathered to one side, so that there was an empty space between. Helen looked more distraught than anyone in either group, her mouth stretched into a frown. She cried when she saw the coffin, and Bob and their friends, including Steve and Jenny, closed in, surrounding her, putting their arms around her. I had to look away, and I fixed my eyes on the coffin until Helen was able to pull herself together enough for the service to begin.
The day was, in a word, glorious. A very light, warm wind whispered from the hay meadows, and the smell of alfalfa and sweet clover washed over the funeral. Soft, clean white clouds moved slowly across the sky, hiding the sun from time to time, shifting the light between a warm dusk and a pleasant afternoon. And the green rolled away from us like carpet in every direction, the gift of another wet season.
Pastor Ludke cleared his throat, and he captured Mom’s spirit nicely, talking of her tough, practical nature. He related the Hole in the Wall Gang story, and the murderer a few years before, which brought smiles to our faces. People grieved privately, with restraint, except for Helen.
Rita held my arm and sniffled, and Dad, just in front of me, bowed his head until the end, when he looked briefly up at the sky and pushed a sigh from deep within his chest. His shoulders lifted nearly to his ears and then fell as he exhaled.
None of us lingered. Once those designated began to lower the coffin into the ground, we left, the crowd splitting in two again, driving in different directions, to two different houses on the same tract of land.
The guests stayed for another cup of coffee and a snack. Everyone had brought food, and we had enough to feed the family for a week. Once the first of the guests found it an acceptable time to leave, the rest followed in short order, having one last brief word with the family. I was struck by the respect Mom had among those hundred or so in attendance. What was she like? I wondered. Mom had ruffled her share of feathers in her life, but many of the people she’d been in conflict with were there.
Whatever others thought of her, there was no denying that Mom was her own person. She spoke up when many women were afraid to, and on this day, even those who disagreed with her seemed willing to concede that this was an admirable woman.
But here’s what’s interesting to me about my mother. More than anyone else that I’ve lost in my life, I have reconsidered this question of what she was like as the years pass. In fact, the question has changed in her case to “What would she have been like?” Under different circumstances, what would my mother have been like? Because the word that I heard bandied about during the reception for my mother was “tough.” She was tough, all right. But was that really what she wanted to be remembered for?
I think not. I think more than anyone in our family, my mother’s personality was shaped by her life. She knew nothing but work, and because she did not question her lot in life, she probably didn’t think much about whether she was missing out on anything. She shouldered her load and carried it with a dignity that was almost invisible. But it wasn’t until years after she was gone that I wondered whether there were dreams she had never pursued. Perhaps dreams she had never even given voice to. I wondered whether she and Rita had ever talked about such things. And more than anything, this is what I grieve about my mother. She lived a good life. She was a good person. But what would her life have been like if she’d had more of a say in the matter? We’ll never know.
The worst part of these occasions, for me anyway, is when they’re over, when the guests are gone, and there’s still a good portion of the day left. For whatever reason, I always feel like I should be doing something with all that time. But it isn’t exactly appropriate to jump into work clothes and rush out to the fields. So the time crawls like the Little Missouri on the hottest day of summer. We sit in our dress clothes, the most painful part over, and nothing left to say.
If I were to revise the rules of grief, I’d say everyone should spend this time doing what they like instead of what’s appropriate. The problem with that, of course, is the same as with anything else. When other people are involved, if you do what you like, somebody will take it wrong, or think you’re avoiding them. It’s the price of having a family, I suppose, following these unwritten rules.
Jack, who normally ignored such rules, stuck around this time, although he looked as if he wanted to tear the clothes off his body. He sat fidgeting in the dining room. The rest of us settled into the living room, stretching our legs out.
“That was a real nice service,” Muriel said.
“Yes, it was,” I said. “The old fella surprised me. I think that was the first time I heard him give a service for a woman when he didn’t say ‘she was an obedient wife.’ Made me think he actually knew her.”
Dad smiled, sadly.
“Blake,” Rita admonished me gently, “it’s not exactly a time for jokes.”
“It’s all right,” Dad said. “I’d rather laugh than cry.”
We all nodded.
“How was your drive down?” Rita asked Stan and Muriel.
“Real nice. Such a beautiful day,” Stan said.
“It really was,” Muriel said. “I love the mountains in spring. The trees are so green and the animals are coming out of hiding.”
A silence settled for a few moments, as we all looked at the floor.
“So what have you been reading about the war?” Stan plucked a cigar from the pocket of his jacket and bit the tip off. He held it toward me, and raised an eyebrow.
“No, thanks,” I said. “Never have liked the taste of those things.”
“Dad?” Stan asked.
Dad shook his head, but reached into his pocket and pulled out his pouch of tobacco and papers. I decided to have one too.
“Pearl Harbor was something, huh?” Muriel said.
“It’s pretty frightening,” Stan said. “The Nazis are willing to do whatever it takes, and now that they’ve got the Japs working with them, I just don’t know.”
