Page 89

"Well now," she said, her eyes lighting up.

"Mother." Blaine stretched the word out.

"I haven't said anything."

"You said well now."

"I said good morning."

"You said well now, Mother."

Rhoda put the bowl down. She crossed that kitchen at speed, took my face in both hands the way she does, and looked at me with her eyes absolutely swimming.

"Rhoda—"

"I'm not saying anything," she said. "I'm not going to say one word. It isn't my business, and I am simply pleased to see Gregory at breakfast."

"Mother. Let go of his face."

"The universe is blessing us," Rhoda breathed. "And—"

"Mother."

"I'm not finishing that sentence." She let go and smoothed my collar down with both hands — which is when she registered whose collar it was, and I watched her decide to say nothing about that either. "There's coffee, dear."

"You already said there was coffee," Harold said. He was at the table with the newspaper.

I want to be precise about what that man did next, because I've directed actors. I have sat in rooms with people who have won awards for this. But I’ve never seen anybody commit to a choice the way Harold committed to not noticing anything.

He didn't even look up. He turned a page.

"Morning, Gregory."

"Morning, Harold."

"Sol."

"Father."

"Sit down, both of you. There's plenty of coffee."

There were two mugs already out on the table. Side by side. On the little wooden coasters Rhoda insists on.

"Father."

"Mm."

"Why are there two mugs out?"

Harold lowered the paper about two inches.

"There are always two mugs out," he said.

"There are four people staying in this house."

"Then there should be more mugs," said Harold, and raised the paper again.

I have never respected that man more in my life.