The Diploma Beside the Cake

By the time they cut the second pie, Cora and Dwight were gone. Their coats were off the rack and their casserole dish was gone from the table.

I did not see them leave. Nobody said her name. Nobody asked where she went.

It surprised me how quickly the hall closed over the empty place. The little kids ran in circles between the tables.

The old men argued about the football game they could not see. Somebody put a pot of coffee on again.

Around three o’clock, a young woman I had not noticed all afternoon came and stood at Kenzie’s elbow with two small children, a boy of eight and a girl of five, one on each hand.

It was Brittany.

She is twenty-four. She has her mother’s long jaw and none of her mother’s polish.

She wore a faded green fleece with a name tag from the nursing home still pinned to it, and she looked as if she had not slept since Thursday.

“Hey, Kenzie,” she said. “Hey.” Kenzie put her fork down.

“I wanted to say,” Brittany began, and then she stopped and started again. “I didn’t know she was going to say that.

I didn’t know until it was out of her mouth, and I was in the bathroom with Kaylee. I’d have stopped her.”

“It’s okay.”

“It isn’t. But I wanted you to hear it from me.” Brittany lifted her chin. “And I wanted to say congratulations. For real. A semester early is a big thing. I’d have given a lot to be you at seventeen.”

Kenzie looked at her for a long moment. I held my breath. “Did you ever finish your equivalency?” she asked.

Brittany blinked. “I got it three years ago. Night classes. I took the test in Charleston.”

“Then you’re a lot closer than you think,” Kenzie said. “Mr. Gentry says the shop is hiring a helper on second shift in January.

No cert needed. You just have to show up and not mind the noise. It’s twenty dollars to start.”

Brittany did not say anything. Her eyes went bright. The little girl on her left hand, Kaylee, with a gap in her front teeth, tugged her sleeve and said, “Mama, can I have cake?”

“Yeah, baby,” Brittany said. She was not looking at the child. She was looking at my daughter. “Yeah. I’ll think about it, Kenzie. Thank you.”

I turned away and busied myself with a pie server, because I did not trust my face.

Later, when the hall was nearly empty and Rob was folding chairs with his uncles, Grandpa Chester called me over to the stove.

The folder was in his lap. He had put the pay stub back in it, and the diploma, and the note from Jerome Sutter, all squared up neatly.

“Heather,” he said. “I’d like to keep this till Wednesday. For when she comes out. I want to put it on the mantel and look at it.” “It’s hers, Grandpa.”

“I know whose it is.” He handed me the folder after all, and then took it back, and held it a second more. “Do you know what’s wrong with this family?”

“I could think of a few things.”

“We’ve let a loud woman be the reason for too much, for too long. And I let her. That’s on me.” He looked at me over his glasses. “You didn’t yell.