Vera stepped out of the kitchen, her paper cup in her left hand, and stood near the bookshelf.
Graham did not look at her, but he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“The sheriff’s deputy called me at the school today,” Graham said.
“He wants me to come to the station tomorrow morning,” he said.
“To give your statement?” I asked.
“He said they have my text message,” Graham said, his voice cracking slightly.
“The one I sent you in the hallway,” he said.
“The one where you said you saw her push me,” I said.
“I was upset when I wrote that,” Graham said.
“I was not thinking clearly,” he said.
“You were telling the truth,” I said.
Graham pressed his palms together again, his knuckles white.
“If I tell the deputy she pushed you, they will charge her with reckless endangerment,” Graham said.
“She could go to jail, Nora,” he said.
“She needs to answer for what she did on those stairs,” I said.
“She is my mother,” Graham said.
“And I am your wife,” I said.
The room went completely quiet, the only sound the low hum of the traffic on the main road two blocks away.
“If I give the statement, she will never forgive me,” Graham said.
“You have to choose who you are protecting, Graham,” I said.
He looked at the white envelope in his hand, then laid it gently on the wooden dining table.
“She is waiting in the car,” Graham said.
“Let her wait,” I said.
Graham stood there for another minute, his arms hanging limp at his sides, before he turned and went out the door.
I looked at the thick envelope sitting on the dark wood of the table.
I reached out, my fingers cold against the paper, and pushed it away from me.
I slid Judith’s unopened envelope back across the wooden table to Graham’s empty chair.
The vinyl of the corner booth at the Oak Creek Diner was cold, sticking slightly to my trousers as I slid inside. Paul was already there, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the seat, two thick white mugs of black coffee steaming on the Formica between us. The air smelled of burnt toast and old grease, the familiar Tuesday afternoon hum of the highway just audible through the heavy glass.
“I ordered for you,” Paul said, his voice a low, hesitant mumble.
“Thank you,” I said.
I cleared my throat before speaking, my hand automatically going to my wrist to adjust the leather strap of my watch.
“How are the ribs?” he asked, his eyes staying on the sugar shaker.
“They hurt when I cough,” I said. “Otherwise, they are just sore.”
Paul rubbed his chin, his fingers making a dry, rasping sound against his graying stubble. It was the movement he always made when he was deciding what to keep to himself.
“I wanted to tell you about Sunday,” he said, finally looking up. “Before you and Graham got there.”
“What about it?” I asked.
“She was in the kitchen since eight in the morning,” he mumbled, his thumb tracing the blue rim of his coffee mug. “She kept going on about how you had organized the pantry the week before. She said you were trying to make her feel old in her own house.”
“I was just trying to help her find the flour,” I said.
“I know,” Paul said. “But Judith doesn’t see it that way. By the time you arrived, she was already pacing the hallway. We all knew she was looking for a reason to snap.”
“And nobody said anything to me?” I asked.
Paul looked back down at the table, his fingers picking at the corner of a paper napkin.
“You know how she gets, Nora,” he said. “If you try to calm her down, it just turns on you instead. Remember that Thanksgiving three years ago? The one where we all had to sit in silence for twenty minutes because she didn’t like the way the table was set?”
“I remember,” I said.
“We just learned to stay out of the way,” he said.
“She followed me down to the basement, Paul,” I said. “She didn’t just stumble.”
Paul didn’t answer right away, his hand drifting toward his breast pocket where the stiff edge of a paper envelope was showing.
“She wants to make it right,” Paul said, pulling the envelope from his pocket.
Inside was a single blue check, already filled out in his tight, slanted handwriting.
“This is for one thousand dollars,” he said, sliding it across the table until it rested against my paper napkin.
“I can’t take this, Paul,” I said.
“It is not a bribe, Nora,” he said, though his voice was so quiet I had to lean forward to hear it. “We just want to make sure you are taken care of.”
“Whose money is this?” I asked.
“It is mine,” he said, but he rubbed his chin again, his fingers scraping the stubble twice.
“Did Judith ask you to give this to me?” I asked.
“She is worried,” he mumbled. “She doesn’t want the county getting involved in family business. The sheriff’s office has been calling the house.”
“The deputy came to see me yesterday,” I said.
Paul froze, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly, the liquid sloshing over the side and pooling on the Formica.
“What did you tell them?” he asked.
