Chapter 5 - The Cold Steam of Abandonment
The house felt cavernous now,
the silence expanding until it filled every corner where laughter should have been.
Gloria finally sat down,
dropping into a chair as if her bones had suddenly turned to water.
The thirty-eight dishes sat there,
mocking us with their perfection.
The steam stopped rising from the soup,
the garlic butter on the rolls began to congeal into a yellow film,
and the prime rib started to lose its pink luster.
“They didn't even taste a bite,”
Gloria whispered,
her voice sounding like crushed dry leaves.
I didn't know what to say,
so I just sat beside her,
taking her hand in mine.
Her skin was cold,
despite the warmth of the room.
I looked at the table,
and for the first time in my life,
I felt a cold,
calculating clarity.
I thought about the hours she’d spent awake while I slept.
I thought about the money in the coffee can.
I thought about the way Tiffany had looked at our home as if it were a waiting room for a better life.
“I'm so sorry,
Hank,”
Gloria said,
wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
“All that money...
all that work...
it’s all wasted.”
“It’s not wasted yet,”
I said,
my voice sounding strange even to me.
“What do you mean?”
I stood up and walked to the front window.
I watched the tail lights of the last guest's car disappear around the corner.
Then I looked down the street at the bus stop,
where a young woman in a nurse’s uniform was sitting,
looking exhausted.
I looked across the way at the neighbor,
a widower named Mr. Miller who I knew was eating a microwave dinner alone.
I saw a delivery driver pulling over to check a map,
his shoulders slumped with the weight of a long shift.
A plan began to form in my mind,
a spark of defiance that pushed back the shadows of Tiffany’s cruelty.
“Gloria,
get the good plates,”
I said,
turning back to her.
“The ones we only use for Christmas.”
“Hank,
what are you doing?”
“I’m not letting this food go to waste,”
I told her,
walking toward the front door.
“And I’m not letting you think your love has no place to go.”
I opened the front door wide,
letting the evening breeze carry the scent of our feast out into the neighborhood.
I walked onto the porch and raised my voice,
not in anger,
but in a call to arms.
“Hey!
Mr. Miller!”
I shouted,
waving to my neighbor.
“Come over here!”
“We’ve got enough food to feed an army,
and we need help eating it!”
I saw the nurse at the bus stop look up.
I saw the delivery driver roll down his window.
The door was open,
May you like
the table was set,
and the guest list was about to change.
