The Four Lids on My Counter

Why I did not tell her no, or wait and talk to Neil about it later, or let it go and fix Jonah a plate of what was left and keep the peace.

It was my table, my groceries and my boy, and there was nothing to call anybody about or argue over.

You just feed the child. That is the whole of what I was thinking, and I did not think much past it.

I set the rolls on the stovetop. I took off my oven mitts and laid them down.

And I walked over to the counter where Bernadine was standing with her hand on her tote bag, ready to slide the containers in.

I picked up the first container, the one with the white meat. I took the lid off the stack, and I held it out to her.

She took it. People do that. You hand somebody a thing and their hand comes up.

Then I handed her the second lid, and the third, and the fourth.

She took every one of them, and she stood there holding four plastic lids against the front of her navy cardigan like a stack of dinner plates.

“Hold your plate up, bud,” I said to Jonah.

He held it up with both hands. I picked up the big serving spoon and I spooned turkey from her container onto his plate, two good slices. Then dressing, the crusty corner kind that he loves best.

Then I spooned mashed potatoes and beef and noodles beside it, and I cut him a square of persimmon pudding with the side of the spoon and set it on the edge, because he would want that first and I knew it.

I did not hurry, and I did not slam anything. I did not look at her while I did it.

I looked at my son’s plate and I made it look like Thanksgiving was supposed to look for a 9-year-old boy.

“Go on and sit down,” I told him. “Eat while it’s hot. Grab a roll on the way.”

He looked at me, then at his grandma, then back at me. I nodded at the big table.

He went and sat down at the end of it, in Neil’s chair, because the card table was still in the garage.

And then I looked up, and that was when I understood that the whole room had gone quiet.

I could hear the furnace kick on in the basement. I could hear Rose banging a spoon on her high chair tray, and then Erin catching her hand, and then not even that. Everybody at that table was looking at Bernadine.

She was standing beside my kitchen counter in her navy cardigan with her short silver hair still set from the beauty shop on Wednesday, holding four lids, and her mouth was open a little, like she had started to say something and lost it.