Nora found herself at the deep enamel sink in the kitchen with her sleeves pushed up and her hands in the hot water, washing Mrs. Pruitt's roasting pan, and Cal beside her with a dish towel, drying. Mrs. Pruitt herself had been installed, under protest, in a kitchen chair by the stove with her feet up on an overturned bucket and a cup of tea, and from there she continued to supervise, though her eyelids had begun to droop.
"You missed a spot," Cal said, examining a plate.
"I did not."
"Right there. Gravy. Clear as day."
"That's the pattern."
"It's a plain white plate."
"It's a very subtle pattern." She flicked water at him. He flicked the towel at her. Mrs. Pruitt, without opening her eyes, said, "Children," and they both stopped and grinned at each other like teenagers caught in a parked car.