Chapter 9 - GRANDMA’S TABLE
Nick parked behind the truck.
He was out of the car before I unbuckled.
“Put that down.”
One mover froze.
The other adjusted his grip on the table.
Martha rolled her eyes.
“Don’t embarrass yourself.”
Nick went straight to the men.
“I own this house. I didn’t authorize a pickup.”
Their supervisor came out holding an inventory sheet.
Martha had signed it.
She had described herself as the property owner.
“We were hired to clear the dining room and two bedrooms,” he said.
“Some pieces are going to a buyer.”
“What buyer?” Nick asked.
Martha stepped between them.
“Family business.”
The supervisor looked at her.
Then at Nick’s identification and the documents on his phone.
He ordered the table carried back inside.
Martha’s face hardened.
“You’re making a scene over old furniture.”
Nick touched the deep scratch along the table’s edge.
He had made it at twelve while building a model airplane.
Rose had refused to sand it out.
“She said it proved people lived here,” he told me once.
Now he looked at his mother.
“You were selling her things before I knew there was a sale.”
“She’s dead, Nick.”
The words stopped him.
Martha saw it.
She moved closer.
“I’m the one who’s still here. I’m your mother.”
I watched the familiar calculation cross his face.
The urge to soften.
To give her a sentence she could use as a doorway.
Then he stepped aside.
“The movers need room.”
She stared at him.
Inside, drawers stood open.
Rose’s quilt was stuffed into a trash bag.
A box marked DONATE held the chipped blue mugs we had used every Tuesday.
I knelt beside it.
Under the mugs was an old photo album.
Ruth at twenty-five.
Martha beside her.
Two sisters with the same dark eyes.
In the next photograph, Ruth’s hair had been cut short on one side.
The other side hung past her shoulder.
A folded note slipped from the album.
Don’t let her tell you it was an accident.
I looked toward the doorway.
Martha was watching me.
Not Nick.
Me.
“Put that back.”
I stood with the album against my chest.
“Why?”
For the first time, she didn’t bother pretending.
“Because you don’t know what happens when you keep digging.”
Nick came into the hall.
“I heard that.”
Martha turned.
Outside, the truck’s engine started.
Her audience was leaving.
Her control was shrinking.
Then she looked at her son and said the thing she knew would hurt most.
“Your father would be ashamed of you.”
May you like
Nick’s hand tightened on the doorframe.
And I knew the next ten seconds would decide more than who kept a table.
