I sat down. There was flour on my jacket. I brushed at it and only made it worse.
Nobody at the table said anything for what felt like a very long time.
V
The photograph hangs in the corridor that leads to the restrooms, among maybe thirty others in mismatched frames: Pauline with a governor, Pauline with a celebrity chef from television, Pauline with her late mother in a church basement kitchen, rolling dough. Ours is near the bottom, where you'd only see it if you were looking.
Margot was looking. She'd gotten up from the table after the dessert wine came, saying she needed the restroom, and when I followed a few minutes later, I found her standing in the corridor in her wine-colored dress with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at it.
It's a bad picture, technically. It was taken with a disposable camera by the dishwasher, Rudy, at about a quarter after five in the morning, and the flash has washed everyone out. There's Pauline, thirty-two years old, in a tank top soaked through with sweat, with her hair coming out of a ponytail, laughing with her mouth open. There's Gloria beside her, thirty-one, in a pair of my old coveralls rolled up at the ankles, holding a Maglite and making a face at the camera because she hated having her picture taken. There's me, thirty years old and skinny, with grease up to my elbows and safety glasses pushed up on my forehead, holding a brazing torch like it's a trophy. And down in the bottom corner of the frame, on the seat of the front booth, there's a car seat with a baby in it, sound asleep, one fist up beside her face.
Someone had written on the white border of the print, in blue ballpoint, in Pauline's handwriting: July 9, 1998. 5:14 a.m. 38 degrees and dropping. GOD BLESS WES.
"That's Mom," Margot said, without turning around.
"That's Mom."
"She's wearing your coveralls."
"She didn't want to ruin her clothes. She'd come straight from a shift."
Margot reached out and touched the glass, very lightly, over the car seat. "Is that me?"
"That's you."
She was quiet for a while. A woman came out of the restroom and edged past us with a polite smile, and Margot didn't move.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" she said finally.