When I let myself into the living room, the house was dark except for the yellow light from the kitchen. Arthur was sitting in the armchair by the window, his boots still coated in the dry red dust from the nursery yard.
The car keys were on the side table by his elbow.
“You were gone a long time,” Arthur said.
“I had to get the wire,” I said, holding up the paper bag.
He did not look at the bag. He reached out and picked up the key ring, the metal clinking against his brass belt buckle.
“In your condition, you should not be driving all the way into town alone,” he said. His voice was soft, almost tender, the tone he used when we had company in the parlor.
“I have been driving that road since I was sixteen,” I said.
“Things are different now,” Arthur said. He slid the keys into his pocket, his hand lingering on the leather of his belt. “We have to think about the family. I will handle the errands from now on.”
He stood up and walked into the kitchen, his heavy steps vibrating through the floorboards.
