I filled it myself. Two slices of roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a dinner roll. Then I set down the spoon, slid the ring off my finger, and placed it on the edge of the plate beside the gravy. I held the plate out across the steam pan. “Here’s your ring, Mrs. Pruett,” I said. “Supper comes with it. And we’re cutting the cake at eight. I’d like you to stay.”

She stared at the plate. Her keys trembled in her hand. Nobody in that hall moved a fork. Then, behind her, the side door beside the flags opened again, and the whole room turned. Wesley stood in the doorway in his rumpled tuxedo shirt, lake mud on his shoes, his eyes swollen red. He looked past me, at his mother. “Mama,” he said, “don’t you take one more thing from her. She doesn’t owe us a dime.”