Chapter 1 — The Help Eats In The Kitchen

MargaretThat's not your seat, dear. You're down at the end.

SarahI thought David and I were —

MargaretDavid's beside me. You're at the end.

Sarah carried her glass down to the far end of the table and sat by the door to the kitchen.

MargaretNow. Somebody remind me what your father does, Sarah.

SarahHe's retired.

MargaretFrom?

SarahHe drove a delivery route. Thirty-one years, the same route.

MargaretHow steady.

RobertWhat sort of deliveries?

SarahBread, mostly.

PrestonBread.

MargaretPreston.

PrestonI'm not saying anything. I said bread.

David did not look up from his plate. His hand went down and touched the leather case against the chair leg, and then came back to the table.

MargaretAnd your mother?

SarahShe passed in 2019.

MargaretI'm sorry. And before that?

SarahShe cleaned at the regional hospital.

MargaretWell. There's no shame in honest work.

RobertNone at all.

PrestonNone whatsoever.

Sarah reached across for the serving spoon and her sleeve caught the edge of the gravy boat, and a thin brown line ran out across the white cloth.

MargaretOh, for heaven's sake.

SarahI'm sorry — I'll get a cloth —

MargaretSit down. Elsa will do it.

Margaret pulled Sarah's plate toward herself, took it in both hands, and let it go over the edge of the table.

It broke on the floorboards. Roast and potatoes went across the rug.

Sarah did not move. Her hands stayed in her lap.

MargaretThe help eats in the kitchen. That's what the kitchen is for.

The room went completely silent except for a clock in the hall.

David set down his fork, and for the first time that evening he lifted his head and looked down the length of the table at his mother.

DavidSay that again.

MargaretI said she can eat in the kitchen if she's going to behave like the help.

DavidSay it one more time. Slowly.