Noah"We don't eat until your father sits," my mother says, which is how every Sunday of my life has started, and I put the fork back down like a good soldier.Tori, across the table, mouths KILL ME. I mouth back SEEN AND NOT HEARD. She flips me off below the tablecloth with real feeling.Dad's on the phone in the hall, running somebody down in that tone that never rises and never needs to.Mom hovers by the roast with the carving knife, not carving, because carving is his job.My collar itches.I picked the highest one I own tonight, buttoned to the throat, because somewhere under it there's a mark shaped like a mouth, and I'm eating pot roast six feet from a man who’d carve me up if he knew who put it there.That's not a figure of speech. That's the actual table I'm sitting at.Dad comes in, drops into the head chair, and the house exhales into its assigned positions."Kowalski," he says, to no one, meaning the phone call."Had a leech cornered outside Barrie and let it talk its way
Read more