Keisha went through Raymond’s closet on a Saturday with Vera’s permission. Suits. A church shirt. A pair of shoes he had kept for nice. No second phone. The second life had been careful enough to live in receipts and a mouth. Keisha said, “He was good at this.” Vera said, “Don’t praise the skill.” Keisha said she wasn’t praising. She was scared of how ordinary it looked. Ordinary was the insult. A monster would have been easier. A man who called from the car and kept a toothbrush was a husband. Vera sat on the bed. The bed was just a bed. She said, “We donate the suits.” Keisha said yes. Donation was a verb. Verbs helped. They filled two bags. The bags went to a church that was not their church, because their church had a row. A different row could have the suits. The row at home could be empty.
On the first Sunday after, Vera went to church and sat where she always sat. People were kind and too close. She sang. The song was one Raymond had hummed badly. She did not leave. Leaving would have given the east side the hour. The hour was hers. She took it back by staying in the pew. Keisha, beside her, did not whisper. Whispering had started the parlor. They were done with explosions in aisles. After, they ate at a diner. Vera ordered what she always ordered. The waitress said she had heard. Vera said thank you. The eggs came. They ate. Eating was a small resurrection of a ordinary day. Ordinary was going to have to be rebuilt on purpose. She salted the eggs. Salt was a decision. She made it.
The lawyer was unnecessary and Vera went anyway, a woman named Patrice who did estates and did not do theater. The will was simple. The house to Vera. A small policy to Keisha. Nothing to a Nadine. Patrice said that was common and also not a comfort. Vera said she did not want comfort. She wanted the paper to match the parlor. Patrice said the paper matched. They filed. Filing was a lid that worked. Vera put the copies with the guest book. The drawer got heavier. Heavy was fine. Heavy stayed put.