I counted. Eleven boxes.
He tied a tarp down over all of them. He checked the knots twice. Then he climbed into the cab, and the truck backed slowly down the driveway with its headlights off until it got to the road.
Then the headlights came on, and he drove away.
I stood at the window and watched the taillights disappear into the dark.
I almost followed him. I almost grabbed my keys and jumped in my car and followed him down Ridge Road.
But I didn’t.
You’ll see Saturday, he’d said.
I went back to bed. I didn’t sleep.
He came home at nine-thirty. The truck bed was empty. He walked into the kitchen, washed his hands, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table across from me like nothing had happened.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
He blew on his coffee.
