Gordon cleared his throat at supper on a Tuesday in April, and I knew from the sound of it that Faye had told him to. Gordon never cleared his throat on his own account.
There were nine of us at the table that night, like most nights. Gordon and Faye at the ends. Brittany and Wade and their three kids along one side. Natalie and me on the other, closest to the stove.
Natalie had made the chicken and rice. She had made the green beans with the bacon in them because Owen, who was eight, would eat green beans if there was bacon in them. She had made the bars for dessert the night before.
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“Your mother and I have some news,” Gordon said. He set his fork down square beside his plate, the way he always did, like a man laying down a wrench he meant to pick up again.
Faye didn’t wait for him to finish. She never did. “We’re taking Brittany to England,” she said. “Two weeks in June. London first, and then a little cottage out in the country. One of those stone ones.”
Brittany put her hand over her mouth like she was hearing it for the first time. Maybe she was. Lily, who was five, asked if England was by Omaha, and everybody laughed.
“It’s been a hard year,” Faye said, and she looked at Wade when she said it, and Wade looked at his plate. “She needs a break. Her share alone is going to come to about nine thousand dollars, with the airfare, but your dad and I decided she’s worth it.”
Natalie set her fork down. That was all she did. She didn’t say a word. She folded her napkin and laid it on her lap and looked at the bars on the counter.
I looked at her, and then I looked at the chore chart on the fridge behind Faye’s head. It was a dry erase board with a magnet strip, ruled into boxes in Faye’s neat school-office handwriting.
Natalie’s name was on cooking, Monday through Friday. Natalie’s name was on dishes. Natalie’s name was on the upstairs bathroom on Saturdays. My name was on lawn, trash, gutters, and snow.
Brittany’s name wasn’t on it anywhere. It never had been.
“That’s wonderful,” Natalie said finally. Her voice was so even I almost believed her. “You’ll have a great time, Britt.”
Then she got up and started running the dishwater, because it was Tuesday, and Tuesday was hers.