“We need to decide on the meat,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I was thinking hot dogs and hamburgers, like we did last year.”
Ethan did not look up from his paper. He cracked his thumb, the sound sharp in the quiet dining room.
“We should get the bone-in ribeyes from the butcher on Elm Street,” he said.
“Those are forty dollars a pound, Ethan,” I said. “We have twenty people coming to the yard.”
“Dad only eats steak when he goes to a cookout,” Ethan said, his voice flat and mature, devoid of the usual teenage whine. “He says hot dogs are for people who don’t care about their guests.”
I looked at my son’s profile, his jawline starting to show the same sharp angle as his father’s. He was still trying to build a bridge across a river that had already dried up.
“Your father might not have much time for eating, Ethan,” I said. “He has a lot of things to take care of.”
“He’ll eat if we have the steaks,” Ethan said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of blue chalk he used for his pool cue, turning it over and over in his palm until his thumb was stained bright blue.
“I’ll go to the grocery store after lunch,” I said, standing up from the table.
I walked back to the kitchen and stood over the sink. The soapy water had gone completely cold, and the crescent-shaped chip on the white stoneware plate looked like a tiny, pale mouth open in a scream.
I set the chipped plate in the drying rack and wiped my hands on the dish towel, the sound of the empty house suddenly too loud.
By two in the afternoon, the air inside the Oak Creek Savings and Loan felt heavy with the scent of floor wax and stale coffee. I handed my withdrawal slip to the young teller behind the counter, keeping my eyes fixed on her small brass nameplate.
