On a Sunday in early December, Patricia Haynes stopped at the table and said with the air of someone delivering news they had been sitting on. I heard you've been spending Fridays at the Brooks place. I have, Margaret said. Patricia waited clearly, hoping for more. Margaret handed her the blackberry pie she'd requested and took her money and said, "Thank you, Patricia."
In a tone that was warm and final, and Patricia went away with her pie and the knowledge that she was not going to get more information than that. The girls knew, of course, girls always knew. Emily had said sometime in November with the directness she always used for things she'd decided were important. Are you going to stay? And Margaret had said honestly, "I hope so."
And Emily had nodded like that was the right answer, like hope was a serious enough response to a serious question. Rose had not asked. Rose had simply over the course of those November Fridays begun gathering small things she wanted to show Margaret a drawing she'd done at school, a rock she'd found that had a good shape, a story the teacher had told that Rose had thought about for 3 days. She brought these things out one at a time with the careful pacing of a child who understood that sharing something important required the right moment. Each one was an offering.
Each one said in Rose's particular language, "Here is something that matters to me, and I trust you with it." Margaret received every one of them. Christmas passed quietly. Nathan had family over from Billings, a sister with three children, who filled the house with noise, and had opinions about everything, including loudly the sweet potato pie that Margaret had brought, which the sister declared was better than anything she'd had in Billings. And she wanted the recipe.
Margaret gave it to her. She gave it freely, the way her mother had always given recipes, because her mother had believed that a recipe was not diminished by being shared. The sister wrote it down on the back of an envelope and said to Margaret directly. Nathan hasn't had Christmas feel right in 5 years. I want you to know it felt right this year.
Margaret said, "I'm glad." The sister looked at her with the frank assessment of a woman who had her brother's best interests organized clearly in her head. "He's a good man. He's stubborn, and he holds things in too long, and he'll work himself half to death before he asks for help. But he's a good man.
I know, Margaret said. Good, the sister said. Then you know what you're taking on. She handed the envelope back for Margaret to check the recipe. I mean that as a compliment.