They parted at the end of the aisle. Eleanor bought her yams. In the parking lot the rain had thinned to a mist that made the asphalt shine. She sat in her car a moment before starting it and noticed her hands were steady. Steady was not the same as soft. Steady was enough.
That night she roasted the yams with butter and pepper and ate alone at the counter, and the solitude did not feel like punishment. It felt like a room she had paid for. She washed the pan. She checked the locks. She stood at the mantel and touched the waterline in the gold with one fingertip, a habit forming whether she intended it or not, a small sacrament of memory.
December brought Denise’s Christmas party and Carole’s honey-glazed ham and a card from Sloan that was tasteful and brief: Grateful for your hospitality this year. Working on better. —S. Eleanor set the card on the sideboard and did not display it on the mantel. The mantel had standards.
January was cold enough for the mornings to sting. Eleanor had the plumber fix the guest bathroom faucet at last, paying from the restored tax account with a satisfaction so deep it felt almost physical. The drip stopped. The silence in that bathroom became a kind of music. She called Harrison to tell him the faucet was fixed and heard, in his pause, the understanding that she was telling him more than plumbing.
“I’m glad, Ma,” he said.
“Me too.”