The spatula slipped from my fingers, leaving a greasy white smear across the linoleum that looked like an old scar. I picked it up and wiped the handle with a damp dishcloth, my thumb rubbing my left collarbone where the skin always felt tight when the air got heavy.
Watson stood by the refrigerator, holding a single, unlit white candle between his thick thumb and forefinger. His wedding ring clicked against the counter as he adjusted the band, sliding it up to his knuckle and back down again.
“We have thirty minutes before they come inside,” Watson said, his voice low and deliberate.
“The sheet cake needs another layer of icing,” I said. “The corners are still showing through.”
“Do you want me to put this one in the center?” He held up the candle.
We did this every year on the fourteenth of August, a quiet agreement we never spoke about to the boys. Riley and Rex had eighteen candles on the big chocolate sheet cake. Rowan had one, kept in the kitchen drawer, never lit.
“Put it back in the box, Watson,” I said.
He did not move his hand. “He would have been eighteen today, Dawn. Same as the other two.”
“I know what day it is,” I said, keeping my voice soft and precise.
“Your mother is bringing the ice cream at four,” he said, turning the small wax cylinder in his palm. “She asked if we were doing the extra candle this year.”
“My mother does not need to concern herself with the kitchen,” I said.
Our two boys were in the driveway, the rhythmic thud of a basketball hitting the backboard vibrating through the screen window. Riley was shouting something about a foul, his voice cracking with the gravelly edge of a young man who still forgot his own size.
“They look so much like you,” Watson said, finally setting the white candle on the edge of the microwave.
“They look like themselves,” I said.
I smoothed the white frosting over the top of the cake, trying to cover the dark crumbs that kept rising to the surface. No matter how thick I spread the sugar, the shape of the layers remained uneven underneath.
The blue Buick sedan down the street let out its familiar high-pitched squeal as the fan belt struggled against the heat. It was thirty-two minutes past two by the kitchen clock, the hum of the refrigerator filling the small gaps between the basketball thuds outside.
“I should go out and help them with the net,” Watson said. “The nylon is tearing at the back.”
“Let them play,” I said. “They will be hot enough when they come in.”
He adjusted his ring again, the gold band dull against his tanned skin. “You need to sit down for a minute, Dawn. Your hands are stiff.”
“I am fine,” I said.
A sharp chime echoed from the front hallway, the brass bells of our old wall unit striking twice.
Watson started toward the door, but I put my hand on his sleeve, the fabric of his work shirt warm under my palm.
“I will get it,” I said. “It is probably the paperboy with the collection envelope.”
“He usually comes on Mondays,” Watson said.
I walked down the narrow carpeted hall, the air cooler near the front of the house where the maple trees shaded the porch. The heavy oak door sat solid in its frame, the brass deadbolt thrown.
When I pulled the door open, the porch was empty, the heat of the afternoon rising from the concrete steps in waves.
A plain brown cardboard box sat directly on the welcome mat, positioned exactly in the center of the rubber letters.
It was no larger than a shoebox, sealed with a single strip of clear packing tape that had begun to curl at the corners. On the top, written in thick black permanent marker, was my name.
“Who was it?” Watson called from the kitchen.
“Nobody,” I said, my voice barely reaching past the vestibule.
I bent down and lifted the box, surprised by how light it felt, as if it contained nothing but dried leaves. The bottom of the cardboard was slightly warm from sitting on the concrete.
“Dawn?” Watson’s footsteps sounded on the dining room hardwood.
“It is just a delivery,” I said, stepping backward and pulling the door shut until the latch clicked.
I did not go back to the kitchen. I walked past the stairs and into our bedroom, closing the door behind me and turning the brass lock.
The room was dim, the green curtains drawn against the three o’clock sun. I sat on the edge of the blue quilted mattress, the cardboard box resting on my knees.
My fingers were still sticky with sugar as I tore at the clear tape, the plastic screeching in the quiet room.
Inside, under a layer of crumpled gray tissue paper, lay a small plastic bag and a square piece of photographic paper.
I pulled the photograph out first, holding it by the white border so my damp thumbs would not smudge the image.