Chapter 8 - After The Plates Are Cleared
The servers had started clearing from the far end first. I heard the soft clink of gold-rimmed plates stacking, glasses lifted by the stem, silverware eased off the dark wood so it wouldn't scratch. The candlelight felt lower now, and the room smelled like melted wax and coffee. People stood in small groups with their drinks, laughing too loud for what had just happened at the table.
I caught my sister by the elbow near the sideboard, past the curtains, where the servers had left a tray of dirty napkins. She was watching the room, not me. Her pearl necklace caught the light when she turned.
I said I needed a minute. Just us.
She smiled at a couple walking past and then let me steer her two steps farther back, by the empty ornate chair against the wall. The two men in dark suits were still by the far doorway. They weren't looking at the guests. They were looking at us.
I kept my left hand down at my side. My wrist throbbed under the leather.
I started with the afternoon. I laid it out plain, the way I remembered it, because I wanted her to hear how thin it sounded.
I told her I woke up late. The driver was already out front. She'd sent the car. I showered, I dressed here in the back room. Her stylist fixed my collar. Then the barber came for a trim. Then I sat alone for maybe twenty minutes before dinner while she finished seating people. That was it. That was everyone who was near me.
She nodded like she was checking items off a list she already knew.
"You forgot the house manager," she said. "He brought your suit up. And my assistant set out your shirt and your shoes."
I asked who handled the watch.
She didn't blink. She said she protected me. She arranged everything so I wouldn't have to worry about anything tonight. The car, the room, the food, the seating. That's what family did. Her voice stayed even, the way it did when she was talking to donors.
I said that wasn't what I asked.
Out at the table, a server dropped a fork and it rang against a plate. My sister glanced over, annoyed at the noise, then back at me. She put her hand lightly on my forearm, above where the nurse had held me, like she could cover the whole thing.
"You're making too much of this," she said. "That girl should never have touched you at my table."
I asked her again, quieter. Did you know this was there. Under the strap.
She didn't answer at first. She looked at my wrist, then at my face. Her mouth tightened. For a second she looked like our mother used to when the check was late and she didn't want the neighbors to know.
She said the nurse was looking for attention. She said scrubs at a formal dinner, of course she was going to make a scene. She said I should let her handle it and go shake hands and smile for the photos before people started talking.
I didn't move. I told her my watch didn't fit right and the strap felt different and I didn't remember anyone taking it off or putting it back on.
She exhaled through her nose. She said she'd noticed at the cocktail hour that it looked tight. The leather left a deeper line than usual. She thought my hand was swollen from the heat. She thought it wasn't worth mentioning before dinner.
I just stared at her. The room kept moving around us, glasses clinking, chairs scraping back, someone laughing near the candles. My left pulse beat hard against that tight leather.
May you like
I asked why she told the nurse to take her hands off me if she hadn't seen anything wrong.
She adjusted her pearl earring and said because I was her brother and no one grabbed her brother at her table.
