Harold stood opposite her.
Perfectly calm.
Harold stood opposite her.
His right hand was behind his back.
“What did you do?” I asked.
Grace pointed at him.
“Tell him to put it back!”
“Put what back?”
Harold brought his hand forward.
I covered my mouth.
“Tell him to put it back!”
He was holding Grace’s guest-room doorknob.
“Harold!” Grace breathed.
“What?”
“PUT THAT BACK!”
“Why?”
“Because that’s my room!”
“PUT THAT BACK!”
Harold glanced toward our bedroom.
The one without a door.
Then back at her.
“In my house?”
Grace flinched.
“I need privacy!”
Harold waited half a second.
“From family?”
“I need privacy!”
I had to turn away.
Not because I was horrified.
Because laughing would have ruined it.
“That is completely different!”
“How, Mom?”
“I’m a guest!”
“And Tina lives here.”
“That is completely different!”
Grace pointed at the doorknob.
“You had no right to touch my door while I was sleeping.”
Harold nodded.
“So you understand the concept.”
“I am your mother.”
“Yes.”
“And mothers deserve respect.”
“So do wives.”
“I am your mother.”
Grace looked at me as though I’d somehow orchestrated the entire thing from downstairs.
I raised both hands.
“I was eating pudding.”
“Harold, put my doorknob back,” she demanded.
“I will.”
“When?”
“Harold, put my doorknob back.”
“When ours is back.”
She stared at him.
“You expect me to rehang that door?”
“You got it down, Mom.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
“Tomorrow is fine.”
Grace looked toward her guest room.
“Until then?”
“You expect me to rehang that door?”
Harold shrugged.
“A family shouldn’t need all these barriers.”
I chortled.
I couldn’t help it.
Grace glared at me.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No,” I said.
Then I looked at the knob in Harold’s hand.
“Maybe a little.”
“This isn’t funny.”
Grace stormed into the guest room and pushed the door closed.
It didn’t latch the way she wanted.
She opened it again.
“Harold!”
“Tomorrow, Mom.”
He walked toward our room.
I followed him.
“Tomorrow, Mom.”
There was nowhere to close ourselves in, obviously.
We got ready for bed in full view of the hallway.
Harold hung his robe on a chair.
“Are you mad?”
“At you?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Less than I was at five.”
“Are you mad?”
“That’s progress.”
“But we’re not done.”
Harold sat on the edge of the bed.
