“But the turkey is from IGA,” said Marsha soberly. “They do a nice job.”
East nodded. He couldn’t tell what this was about. Perry stood and carved the turkey with a long knife burnished black. The son said a tight little prayer, and meat was served onto the plates. It was warm and tender, the first real meat East had eaten in almost a month. He felt his stomach get confused about it, cramping dully.
Marsha waited until they had all refilled their plates before she spoke.
“You need to put Antoine in a decent place,” she said. “Not on a sofa that others crouch on all day.”
So this was the ambush he was in for. The lawyer son was Marsha’s version of a gunner. Had she come in and looked at the range, at the storeroom? When he was out, getting breakfast, maybe? Did she guess that the sofa was his bed? Or had she found his nest, his box and bed?
“That is a garage, not a decent place for a human to live,” Marsha said, “but you have one living there. I look out at night—he does not leave. I look out in the morning—he does not come back.”
Perry, mayor of the town, looked down at his fork, then made parallel digs through his mashed potatoes. “All right. I didn’t know where he was staying. I didn’t know. Say the quarry hires a guy: they don’t ask, where are you staying?” He coughed again and removed something from his cheek with cupped fingers. “Antoine. Did I know where you were staying?”
East stirred. “No, sir.”
“They know if they want to know,” said Marsha. “And if they ask. If they keep paper. If their records are at all legal, they know.” Her son the lawyer gave a listening nod.
“There’s paper enough,” Perry said. “Precious little, but enough.”
“If your luck holds out,” Marsha said, spearing a green bean. “But you knew, Perry. You knew, and you didn’t even take him anything to make it comfortable. A bed, a hot plate. You could have tried to make it nice. I mean, we must have a dozen toasters in the attic. Arthur gives me one every year.”
“Not every year,” interposed Arthur.
She looked at East then, sad half-moons under her eyes. A silent apology. Maybe she was sorry for watching. But she was watching.
Perry served himself two rolls from the basket. “We’ll see what’s possible.”
Then she addressed East. “What brings this on is, we received the notice. The state: they’ll inspect. Within a month. And if they find you staying there, they’ll revoke the permit and close the business.”
“Which would not make her unhappy,” Perry said, chewing. “Which would not break her heart.”
“Antoine.” She spoke up—the loudest sound East had ever heard her make. Her eyes darkened. “He has to find you a place to live. I will make him. There are decent places.”
“Not for what he’s paying now,” Perry grunted.
“If I have to remind you who owns the land and the building,” said Marsha, “I will.”
Perry wandered the subject around, mentioning an apartment building he knew, owned by a lady down near Chillicothe; down there they used to make truck axles, and they were once the capital of Ohio. Now they had a storytelling festival.
But Marsha cut him off. “They don’t make truck axles now, do they?”
“No, Marsha, they don’t.”
“You haven’t ever gone to the storytelling festival, have you?”
“No, dear. I have not.”
“It’s in September. Almost a year away.”
Perry coughed. The dinner had been an effort for him even without the conversation. He was sick, East had recognized from the beginning, but always florid, forceful somewhere back inside. Now he was tired inside.
“All right,” he said under his breath. “I’ll find you a place. I can help you pay for it.” He stared at the meat piled before him, then at his wife. “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
So the attorney son served himself more wild rice. He hadn’t had to say a thing. East wondered if he considered it wasted time, coming out here. But his sitting by Marsha’s side had given her courage.
Everyone finished in silence. East chewed his last green beans slowly, one at a time, crushing each little seed out and finding it with his tongue. His plate when he handed it over was as clean as if it had never held food. He stood and pushed his chair in square with the table, as if he’d never been there.
It had been difficult, sitting there. A conversation he could never really speak up into. But he would remember this meal—the good food of a family. Even this one, so far from his own, or what had once been his own.
—