GOING HOME WITH SAM IS FUN, BECAUSE it’s like escaping to an entirely different world. He lives a whole walk away from the projects. He has a real house, sitting in a row with other houses that all look more or less the same. He has a driveway for his dad’s car. We wander down his block. He holds my hand with the usual quietness about him. I wonder what is going to be for dinner. His mom is a good cook, so whatever it is, I’m looking forward to it.
Mrs. Childs greets me with a hug. She frames my face with her hands and says, “Let me look at you. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”
Sam takes off his jacket—Steve’s jacket—and hangs it on a hook by the door. I’m a little surprised. I never thought of his wearing it as something he only does out in the world. I thought it was something he did because he couldn’t help it.
“Your father’s on his way,” she says. “We’ll be eating soon.”
We go to his room for a little while. It seems bigger in here than it used to, for some reason, but I don’t mention it because I assume it’s the size of Steve’s absence. You can feel it in the whole house. Then I remember that there used to be a big castle thing, made out of blocks, in the corner of their room that took up a bunch of space. There’s no trace of it now.
“What happened to your . . . thing.” I gesture with my hand.
“I took it down,” he says.
We sit on the bed and look at a magazine he has with pictures of buildings in it. He likes to look at the pictures that show the outsides of the buildings, but I like to look at the way they’re decorated on the inside. So we spend a while looking at every single page, except the ads. Usually when we sit this close, we end up kissing, but that would be weird here, in his room.
Then his mom calls, “Set the table, please,” and we go ahead and do that. We take seats at the table.
Sam’s mom comes out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of potato salad, sees me sitting there, and starts crying. Nothing else happens. She doesn’t stop walking or try to dry the tears. The bowl clatters gently to the table and she arranges the serving spoon. Looks at me. The crying is louder now. She goes to the sideboard and brings out an extra hot plate. Sets it on the table. Looks at me. Her face is a fast-flowing river. Her shoulders tremble.
I look to Sam, alarmed.
“It’ll be over in a minute,” he tells me. His mom nods. I think she’s trying to smile. Maybe I shouldn’t watch. I turn toward the photos on the wall.
Mrs. Childs is gasping, weeping. She clutches the back of a chair and lowers her head. I think I’ve made it worse. Tears spring up in my own eyes, seeing it all laid out before me. Family photos. Two good-looking boys, all different ages. Smiling.
Then it’s done. She stops, breathes a shaky sigh, and retreats to the kitchen.
“I think she hates me,” I whisper, even though I know it’s not the reason why she cried. Still, it feels like I caused it.
“You’re sitting in his place,” Sam explains.
“Oh.” I jump up, which makes no sense. Four chairs at the table; I’m going to have to sit in one. “Sorry.”
“It’s not because of you.” He fingers the edge of the tablecloth. “She cries when the chair is empty, too.”
“Is it terrible?” I blurt. My face goes hot. Some things you don’t say out loud.
Sam says nothing. He knows me and my big mouth. That it’s one of those things I mean and don’t mean all at the same time. I reach over and still his fingers. Slide back into the chair because it has to happen sometime. I can’t eat standing up.
Mrs. Childs clatters around the kitchen.
“Should I help her?” I whisper. I’ve crashed right into their private sorrow. The least I can do is make myself useful.
Sam squeezes my fingers back. “No, just let her be.”
Sam’s dad enters a moment later. After he hangs up his jacket, he comes and pats Sam on the shoulder.
“Hi, Maxie,” he says.
Then he catches Mrs. Childs by the wrist as she’s exiting the kitchen. Kisses her on the cheek. Surely he can tell it’s tear-stained, but probably it’s not news to him, either.
Mrs. Childs lays a plate of rolls beside her place setting.
There’s so much food on the table, it makes my stomach ache.
In Sam’s family they hold hands together to say grace instead of everyone folding their hands in their laps like at Patrice’s.
Mr. Childs says a short prayer. He even says my name in it, thankful that I could join them. He and Mrs. Childs both squeeze my fingers before they let go.
Then everyone starts reaching for different plates of food. Whatever’s closest.
After a moment Mrs. Childs nudges me with a look. “Maxie, go ahead and start the mashed potatoes.”
It’s a big bowl with a big spoon, but I’m afraid to take as much as I want. I look at Sam, but he’s busy forking slices of pot roast onto his plate. There are ten slices. He takes two. I don’t know how to divide up mashed potatoes so easy. I guess I’ll try two spoonfuls and see how it goes.
Not well. The mound on my plate is huge. It’s rude to put any back, though. I set the spoon in the bowl. Maybe no one will notice.
“Don’t be shy,” Mrs. Childs says. “There’s plenty more in the kitchen.”
I stop my eyes from widening by looking at my plate. Obediently I take another spoonful and hand the bowl off to her.
After that, item for item I match the pile of food Sam has, except he only took two green beans, and there are many more than ten. I shovel off a big forkful and wait to see if it’s okay.
My mama didn’t raise no charity case, after all.