The pastor offered the chairs without her even asking. It was when Lila was buying the boxed cake mix at the A & P, staring at the rows of brightly colored boxes, wondering if Betty Crocker and just adding water really could save the day, that the clergyman appeared.
“Someone’s birthday?”
Out of context, it took her a minute to place him. A nondescript blond, somewhat short, athletic build. Easy enough to glance at and assume high school teacher or someone else’s husband. But when he smiled, she recognized him: the pastor at St. Luke’s.
“Yes, actually. How are you, pastor… reverend… father…?”
“James,” he said easily. “Just James is fine, Mrs. Fell.”
“Lila.”
“Lila. Is there something confusing about the cake batter selection?”
“Everything about it,” laughed Lila. “I’m not much of a baker.”
“But for one of your boys, you’ll make a cake.”
“That’s about it, yep.”
“How old?”
“It’s my younger one’s birthday. Nathan. Turning one.”
“Nathan. From the Hebrew, ‘gift.’ Great name,” the minister said. His dark blue eyes were warm, framed in crinkles ushered in early by frequent laughter. With a practiced hand, he slid a box from the shelf and handed it to Lila. “Here. Basic yellow cake. Sure bet.”
“Thanks,” Lila said, just grateful to have the box in hand and the decision done.
“Say, if you need folding chairs, we have plenty going spare in our fellowship room,” James said. “Loan ’em out for all sorts of neighborhood gatherings. You’re welcome to them.”
Lila took him up on the offer, stopping by the church the next day. With the minister’s help, she crammed more than a dozen white-painted wooden folding chairs into the trunk of her rattling old Chevrolet. She invited him to join for the party, but he declined. Just as well. The fewer witnesses to her ugly cake, the better.
“Mommy?” Howie said, sounding plaintive.
“What are you doing out here, little man?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Why didn’t you ask Daddy to fix you some cereal?”
“He’s still sleeping. He must be exhausted.”
“Must be,” Lila said, trying to hide her irritation. That man better get his ass out of bed. “I’ll get you cereal, then we’ll wake up your sleepy Daddy. Baby Nathan hasn’t woken up yet, either? You haven’t heard him crying?”
“He made one cry, then went back to sleep.”
“Looks like our household is suffering from Rip van Winkle syndrome this morning.”
“Not us!”
“Right. Not us. Come on, let’s get you some cereal.”
“Yeah!”
They went inside, and Lila poured Howie a bowl of Cheerios. Thankfully, this simple dish was Howie’s favorite breakfast—and also his favorite lunch, and dinner. As he munched happily on the meal she didn’t have to cook, Lila kissed the top of his sandy head.
“I’m going to go wake up your daddy.”
But when she reached their bedroom, Ernest wasn’t there.
Odd.
“Honey?”
She tried the bathroom next, knocking on the door, then pushing it open. Empty. Had he slipped outside, somehow? Gone to get the paper, run into a neighbor?
Deciding to check on the baby before expanding the search for her husband, Lila headed to the boys’ room. Baby Nathan’s crib had only recently been moved from Ernest and Lila’s room into Howie’s room, now known as “the boys’ room.” She twisted the dulled brass knob, pushed the door—and it stopped short, hitting something. She pushed harder, gaining some inches though still meeting resistance. Her stomach in knots, a sudden cold tingle running the length of her spine, neck to back and up again, she slipped through the door.
It took a moment to register what she was seeing, a long beat before she started screaming. Sprawled on the floor was her husband, pale, not breathing. Baby Nathan was still in his pajamas, sitting quietly in his crib, staring silent and dry-eyed at his fallen father.
5
Chapter 4: HOWARD
After his father died, Howie had a lot of questions. But on the morning of the funeral, the normally talkative three-and-a-half-year-old was silent. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to listen. To pay attention. To remember. He wanted to know the word, funeral. What it really meant.
His grandmother Millie and his grandfather the Reverend were awake and drinking coffee in the kitchen when Howie woke up. When Millie asked him if he wanted her to make him eggs or bacon or pancakes, Howie shook his head and pointed at the pantry where the cereal was kept. He wasn’t talking. He decided that as soon as he woke up. He would be quiet (hushed, inaudible). When his grandmother fixed him a bowl of Cheerios, he avoided crunching them. He took them out one by one, letting the o’s dissolve in his mouth silently.
“Good boy, Howie,” his grandmother said every few minutes, absently. Like she was reminding one or both of them that they were still there. The Reverend said nothing throughout breakfast; his gaze was locked on his coffee, his jaw just plain locked.
The Reverend remained silent as he drove them to the funeral home; over the course of the short drive, Howie’s grandmother told him seven more times that he was a good boy. It was around the third time she murmured such a good boy that Howie wondered where his baby brother was. He knew his mother was at the funeral home already. Someone else must have Baby Nathan. But who?
As his grandparents ushered him to the front pew of the Bowen Family Funeral Home, Howie looked around to see where his mother was—if the funeral was starting, she should be there, next to him. She promised. Was she checking on Nathan? Howie’s brother probably shouldn’t be there for the funeral. He was usually quiet, but when upset, he’d let out an ear-piercing shriek that made everyone jump. Then Mommy would coo to the baby everything’s fine, everything’s fine.
But that was a lie, Howard suddenly realized. Everything was not fine. His father had died, and his mother had just let it happen. Just like that.
Why didn’t Mommy keep Daddy safe?
Howie used to think his parents were invincible. Maybe even magical. But his father was not invincible, and his mother was obviously not magical. Those were stupid baby thoughts. Howie grew angry at himself.
“Howie,” his grandmother said, patting his head too roughly, taking him by the shoulders and smashing his face into her soft stomach. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Smothered in the black polyester fabric of his grandmother’s dress, Howie hated hearing those words again: You’re