Through the window I saw Langston finally snap out of his stupor. He grabbed Ranata’s arm and dragged her toward the gate. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated. He practically hauled her and her confused children behind him, stumbling, looking back at the house with pure animal rage on his face.
He was no longer the master of the house.
He was an exile.
When the last car drove away and the soft Southern evening quiet settled back over the neighborhood, Anise came up and hugged me.
“It’s all right, darling,” I said, stroking her hair. “Everything is exactly as it should be. Will you help me clear the table?”
And we began to clean.
In silence, we collected dirty dishes, folded tablecloths, carried trash bags to the bins. This familiar, monotonous work was oddly soothing. Every gesture was practiced, every movement known.
I washed the glasses— the same thin Bohemian crystal we’d received as a wedding gift. The water rinsed away lipstick stains, fingerprints, smears of strange wine from strange mouths. I felt that along with the grime, something else was being washed away too: fifty years of sticky web I’d mistaken for family ties.
Anise worked beside me, occasionally sneaking worried glances at my profile. She was waiting for me to break down, to cry, to scream.
