“She was furious when it worked,” Eleanor said. “Fury isn’t a reason to keep giving people what they haven’t earned.”
He picked up the bag. Condensation beaded on the outside. For a moment he looked like he might say something larger—about the marriage, about fear, about the way Sloan’s voice changed when money was tight and how he had learned to fix the change with purchases that made him feel briefly like a provider. He said, instead, “Happy belated birthday, Ma.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said. “Next year, if there is a next year with the two of you in my yard, nobody bumps my table.”
“There’ll be a next year.”
“That’s not up to you alone.”
After he left she restored the dried photograph to the mantel. The frame had a faint waterline along the inner edge of the gold, a scar you could see only if you knew to look. Eleanor knew to look. She left it. Some stories needed their weather marks.