Brenda hand-shredded the mozzarella with a speed that felt like a warning. A stray shaving of cheese landed on my silver signet ring, and I wiped it off onto the edge of the counter before she could notice.
“I keep a very tight ship, Nora,” Brenda said, adjusting her blue floral apron. “Thursdays are my busy days, with my book club meeting at the library at four o’clock, so I have to get everything organized ahead of time.”
I twirled my signet ring, trying to match her high-pitched, enthusiastic pace. I wanted so much to belong in this bright, orderly Wisconsin kitchen, but my own fractured family history felt like a shadow in the room.
“David says you’re incredibly organized,” I said, my voice ending on a slight, nervous lift.
“You have to be,” Brenda said, her voice brittle as she smoothed the apron again. “Arthur likes things done a certain way. He likes to know where every dollar goes, especially with the house expenses.”
Would Arthur ever truly accept me as part of this family?
By three o’clock, we were in the living room. The television hummed with a college football game, the green field casting a pale glow over the beige carpet.
David sat on the edge of the sofa, rubbing the back of his neck as the quarterback threw an incomplete pass into the end zone.
“He’s running out of pocket space, Dad,” David said quickly, leaning forward. “He’s got to dump the ball or take the sack.”
Arthur sat in the leather recliner, his sixty-two-year-old frame completely still. He did not look at David, nor did he look at me sitting quietly in the armchair near the window.
He cleared his throat, a low, slow sound that seemed to stop the air in the room.
“A bad choice,” Arthur said, his voice deliberate and heavy. “Once you start losing ground, you don’t get it back.”
David went quiet, staring at his knees while the television screen flickered with a commercial for truck tires.
The lasagna was served at exactly five o’clock in the dining room, the heavy white plates lined up neatly on the floral tablecloth.