“We should have jumped in sooner,” Dad said. “We waited too long.”
“I don’t think so,” Rita said. “I don’t think Roosevelt knew how serious this was until Pearl Harbor.”
“But the Germans!” Stan said. “They’ve been marching across Europe like someone taking a walk through their backyard. How could he not have known? He should have done something to stop that!”
“I think he did what he could without declaring war,” I said.
“But he should have declared war,” Stan insisted. “He should have declared war the minute they started bombing London. Because you know once they’re after England, they’re going to want us next.”
We all sat chewing that thought, drinking and smoking.
“What do you think, Jack?” Stan yelled into the dining room. “You were in the first war, right?”
A silence settled over the room that I could feel, like a cold winter wind. Everyone’s eyes dropped, and Stan looked around the room, sensing the chill. I waited for Jack’s reaction, wondering if he still believed we didn’t know. He had to realize that Rita’s presence made it impossible to lie. I glanced at Rita, who was glaring toward the dining room.
I heard a rustling, and heels against oak, heading through the kitchen, then out the back door.
“Oh, no. Now I’ve done it,” Stan said. He looked around, and Muriel looked puzzled.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is he still upset about the war? That was twenty-five years ago.”
“He was never in the goddam war.” Rita spat the words, her anger over years of secrets, worry, and fear fueling a raw, harsh voice I couldn’t remember ever hearing from her.
“I thought…” Muriel’s voice faded. “I thought he was.”
I thought back to the day that Helen revealed Jack’s secret at the dinner table, and realized that Muriel had been off at school in Belle Fourche by then. She wasn’t there.
“Muriel always told me he was. That you used to get letters from France,” Stan said.
“We did,” Muriel said. “What about his injury, his arm?”
Rita again spoke bitterly. “He hurt his arm in a bar fight. That’s why he was discharged early, before the war was over. And friends he met in boot camp mailed those letters from France for him.”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Well, not that long. But maybe not worth going into right now.”
“Like Bob and Helen?” Muriel asked. “Is that not worth going into now too?” She looked around at each of us, and her face started to lose its color, a pale white covering her skin like paint. “What’s going on with this family?”
“Muriel, honey, simmer down,” Stan said. “Jeez, I didn’t mean to start something here.”
“I just want to know what’s going on.” Muriel spoke in a careful, measured tone, keeping her voice low. “That’s all.” She looked around at each of us.
Dad breathed deep, holding his hands over his face, so that his nose showed from between. He lowered them, then reached up with the back of one and wiped his eyes. He shrugged. “I can’t imagine why you want to know, but it don’t matter to me.”
“Why don’t I tell them,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair.
So, after taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I proceeded to tell Muriel and Stan everything they didn’t already know about Jack, Helen, and how all the stories fit together. It was actually the first time I’d told anyone about the letter Helen had stolen from my room, way back when, and when Dad heard this, he shook his head, his eyes closing with a look of dismay. When I told about the argument that prompted Bob and Helen to move, I had to admit I didn’t know the cause. I looked at Dad to see if he could help me out, but he shook his head again.
Stan and Muriel sat and listened to the whole story, he puffing on his cigar and shaking his head from time to time, she with her hands folded in her lap, clenched tightly together. Now and then, one hand would flutter away from the other, up to her face, where she brushed back a strand of hair or scratched behind her ear.
And I was surprised to find my body tensing up, my muscles tightening with each word. The emotions that had accompanied each event came back as I recounted them. I felt myself going through all the anger, hurt, embarrassment, and an overwhelming sense of sadness. Telling about the money Bob and Helen had stolen, I looked down to see that both hands were clenched into tight fists, recalling the indifference on Helen’s face. It seemed impossible that this was our family I was talking about.
Muriel and Stan asked few questions, as I left out few details. And when I finished, they both sighed and looked down at the floor for a while. Stan twirled his cigar in the ashtray, forming a point with the burning ashes.
“I had no idea,” he said.
Muriel turned to him as he said this, then looked back down at the floor, as if contemplating whether she had suspected any of this. She lifted her eyes to mine, and they looked very sad.
“Neither did I,” she said. “You sure do keep a lot to yourselves.”
“Well, there’s not much you can do about it from out there,” Dad said, a little irritably. “There’s not much anyone can do about it.”
Stan leaned forward, looking past Muriel at Dad. “She wasn’t criticizing you, Dad. Were you, Muriel?” She shook her head. “It’s just that we, especially Muriel, sometimes worry about you folks out here. I’ve always said I’d be glad to help you out any way I can, and you’ve never asked. We don’t know if it’s because you don’t need help, or if you just aren’t saying.”
Dad looked away, squinting through the smoke from his cigarette. “There’s still not much anyone can do about any of this.”
Muriel threw her hands in the air, and turned her head to one side, her nostrils flaring. “So that’s it, then,” she said. “Is that all there is to it? Because we can’t do anything about it, we don’t have a right to know what’s happening in our own family.” She turned to Dad, who did not meet her gaze.
