And Greg paid his. Every first of the month. One thousand dollars. G. For Someday.
He paid it on Saturdays at the yard, too. He came home with grease on his hands and his back sore and sat at the kitchen table at eleven at night, eating cold dinner standing up at the counter.
I stood there and watched him one night.
He looked up and caught me watching.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just know what that looks like.”
Thanksgiving came. Greg asked me if we should invite her.
I thought about it for two days.
Then I called her myself. Not Greg. Me. It rang five times and went to voicemail.
“Diane, it’s Lauren. We’re doing Thanksgiving here at two. You’re invited. Both of us are inviting you. You don’t have to bring anything.”
She didn’t call back.
She didn’t come.
Karen told me later that she sat in the basement all afternoon with the door shut and ate a turkey sandwich on a paper plate. Karen brought her pie. She didn’t eat it.
