December 13, 1871
I set four places for breakfast.
The plates were still warm from washing. I put the chipped one at Pa's end and turned the sound edge toward him. He never notices unless there is someone else to blame. Ma notices everything that might save her a penny.
I had wrapped a strip of linen around my wrist before coming down. The dark strokes beneath my skin had not faded overnight. With my sleeve buttoned, I could almost forget them, except when the cloth caught and the warmth traveled up my arm.
Ma came in with the bread knife.
“Expecting company?”
There were five plates on the table.
The extra place stood beneath the window, with a spoon laid neatly at its right. I leave that chair empty in the mornings. The light is kind to my face from there, and I dislike having someone between me and it.
I said John must have done it.
“He hasn't come down.”
“Then perhaps I was thinking of something else.”
She looked at my sleeve. I reached for the loaf before she could reach for me.
The fifth plate was the one with the blue flowers around its rim. We have only two left of that set. Ma keeps them for people who look as though they might pay without arguing.
I put it back in the dresser.
We ate. Pa tore his bread instead of cutting it. John complained that his coffee was cold. I watched Ma's hands while she spread the last of the butter thin enough to show the knife marks through it.
I was very attentive to them all. I can be a dutiful daughter when I need witnesses.
Afterward, Ma sent me to fetch water. I carried the pail with my good hand and stood a little longer at the well than the cold allowed. The road was empty. No wheels, no horse, no traveler making up a story about the money he would have tomorrow.
When I returned, the blue-flowered plate was on the table again.
The others had been cleared away.
I went to the dresser. One matching plate remained on the shelf, exactly where it should have been. I touched it, then counted the hooks above it, though the hooks had nothing to do with the matter.
From the kitchen, Ma called that the water would not pour itself.
I wanted to ask whether she had set the place. I wanted her to say yes, to be cross with me over some small stupidity, and let the morning become ordinary.
Instead I asked whether we had any clean napkins.
“Since when does your father require one?”
I laughed. She was satisfied with that.
There is a kind of pride in being singled out, even when one has begun to wish the attention elsewhere. I had written my name willingly enough. I could hardly complain because something remembered its manners.
I folded the napkin beside the plate. The spoon was warm when I straightened it.
Then I sat opposite the empty chair and waited.
No one came through the door.
But the linen at my wrist tightened, slowly, as though someone across the table had taken the loose end.