The pot roast on Vanessa’s white china was cold in the center, but nobody at the table was looking at the meat. Vanessa was staring at my left wrist, where the cuff of my flannel shirt had started to fray.
I adjusted the sleeve, tucking the loose blue thread under the horn button. My voice was a low, raspy gravel when I spoke, the sound of fifty years of cold mornings in Ohio.
“I signed the final papers on the Fourth Street market this morning,” I said, looking from my son to his wife. “The shop is officially closed. It is time for me to retire.”
Vanessa set her silver fork down with a sharp click against the porcelain. She did not look at Ethan, but she tapped her polished fingernails rhythmically against the hardwood table, the sound like a small, wooden clock ticking down.
“Retirement is a luxury for people who planned ahead, Walter,” Vanessa said, her vowels clipped and sharp. “With the shop gone, your active income is zero.”
“I have my savings,” I said.
I kept my eyes on my plate, pretending the lie was heavy. The truth was that my savings were currently sitting in seven different institutional accounts, but they did not need to know about the Hayes Market Group board or the forty million dollar logistics merger currently crossing my desk downtown.
“Savings disappear,” Vanessa said. “Ethan and I have a strict budget. We have a mortgage on this house, and the regional manager position at Ethan’s logistics firm is still on probation. We cannot carry a third adult for free.”
I looked at my son. Ethan was thirty-two, with his mother’s high forehead and a shadow of stress around his eyes. He sat with his shoulders hunched, his hands resting on either side of his water glass, rubbing his thumbs against the condensation.
“I only need the small room upstairs,” I said. “Just until I get my bearings.”
“The guest room is two thousand dollars a month,” Vanessa said.
The room she was talking about was barely eight feet by ten, situated directly over the drafty garage.
