Chapter 23: The New Space

Tung oil smelled of crushed seed and dry earth.

David worked a folded cotton cloth across the white oak sideboard. He rubbed with the grain. Long, steady strokes carried the oil from corner to corner until the thirsty wood drank it down. Under the afternoon light, pale bands of quarter-sawn flecks rose through the amber surface.

He dropped the rag onto an empty tin lid.

The sideboard fit flush against the exposed brick between the front windows. It grounded the room. The heavy wood balanced the bare pine floorboards and the drop-leaf table he had waxed two days earlier.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

David wiped his hands and picked it up.

Chloe had texted at twelve-forty:

Mom is packing the kitchen today. She wants the enamel Dutch oven and the good roasting pans. Also, university housing says my room adjustment needs a certified copy of the decree before Monday.

Two months ago, he would have dropped everything. He would have loaded the boxes himself, bought replacement cookware, and called the university bursar three times to spare Chloe any hassle.

Now, he just read the screen.

He typed his reply with one thumb:

I forwarded the certified decree directly to the bursar yesterday morning. Check your student email for the confirmation number. Take whatever roasting pans you need for next semester. Anything left at Elmwood on April first lists with the house.

He set the phone face down.

No apologies followed. Chloe had her facts, and Karen had until the end of the month to clear her belongings. The court orders were filed. The boundaries stood.

David hung a clean flour-sack towel over the oven handle.

Maya was due at five-thirty. She had called on Friday to ask if she could drop off two storage tubs of his old technical manuals from the Elmwood attic crawlspace, and he had invited her for supper.

He pulled the groceries from the refrigerator.

That morning, he had bought two thick bone-in pork chops at the market by the tracks, a bag of red potatoes, a head of green cabbage, and fresh parsley.

He set his father’s cast-iron skillet on the front burner.

When he walked out of Helen’s house in February, he left behind forty years of family photographs, holiday dishes, and needlepoint. He took only this skillet from the bottom pantry shelf. The iron was black and glassy, seasoned by decades of bacon fat and woodsmoke.

He quartered the potatoes and dropped them into salted water.

His knife struck the cutting board with a steady tap. He shredded the cabbage, seasoned the pork chops with coarse salt, and cracked black pepper over the fat caps.

The work was quiet.

For twenty years, dinner was an exercise in crowd control. He used to eat standing over the sink while managing choir schedules, track meets, and Karen’s brittle moods.