A few seconds later, her voice rose sharply.
“What did you do?”
Then I heard Marcus heading downstairs.
The children followed.
I stayed in the kitchen.
Voices floated up from below, but I couldn’t make out everything.
A question from Marcus.
Vanessa answering.
Marcus speaking again, much quieter.
I continued setting the table.
A few minutes later, Marcus came upstairs alone.
He stood in the kitchen doorway.
For a moment, he looked twelve years old again.
Confused.
Uncertain.
Trying to understand something he hadn’t expected to learn.
“Mom.”
“Dinner is almost ready.”
“What happened with the laundry?”
“I sorted it.”
He stared at me.
“I thought it would be easier if everyone’s things were separated. That way, everyone can handle their own.”
He was quiet.
Then he said,
“There were clothes down there I didn’t recognize.”
“I imagine Vanessa can explain those.”
He looked at me carefully.
“Did you…”
“I sorted laundry, Marcus. That’s all I did.”
Another silence.
“She’s upset.”
“I imagine she is.”
“She says the laundry isn’t done.”
“That’s correct.”
I looked directly at him.
“I told her last week that I’m not a laundromat. You heard me.”
His eyes dropped toward the floor.
There it was again.
The plate.
The floor.
Anywhere except the uncomfortable conversation.
For a moment, my heart hurt for him.
He was my son.
I wanted to protect him.
But he wasn’t twelve anymore.
He was thirty-seven.
Some things he had to handle himself.
“Go talk to your wife,” I said. “Bring the children up when you’re ready. Dinner will still be warm.”
He went back downstairs.
While I waited, I thought about Frank again.
During the last year of his life, when we both understood where his illness was heading, we talked often about Marcus.
What we loved about him.
What worried us.
One evening Frank said,
“He avoids conflict.”
“He has your calm temperament,” I replied.
