He watched me try to drag our kitchen table through the front door.
It’s a heavy maple table. I had to turn it up on its side to get it through the doorway.
Rick came over and took the other end without saying a word. Because that’s the kind of man Rick is. He’ll help you carry anything. Doesn’t matter what it is or why.
We set it down on the driveway, right beside the boat.
Then I went back inside and got my mother’s tablecloth.
But instead of spreading it over the kitchen table, I climbed up into that boat on the little step stool from the laundry room. And I spread the tablecloth over the padded bench seat in the middle of the boat. The one between the two consoles.
It fit almost perfectly.
I tucked the corners in under the cushions.
Then I brought out two plates. Two forks. Two knives. Two glasses of iced tea. And the pot roast in its pan.
I set everything down on the bench seat. On my mother’s tablecloth.
“Karen,” Rick said from the driveway. “What is this?”
“Supper,” I said. “Come eat before it gets cold.”
He stood there a long time.
I sat down in the passenger seat of that bass boat and put my paper napkin in my lap.
Finally, Rick climbed up the step stool, swung his leg over the side, and sat down across from me in the driver’s seat.
“The table’s right there,” he said, pointing down at it.
“I know,” I said. “I needed somewhere to put the bread.”
And I did use the table. I set the gravy boat on it. And the dinner rolls. And a stick of butter on a saucer. And I reached over the side of the boat for them whenever we needed them.
We ate.
Neither one of us said much.
A robin hopped across the front yard. Down the street, somebody was mowing their lawn for the first time that year. The whole block smelled like cut grass and my pot roast.
When we were done, I carried the dishes inside and washed them at my sink. The cabinet door next to my hip hasn’t stayed shut since about 2009. I bumped it closed with my knee three times while I rinsed.
Rick came in and picked up a dish towel and dried.
He didn’t say anything about the boat.
Neither did I.
Our neighbor across the street is Marlys Henning.
She’s seventy-four. She’s lived in that little white ranch house since before Rick and I ever bought ours. She’s watched everything that’s happened on our street for fifty years, and she has no intention of missing anything now.
On the second night, at six o’clock exactly, Marlys came out her front door carrying a folding lawn chair and a cup of coffee.
She set the chair on her front step. She sat down in it. She crossed her ankles.
She didn’t wave. She didn’t call across the street. She just sat there and watched. The way you’d watch a Hawkeyes game you had money on.
I made meatloaf that night. Baked potatoes. Green beans from the freezer.
And I lit a little vanilla candle in a pint Mason jar and set it in the cup holder by the steering wheel.
Rick looked at the candle.
Then he looked across the street at Marlys.
“She’s watching us,” he said.
“She’s watching the boat,” I said. “It’s a pretty boat.”
He made a sound in his throat that wasn’t quite a laugh.
He ate two helpings of meatloaf. When he was done, he wiped his mustache with his napkin.
“That was good, Karen.”
“Thank you,” I said.
And I meant it. I wasn’t angry at the meatloaf.
By the third night, Marlys had brought out a sweater and a plate of her own supper. She ate on her front step while we ate in the boat.
Later, I walked across the street and took her a piece of rhubarb pie.
She took the plate in both hands and looked up at me.
“Honey,” she said. “How long are you going to do this?”
“Until it’s done,” I said.
“Until what’s done?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
And that was the truth.
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