Keisha’s husband, Marcus, had not come to the visitation because of a shift and came to the funeral and stood in the back. He asked in the car who the woman was. Keisha said eleven years. Marcus said Jesus. Keisha said don’t make it a sermon. He said I won’t. He was good at won’t. He took their boy to school so Keisha could sit with Vera on the hard mornings. The boy was six and knew Grandpa was gone and did not know a locket. Keisha intended to keep the locket out of his six. Six could have a grandpa who checked the oil. The rest could wait for a age that could hold a toothbrush. She did not know what age that was. She knew it was not this year.
Nadine’s Sundays became grocery and laundry and a walk Loretta insisted on. The walk passed a park Raymond had liked. Nadine did not skip the park. Skipping would have made it a shrine. She walked through. A man threw a ball for a dog. The dog missed. She did not smile. Smiling was for later. Later came in pieces. A movie. A meal she finished. The locket stayed boxed. Eleven years did not fit in a walk. They fit in a closet. She let them fit. Vera’s name, which he had said at the door, stayed in her ear for months. The name was a bell. She did not answer it. Answering it had been the parlor. She had done that once. Once was the receipt.
Vera changed the side of the bed she slept on. The change was practical and also a refusal. His side could be a table for books. She put books there. Keisha saw and said nothing kind, which was kind. Ruth called on Sundays now, on purpose, so the day would have a voice that was not his. Vera answered. They talked about nothing. Nothing was the point. A recipe. A flight. A boy’s school. The recipe was for greens. Vera made them. They were too salty. She ate them anyway. Salt was still a decision. She was practicing decisions. The parlor had been one. Leave. Take the locket. He already took enough years. She had more years. They were going to be hers. The greens were a start.