At the house after the visitation, Vera sat in Raymond’s chair because the sofa was full of containers. Keisha put the containers in the fridge in a order. Ruth made tea. Nobody turned on the game he would have had on. The not-turning was a decision. Vera said, “Sundays.” Keisha said, “He was here Sundays.” Vera said, “He was here in the morning. I went to church. He said his back.” The back had been fine enough for Labor Day. She saw it now. Cookouts he had skipped. A sister’s porch he had said was too far. Far had been eleven years across town. She drank the tea. It was hot. Hot was a fact. She needed facts.
Keisha wanted to drive to the east side and say the Labor Day sentence again. Ruth said no. Vera said no. The no was the first agreement of the night. Keisha stayed. She slept in her old room. The old room still had a trophy from a spelling bee. Raymond had clapped. The clap was real. The toothbrush was real. She lay awake holding both and did not make them friends. They did not have to be friends. They had to be survived. Survival was her mother’s pearls clicking in the parlor. She could do survival. She had done it in a black dress while a stranger said eleven years. The number was in the house now. It would not leave because the coat had.
The funeral was Tuesday. Nadine did not come. Vera looked once at the back row and did not find her and was angry at the looking. The looking was a habit she retired in the same hour. People stood. A nephew read a psalm. Keisha spoke for three minutes about a man who had taught her to check the oil and had not taught her this. She did not say the this. The this was not for a microphone. Vera held Ruth’s hand. The hand was dry. After, the lunch was ham and a sheet cake somebody had thought was kind. Vera ate two bites. Keisha ate nothing and then ate a roll because Ruth put it on her plate. Rolls were orders. Orders helped.