There was a pause, then the sound of the front door again, and lighter footsteps on the porch. Orton looked toward the house. Tessa was standing on the porch steps. She was 12 years old and she had her mother's eyes and she was looking at her father with an expression that was neither angry nor afraid nor particularly happy to see him. It was the expression of someone looking at a person they had finished making excuses for.
Orson's voice changed when he saw her softer. Tessa. Tessa said nothing. Tessa, come here. He said.
She didn't move. Tessa, I'm your father. I know who you are. Tessa said. Her voice was very steady for 12.
I remember the morning you left. I remember what the kitchen looked like. I remember counting what was on the shelves and figuring out how long we had. She paused. I remember mother not eating so we could.
Orson's jaw tightened. You're a child, he said. You don't understand what she understands more than you think. Bramwell said. He was on the porch behind Tessa one step higher.
His voice was the voice she'd heard him use with the hands when something needed to stop. Not loud, not dramatic, but carrying a weight that made the air feel different. Orson looked at him. You must be Concaid, he said. I am, Bramwell said.
Orson looked him over with the assessing look of a man who was deciding how to handle an obstacle. I have no quarrel with you, he said. This is a matter between myself and my wife. Your wife was nearly starving in November, Bramwell said. Your children were counting potatoes.
I had my reasons. I'm sure you did, Bramwell said. Men who leave always do. Orson's face reened. You don't know anything about my situations.