The Rent Bill In Howard’s House

Dinner for fourteen

They sat me at the far end of the table, between Rita and a man from the township whose name I did not catch. Lloyd sat three seats from Stan, at Sheila’s careful direction, close enough to be flattered and far enough that she could watch his face.

Sheila’s voice got higher with every course. She was talking about the house.

“Stan and I just felt it was time to take ownership,” she said, to the pastor, to the woman from the bank, to anyone with an ear. “When you inherit a legacy, you can either let it fade, or you can invest in it. We have really poured ourselves into this place. The renovations, the upkeep, all the little things people don’t see. It’s a lot for a young family. But it’s worth it. We’re building something here.”

She said “we” so many times I began counting. I lost track somewhere around eleven.

When the plates were cleared, Sheila stood, tapped her mug with a spoon, and said, “I’d like to say just a few words.”

The room settled.

“First, thank you all for coming out on such a chilly night.” A ripple of polite, brittle laughter. “We’re having a few small issues with the heating, but you know how it is with a house this age. They have their quirks.” She paused. “I also want to say a special thank-you to Lloyd Dawson, who has been such a pillar of this community, and who I know has been a dear friend to our family for many years.”

Lloyd nodded once.

“Stan and I are hoping, in the coming year, to take a bigger role in Ashford,” Sheila went on. “To give back. To carry on the Kessler name, and to build on what, well, what was here before us.” She turned her smile on me, then, directly, and the room seemed to hold its breath. “Of course, not everyone understands how generational change works. Sometimes, with the best intentions, people hold on a little too tightly. But we’ve been very patient. We’ve tried to be fair.”

I put my napkin on the table.

I will tell you plainly, I was about to stand up and leave. I had made up my mind that I would not give her my face to fight with. I had come to see the thing through, but I had not come to be stabbed at, and I was halfway out of my chair when Lloyd Dawson cleared his throat.

It was not a loud sound. But everybody turned.

“Stan,” Lloyd said.

Stan looked up from his plate like a man waking from sleep.

“You want my honest opinion about this house?” Lloyd said. “You asked me over the cider whether your father would be proud.”

“I did,” Stan said. His voice cracked. “I asked if you thought Dad would be proud of how we’ve, you know. Kept it up.”

“Well.” Lloyd pushed his chair back and stood. He stood slowly, one hand on the table, and when he put his shoulders back I saw the man who had once poured a foundation in a single August day. “Then I think you ought to hear it from somebody who was here.”

Sheila’s smile slipped half an inch. “Lloyd, I don’t think this is really the time for a speech.”

“It won’t be a speech, Sheila.” He did not look at her. He looked at Stan. “It’ll be a question and an answer. Your husband asked. I’m answering.”