Chapter 6 - The Double Doors Close
I didn't let go of her waist. I could feel her hands shaking where they rested on my shoulders, light like she was afraid to hold me too tight with everyone watching.
Dad was still holding Mom's wrist. He let go slow when the room got too quiet. The glasses on the banquet table had stopped clinking. Someone near the back coughed and didn't say sorry for it.
Dad turned just enough so the guests could see his face. He still had that calm party voice, but his jaw was tight. "I think we're going to call it an early night," he said. "Thank you all for coming."
It wasn't loud, but people moved all at once. Chairs scraped. A man set his wine glass down too fast. Mom wiped under her eyes with two fingers and tried to smile like she meant it. Her low bun had come a little loose on one side.
"Thank you," Mom said. "Thank you for understanding. Long night."
I watched their shoes on the white marble. Black heels and shiny men's shoes stepping around the white cloth on the floor and around the gray mop bucket by the table leg. Nobody picked it up. The dark cloth was still bunched near the overturned chairs.
Dad walked toward the wooden double doors. He didn't carry his wine glass anymore. I didn't see where he left it. He shook hands on the way. Short nods. "Drive safe. Yes, I'll call you." The stained glass in the doors caught the chandelier light when he pulled one side open.
The cold air from the entry slipped in. It smelled like rain and cars.
One by one they went out. A woman in a blue dress touched Mom's arm and whispered something I couldn't hear. Mom nodded and pressed her lips together. When the last couple stepped through, Dad said, "Goodnight," and pushed both doors shut.
The lock clicked. It was a small sound, but the whole room changed with it.
Without the guests the warm light felt too bright. The chandelier buzzed a little over our heads. The banquet table looked messy up close, plates with food half-eaten and napkins folded wrong.
Mom's tears stopped. Just like that. She pulled her arm back and rubbed her wrist where Dad had held it.
"This is ridiculous," she said. Her voice was flat now. She looked at the maid. "You. Clean this up and get out. You're fired."
The maid's hands tightened on my shoulders. She was still bent a little toward me. Her black uniform was wrinkled at the sleeve where I had been holding on.
"Please," she said quiet. "Ma'am—"
"No," Mom said. "I don't want you in my house another minute."
My stomach dropped. I pressed my face into the side of her skirt. The fabric smelled like soap and warm laundry. My pink sash had twisted and I pulled at it without thinking.
Dad stepped between them. He didn't raise his voice. He put his hand up, palm out toward Mom.
"Stop," he said. "She's not fired."
Mom stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"She stays," Dad said. "She stays in this house until I know what's true."
"You're taking her side over mine?" Mom's voice got sharp at the end. "In front of our daughter?"
Dad looked down at me. His eyes were tired, but he crouched a little so he wasn't so tall over me. The marble was cold through my thin dress straps.
"I'm taking no one's side yet," he said. "But nobody's getting sent away tonight." He glanced at the bucket and the cloths and the chairs still on their sides. "Leave it. All of it. We'll deal with it in the morning."
Mom crossed her arms over her maroon dress. The top of the gown wrinkled where her fingers dug in. "So we're just locked in here?"
"We're home," Dad said. "Doors are closed. We'll talk like family."
The maid didn't move. I didn't move. I could hear the chandelier buzzing and a car pulling away outside, tires wet on the driveway.
May you like
Dad held his hand out to me. Not grabbing, just open. I looked at the maid, and she nodded once, very small, and loosened her hands so I could go if I wanted.
I took Dad's hand with one hand and kept hold of her sleeve with the other. I wasn't letting go of either of them until someone told me I had to.
