Monday, six-thirty in the evening. The dining-room table in your father's house has five place-settings. Charlotte is between your mother and Karen. Your father is at the end closest to the kitchen. You are across from him at the other end closest to the hall. There is a chicken on a platter in the middle, and the green salad your mother made from the things she found in the fridge when she unpacked, and the cherry preserves from Albany are on a small saucer because Charlotte asked if they could be on the table.
Karen says grace. Karen says grace at dinners, but she keeps it to eight words. Your mother and Charlotte and you say amen at the end. Your father does not say amen. Karen has stopped waiting for him to.
The table is oak and your father made it. He made it the year he and Karen moved into the house, which is the year before Charlotte was born, which is nine years ago. The grain runs the long way. You have known this table for eight years and have sat at it maybe thirty-five times. The way your hands know the edge of the oak from the first meal you sat here at fifteen is the way your mother's hands know the thumb-pinch on pierogi-dough from a kitchen in upstate New York.
The wooden spoons in the green salad are also your father's. He did the handles. The bowls of the spoons are from a set Karen bought at a craft fair in Lyons.
Your mother asks Charlotte what she liked best at the museum. Charlotte says the tornado-room, where you stand in a plastic cylinder and a wind machine shows you what a tornado feels like. Your mother says that sounds like something I would not have liked when I was eight. Charlotte says I liked it. Karen says Charlotte has always liked the tornado-room. Charlotte says, only for a little while at first, and Karen laughs.
Your father cuts the chicken. He passes the platter to your mother first, which surprises you. Your mother takes a piece and passes it to Charlotte. Charlotte takes two pieces and passes the platter to Karen. Karen takes a piece and passes the platter to you. You take a piece. You pass the platter back to your father. Your father takes the last piece. Nobody has spoken during the passing.
You reach for the saltshaker at the same moment your father reaches for the saltshaker. Your hand and his hand meet half an inch above the table. His knuckles are larger than yours and there is a scar on his ring-finger from a saw he does not use anymore. Your hand moves back. His hand takes the shaker. He salts his chicken. He sets the shaker down where your hand can reach it. Your jaw works once. You take the shaker. You salt your chicken. You set the shaker down.
He does not look at me. I do not look at him.
The dinner continues.
Charlotte tells a story about a boy in her class who made a diorama with a real rock in it for a desert habitat and the rock had a name. The name was Pedro. The boy named the rock Pedro because the boy had heard the name Pedro somewhere and liked it. Charlotte says Pedro three times. Your mother says it is a good name for a rock. Karen says agreed. Your father nods. He does not say agreed. He does not say anything about rocks. He continues to eat chicken.
Your mother catches your eye once across the table. She does a thing with her mouth that is not a smile and is not a frown. You do a matching thing with your mouth. Then she turns back to Charlotte and asks about the diorama's cactus, and Charlotte explains the cactus, and Karen explains that she gave Charlotte the green felt, and your mother says the cactus sounds very good, and your father cuts himself another piece of chicken and passes the platter. The platter comes around again. Everybody has had enough.
I catch myself thinking Karen is doing this because she has to. The dinner, the grace, the asking-about-the-museum, the having-your-mother-in-the-guest-room-down-the-hall. I think for the two or three seconds a judgment takes to form in a tired body at a dinner table that Karen is being careful the way a woman is careful who has married the ex-husband of another woman who is now in her house. I have time to correct the thought. I do not. Charlotte is talking about the cactus.
Karen clears. You help. Your mother stays seated with Charlotte. Charlotte has asked her a question. Your father is already in the hallway heading back toward the garage. He touches the top of Charlotte's head in passing. Charlotte's head does not move; her mouth continues the sentence she was in the middle of. Karen watches him go, nods once at your mother; your mother nods back.
In the kitchen you and Karen do the dishes side by side. You wash, Karen dries. The dishes pass from your hands to the rack to her hands to the cupboard. You do not speak. The rhythm is not hard to hold. Karen's hands are older than your hands but move at the same cadence yours do, which is the cadence of a woman who has done dishes in a kitchen with another woman before.
When the dishes are done Karen hands you the towel she was using to dry her hands and she says thanks, kiddo in the specific voice people use when they are going to go upstairs now and not be back down until morning, and she goes upstairs.
You stand in the kitchen for a moment with the towel. The cherry preserves from Albany are on the counter, the jar lid back on. The platter with the chicken bones is on the counter beside the sink. The house is quiet.
From the garage comes the sound of your father's sander, which is back on.
He did not speak at dinner. He handed me the salt. I watch the platter in the sink. The sander stops, starts again.