Chapter 1 - Bread on a Metal Tray
The floor was so cold it came right through my blue pants. I had my back against the concrete wall in the service hallway and the metal tray in front of me rattled every time I breathed too hard. The plastic bag was bunched in my lap, full of soft bread rolls, and I held one tight in my right hand with a bite taken out of it. I hadn't meant to bite it. I just didn't want my stomach to make a noise.
Behind the closed doors at the end of the hall, I could hear the party. Music and laughing and glasses clinking. It sounded warm in there. The light out here was white and buzzy from the long tubes overhead, and it made everything look gray. I could smell butter from the rolls and cleaning stuff from the floor, and my pink t-shirt had a wet spot on the front where I'd cried on it.
Grandmother was in there right then having the best time. I knew because before Mom pushed me inside this hallway, I'd heard her voice lift up over everyone, happy and loud, like she was holding up her drink for a toast. That didn't feel right. How could she sound like that while we were out here?
I was six that night in my stained shirt with bread in my hand.
I heard the side door click open and air moved down the hallway. Footsteps came fast on the concrete. Black shoes first, then black pants, then his jacket. Dad. Andy. He stopped when he saw me and his face changed. He didn't stand over me. He came down to his knees right there on the cold floor, his suit pulling tight, and put one hand on the edge of the metal tray to steady himself.
He looked at my face first, then at the bag, then at the bitten roll in my fist. I tried to wipe my cheek with my shoulder but more tears came. His beard had more gray in it under that white light. He was breathing like he'd run up stairs.
"Andy, what are you doing here? Mom said we boot, Dad."
My voice sounded scratchy and wrong in the narrow hall. It echoed a little. I clutched the bag closer so the plastic crinkled loud. I didn't know why I said his name like that. Mom always told me to say Dad, but the other kids at school said Andy when they were kidding around, and it just slipped out because I was scared.
He didn't laugh at me for saying it wrong. He leaned in a little and his eyes stayed on me. He put his hand real gentle near my knee but not quite touching my pants.
"Where is your mother?"
I looked down at the roll. The bite mark was getting soggy where I'd held it too long. I could hear the buzz of the lights and far-off music when the ballroom door opened and shut for a second. I didn't want to answer because saying it made it true.
"Grandmother locked her outside."
After I said it, I pressed my mouth shut. I could feel another cry pushing up. Dad didn't say anything right away. He just looked toward the closed outside door at the other end of the hallway, then back at me, then at the tray on the floor like he was putting it together. His jaw moved but he didn't talk.
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I held out the bag a tiny bit toward him without thinking, like Mom had told me to keep it safe. My hand was shaking and crumbs fell on my shirt. He shook his head once, soft, and slipped one arm under my knees and the other around my back. The plastic crinkled against his white shirt as he lifted me up off the cold floor.
He stood with me held tight to his chest. I kept the bitten roll in my fist and the bag pressed between us. He turned toward the warm light leaking under the double doors that led to chandeliers and voices, and he held me a second there without pushing them open yet.
