May — she had offered her name eventually, terse, watched from the doorway — said, “He does that. The cat doesn’t care.”
“Does the cat have a name?”
“Papa calls her ‘cat.’” May considered. “She doesn’t come when you call her anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
Ruth found the flour in a tin near the window. Not much left, but enough. She found salt, found water, found a heavy skillet that would serve. She worked by feel, the way she had worked in her mother’s kitchen and her husband’s kitchen and the kitchens of three families who had hired her for seasons and let her go when the seasons ended. Her hands knew what to do even when her head was still catching up.
The dough came together the way it always did. Obedient, forgiving, willing to become what she asked of it. She had sometimes thought, in her darker moments, that bread was the only thing that had never looked at her sideways.
By the time the smell of food reached the rest of the house, May had sat down at the table. She sat the way she did everything, with the upright deliberateness of a child who had decided that dignity was the only thing she had full control over.
Calvin came in at dusk and stopped in the doorway the way men stopped when the world has rearranged itself without their permission.
His son was sitting on the counter eating from a spoon held by a woman he had never seen. His daughter was at the table with a bowl in front of her that she was actually eating from. The smell of a real meal hit him somewhere he hadn’t expected.
His eyes went to May. “Is this from town?”
Charity, he meant, and the word had its usual flat edge.
May shook her head. “She made it. She knocked and she just came in.”
He looked at Ruth. She met his eyes without apology and nodded toward the pot.
“Sit down,” she said. “There’s enough.”
He looked at her for a moment. She did not look away. He sat down. Not because he decided to, because something that had been holding him upright against it stopped briefly, and he sat. They ate in silence, all four of them. Eli’s spoon, the fire settling, the cat rearranging itself in the corner.
When supper was done, Ruth set Eli into his father’s arms and picked up her bag.
“You’re passing through,” Calvin said.
“Yes,” Ruth said.
He looked at the clean pot. At May’s face. At his son, slack and fed and finally, finally at rest.
“You could pass through slower,” he said to the pot.
He did not look at her.
Ruth looked at him for one moment. She set her bag down.
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