Chapter 2 - The Geography of the Kitchen
The kitchen of my house had been remodeled in 1994, the year my husband Arthur died of a coronary occlusion while clearing the brush behind the orchard fence. The countertops were green laminate, the kind that shows every grease spot unless you use a vinegar rag twice, and the linoleum had a small yellow burn mark near the refrigerator where Nathan had dropped a lead soldier he’d heated over the stove burner when he was twelve.
Diane was standing by the sink, her fingers trembling as she poured the cold-brew coffee through a tin funnel into two glass jars. She didn't look up when the screen door banged behind me.
"You always were too quiet when you were angry, Clara," she said, her voice dropping into that low, porch-whisper we used when the children were small and sleeping in the next room. "Your mother used to say that when you stopped talking, people needed to check the foundations of the house."
"She didn't drop it by accident, Diane," I said, sitting down on the vinyl-topped stool near the breadbox. "She looked at the stand before her arm moved. She wanted to see if the silver plate would ring when it hit the stone."
"I know," Diane muttered. "I saw her eye it when we brought the candles out. She’s been looking at everything in this house that way since they got the lease on the new townhouse in Arlington. Like she’s taking an inventory for a salvage yard."
The screen door opened again, lighter this time. Nathan came in alone. His hair was damp from the humidity outside, and he had a smear of charcoal dust across the sleeve of his blue linen shirt where he had finally tried to clear the pit after the smoke died down. He stopped three feet from the stool, his head tilted down in that submissive posture he had perfected during his four years at corporate compliance school.
"She’s in the car," he said. He didn't look at me; he looked at the yellow burn mark on the linoleum. "She’s crying, Mom. Her hand is blistered from the iron handle."
"She shouldn't have touched the iron, Nathan," I said, my voice remaining level and dry. "The screen has been there since your father built the brick circle. You know it stays hot until midnight."
"She wants to call the police," he said.
Diane let out a short, sharp snort from the sink. "On what grounds, Nathan? Arson of an accessory? Your wife committed property damage against a senior citizen’s birthday present in front of six witnesses from the neighborhood association. If anyone’s calling the sheriff, it’s Clara."
"It was an accident," Nathan said, his voice rising into that defensive, nasal tone that made my stomach turn. "She stumbled on the flagstones. Her heel caught in the mortar. She told me she felt her ankle turn before she reached the table."
"Her heels are three inches high and she was walking on dry stone," I said. "If her balance is that poor, she should wear sneakers to a backyard barbecue. Your father always told you that a person who wears the wrong shoes to a working farm is either looking for an insurance settlement or an excuse to leave early."
Nathan stepped closer, his fingers reaching out to touch the green laminate of the counter. "Mom, the bag was a gift from her father when she passed her real estate registry boards. It wasn't just... it wasn't just the money. It had her grandmother’s silver compact inside. The one from the old country."
The air in the kitchen suddenly felt very thin, the smell of the cold-brew coffee losing its sweetness. I looked at my son’s fingers—the long, narrow nails that looked exactly like Arthur’s, the small white scar across his knuckle from when he had helped me repair the chicken wire after the fox got in during the spring of 2014.
"He told her about the mortgage, Nathan," I said quietly.
May you like
Nathan didn't look up. His shoulders dropped another inch, his linen shirt bunching around his collar like an old sack. "What are you talking about?"
"The five thousand dollars you asked me for in May," I said. "The 'investment capital' you said you needed for the regional office expansion. I found the bank notice in the mail drawer last week when I was looking for the water bill. It wasn't for the office, Nathan. It was the back tax lien on the Arlington townhouse. You used my name as a guarantor on the secondary bridge loan."
