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I was still lost in the moment, feeling connected to Maddie. And to Ben again. Then I saw his face.
He looked nervous. “I’m not sure, Maddie,” he said.
Maddie ran up ahead, toward the hillside, toward the barrel room and the cave. Leaving Ben and me alone. Ben forced himself to smile.
“I’m sorry she said that,” he said.
“Why?” I said.
He paused, starting to say something, then stopping. “I don’t know.”
“What aren’t you saying, Ben?” I said.
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, but he looked down, shielding his eyes—the way he did when he was keeping something from me. It was usually something insignificant that he was withholding: like when he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or drop off our rent check. Though, apparently, it could also be something less insignificant: like what he felt he needed to keep to himself now.
The Last Family Dinner (Part 1)
Ben put Maddie down for a nap and I went to the kitchen to find my mother. She was standing by the farmer’s sink, washing the vegetables she had picked from her garden for dinner: tomatoes and cucumbers and onions and garlic and broccoli filling her small woven basket. She was still wearing her gardening hat. And she had the music on high.
She was dancing to it. She was dancing this awkward little two-step in front of the sink. It wasn’t surprising that she was dancing or that she was doing it oddly. She and my father both danced terribly and they both loved dancing, especially together. Growing up, I’d often walk into a scene just like this one: the two of them awkwardly two-stepping, arms happily flailing, in front of the tomatoes.
My mother was dancing, alone now, looking at her vegetables, not turning toward me. “How does pot roast sound for the family dinner?” she said.
I came up behind her, resting my head on her shoulder. I wanted to bury into her shoulder. I wanted her to make it all okay. As opposed to the reality. That she was part of the problem.
“I’m only asking to be polite,” she said. “About the pot roast. Not because I’m planning to do anything differently. Finn and Bobby already requested it separately. And I’m glad there’s something on which they agree.”
“Sounds great, then.”
She smiled, pleased with that answer. Then she moved to the right of the sink, motioning for me to help her clean the tomatoes.
“I wish everyone would stop calling this the last family dinner, though,” she said. “It seems dramatic.”
“Isn’t it also the truth?”
She looked down, ignoring the question, handing over several tomatoes.
“The tomatoes are on their last legs,” she said. “Do what you can. It’s that time of year. The end of the harvest, which means rest. Which means your father can focus on other things. But also the end of the tomatoes.”
“A mixed bag,” I said.
“Indeed.” She started chopping a cucumber. “I saw that we have two more joining tonight?”
I looked at her. “You met Maddie?”
She nodded. “Where do you think the cake came from?” she said.
I started washing a tomato, ignoring her gaze.
“What happened?” she said.
“He thinks we need to be together in the same place to get through this.”
“No. I understand what he’s doing here, but what happened, that you’re letting him stay? At least for the family dinner? And don’t tell me that he loves it. Though he does love it. Maybe more than your father.”
I shrugged. “I’m so mad at him and then I think I shouldn’t be. Which makes me mad in a new way, if that makes sense?”
“Not really . . .”