I felt the need to jump in. “I think all Dad’s trying to say is that we don’t see any reason to worry all of you out there when you have problems of your own. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
Dad remained in the same position, his eyes distant and narrow, his whole body turned away from us, legs crossed. “Well…not exactly,” he said.
“So what then?” Stan asked. “If that’s not the reason, then I don’t get it.”
Dad took a drag off his cigarette, the paper burning down to his fingers, and crushed the butt in the ashtray. He exhaled through his nose, a thin stream of smoke drifting from each nostril up toward the ceiling. “The way I see it, if a body decides to move away from their family, well…” He lifted one weathered hand, as if that explained everything, and he said nothing more.
Muriel lifted her chin, taking short breaths in through her nose and clamping her hands together, the knuckles white. “I see.” She nodded. “I think I understand,” she said. She stood up, slowly, and walked from the room.
Stan ground his cigar into the ashtray and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He locked his hands together, the fingers relaxed, curved slightly. He held this position for a long time before he spoke. “Dad, I’m sorry this came up today. It wasn’t the right time to talk about family matters. But I’m hoping that your grief is affecting what you say. And I hope you didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” He said this in his deep, steady voice, speaking directly at Dad without a pause. Then, without waiting for a response, he rose and went to the room where Muriel had retreated.
Now it was just Rita, Dad, and I, and if there was ever a time I felt helpless, it was that moment. I sat exhausted, as if I had just relived the last twenty-five years of my life.
“Dad, is there anything you want, some coffee or anything?” Rita asked.
He shook his head, and I said a silent thank-you to Rita as the gesture made it somewhat comfortable for us to leave the room. I stood and stretched my arms out in front of me. Rita stood beside me.
“I think I could use a nap right now,” I said.
“Actually, that sounds pretty good to me too,” she said.
So we went to separate rooms and lay down, leaving Dad alone, staring out the window. It seemed to be what he wanted.
I woke up an hour later, and I rolled out of the bed, sweating and nearly choking on my twisted dress clothes. I wondered why I hadn’t taken them off before I lay down. I quickly changed into dungarees and a work shirt.
Drifting into the dining room, I sat down with a deck of cards, laying out a game of solitaire. It seemed that every adult in the house had been napping, as they emerged one by one from their rooms, hair mussed, yawning and scratching. All except Jack and Dad.
“Anybody seen Jack?” I asked.
“He’s down at his house,” Teddy said.
I nodded. “What about your grandpa?”
They all shrugged and shook their heads. “Haven’t seen him.”
“I think he’s sleeping, too,” Rita said. “I heard snoring from that direction.”
The kids laughed.
“Well, I suppose we should get something going for dinner,” I said. “We have a bumper crop of food here.”
Rita, Muriel, and I went to the kitchen and surveyed the icebox.
“This looks good,” Muriel said, pulling the lid off a beef casserole. Her spirits seemed to have improved with a little sleep.
“I think all we need to do is warm up a few of these dishes,” Rita said.
We filled the oven with the casserole, some scalloped potatoes, and a vegetable dish. We also found a beautiful chocolate cake and set it aside for dessert.
We sat down to eat. Teddy ran to the old house to get Jack, but Dad had still not come out of his room.
“He probably needs sleep more than he needs food,” Stan said.
“This all looks so good,” Muriel said.
“It certainly does,” Rita agreed. “It would be nice to eat like this all the time without doing any of the work.”
Stan had a good “Ha” for that one.
There was a strange sort of giddiness to our mood, as if we had forgotten for the moment that we had just buried our mother that morning. Or as though we were all relieved to have some of the secrets out in the open after so many years trying to protect each other from them.
Teddy came huffing into the house, probably having sprinted the whole way. “Dad says he ain’t hungry.”
“Ain’t?” Rita said.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Teddy said.
“Ain’t?” Rita repeated.
“It means the same thing as isn’t,” George said in his droll, low voice.
Rita’s eyes flashed, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You, young man, are a smart aleck,” she said to George, grabbing for his ear.
George smiled into his shirt. We were still laughing when Dad emerged from the bedroom, rubbing the back of his head with his knuckles. He passed right by us as if we weren’t there, and our laughter died a quick death. We all turned our attention to our food, not looking at each other. Dad rummaged around in the kitchen.
“Dad, do you need help finding something?” Rita called.
“I’m all right,” he answered. We heard water running, filling a glass. Then Dad appeared in the doorway.
We were stricken with rusty joints, all of us at once. We moved slowly, cutting and lifting our food as if each forkful weighed several pounds. None of us looked directly at Dad, but you can bet we had him in the edge of our vision.
He walked into the room, straight over to Muriel, tipping the glass of water to his mouth as he walked. He bent at the waist and whispered something into Muriel’s ear, then gave her a peck on the side of her head, right in her hair. And she burst into tears and threw her arms around his waist, nearly knocking him over.