I crossed the room and I hugged her.
She stiffened and then she held on, and neither of us said anything, and then I let go.
Andrew was at the kitchen table. He stood up when I came in. He was a solid, earnest-looking man, the kind of face that reads as fundamentally honest even before you know anything about the person. He shook my hand and he said: “Mrs. Mercer. I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I said. “Call me Helen.”
## The Dinner Table
Ruth had cooked something straightforward and good: a pot roast that had been going since the morning, roasted potatoes, a green salad, bread. The kind of meal that says I am feeding people, this is real food, I am not performing anything here.
We ate for a few minutes and talked about nothing, or rather we talked about the things that were in the room without being about the thing that was in the room: the community meals program, Andrew’s work, the weather in October. It was not comfortable small talk. It was the small talk of people who are warming themselves up for something harder.
David was the one who moved it forward. He set down his fork and said: “Paige. I think we should talk about what happened.”
Paige looked at her plate. Then she looked up.
“I know,” she said.
“We’re not here to put you on trial,” Ruth said. “But Helen has driven across town and Andrew has been walking around for a week trying to understand this, and I think we owe everyone an honest conversation.”