She’d been here since the closing ceremony. The man had sent her here before it began. She hadn’t left, and the man had stayed with her. It was clean but untidy. Books were stacked on the floor, and a bag of groceries had yet to be put away.
“Jacob.” The woman smiled softly, her eyes focusing on a patch of sunlight hitting the boy’s shoulder. “I made potato soup.”
“It smells good.”
The woman turned—it was only two steps back to the kitchen cupboard—and pulled down three bowls. She set them on the little round table. She took three spoons from a drawer.
“Your father asked for it.”
The boy hung the blue dress in the closet by the front door. Then he moved slowly through the room, rubbing a hand down his face.
The wind swirled on the curl of fragrance rising from the soup pot. Potato. Butter. Bacon. Chive. This was the man’s favorite meal. His mother had made it for him when he was a boy, and he asked for it whenever he needed comfort. The wind blew at a bubble that boiled in the creamy soup and popped it.
The woman dragged a ladle through the liquid and dropped a spoonful into a bowl. “He’ll be home soon.”
“Mom,” the boy said, and when she paused mid-scoop, he continued. “Dad isn’t coming home.”
Her gaze flew to his. The wind blew over her, tapping at her hollow-reed feel.
Her face turned marble-white and marble-cold.
The boy nodded. “The Smiths killed him.”
The wind flew over the boy’s cheeks, waiting for the drop of seawater to fall from his eyes, but his cheeks remained as dry as the Sahara. It was only his pulse that fell like a thundering, mournful rainstorm.
“Wolfgang?” she asked, a line between her brows. “But Wolf is dead.”
“No,” the boy said. “His sons.”
“But . . .” She stared at the pot in her hand. “But what about his dinner? I made . . . I cooked . . . There are three bowls. Three.”
The wind scraped over the empty ceramic bowl set out for the man.
Slowly, the boy pulled the pot from his mother’s hands. He took the ladle from her shaking grasp.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You and I can eat. I’ll put the extra bowl away.”
The woman frowned, her hands trembling. “Jacob?”
The boy paused. He’d been slowly scooping soup into the second bowl. “Yes?”
The wind slid over the paper napkin folded next to the man’s bowl. It fluttered and sighed.
“Leave the bowl out,” she said. “For now.”
The boy nodded.
They sat and ate the man’s favorite meal. Neither spoke. The woman didn’t speak often, and the boy never minded silence. The only sound was the slow, metallic slide of spoon against ceramic and the click of water glasses being set down on the wooden table.
If the woman noticed the boy’s ragged, ravaged appearance, she didn’t say anything.
When they finished eating, he reached over and placed his hand over the woman’s. She stared down at the table.
“I have shortbread, but I don’t know where it is,” she said, her voice watery and absent.
“Dad said it was in the dishwasher,” the boy murmured. “Do you want some?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
