Chapter 6: Supper

“I left the felt mute there,” she said. “I’m going to collect it tomorrow. Would you like to come?”

He shifted the pencil against his palm.

“Do you need me to carry something?”

“No. It will fit in my handbag.”

She could have told him she would manage perfectly well. Instead she waited. Behind him, a sheet of paper lay on the floor beneath the small table inside his door.

“After school?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I have to come back and finish something, though.”

“So do I,” she said, too quickly.

He bent to pick up the paper. She stood there while he set it on the table, wishing she had let his answer be sufficient.

“We won’t stay long,” she said.

The following afternoon, she checked the tool bag before leaving, though she was taking none of it. The lever was wrapped, its handle exposed. The empty pocket lay flat beneath her fingers. She closed the fastening and left the bag inside her door.

On the bus, Eli Finch sat with his knees together until he noticed the space where the bag would have been. Then he stretched one foot forward. She held her handbag on her lap. Neither of them had anything to steady when the bus turned.

They walked from the stop to the house without slowing at the corner. At the gate he stood aside, and she went ahead to ring.

Nora Bell opened the door wearing a sweater with one cuff pushed back. There was flour on her wrist. She looked from Ada Mercer to the boy, then opened the door farther.

“Come in. I’ve put it on the table.”

The house smelled of warm dough and something sharp being peeled. Ada Mercer wiped her shoes carefully. She had already decided to keep her coat on, but the hallway was warm, and by the time they reached the dining room she had unfastened it.

The mute lay on a saucer beside the salt.

She picked it up. The felt had collected a pale thread, which she removed with her thumbnail. It was such a small thing to have brought them across town. In her palm it looked scarcely more important than a scrap left after sewing.

“Thank you for keeping it.”

“I wasn’t sure whether to put it in an envelope.”

“This is fine.”

She opened her handbag and found a space where it would not be crushed. The clasp resisted her first attempt. She rearranged the appointment book beneath it and tried again.

Through the doorway she could see the upright. The photograph and bowl were on top; the folded receipt lay nearby. Its closed front caught a narrow strip of window light.