Chapter 4

Entering the parlor cuts away the years because little has changed. It remains a man’s room, with big heavy furniture, unpainted walls, a cracked mirror atop a bureau, and family photographs standing in frames. The sofa is worn, dark green and shiny. Jack and I had done things there. On the floor, too. Lordy, we’d fucked to excess.

“Have a seat,” he says as he tosses his hat to a peg, where it lands perfectly. I’ve seen him do that hundreds of times, and that simple thing, that familiarity, brings a churn of gut, of heart.

“Hungry?” he asks and I tell him “yes,” so he heads to the kitchen. I follow, like I’m allowed liberty. When he offers no comment, I sit at the kitchen table and watch him make biscuits.

“You’ve learned to cook,” I say, unable to keep quiet.

“Jim taught me after you left.”