Chapter 2: The Salt of the Earth
The grandfather clock in the hall struck six with a heavy, brass resonance that always felt less like a marker of time and more like a warning. My father, Grant, took his place at the head of the table, his large, square hands resting on the arms of his mahogany chair like an old judge settling into a bench. He had spent forty years as a corporate tax attorney for the steel firms down by the river, and his face had the hard, unmovable setting of a man who spent his life looking for the small print that allowed someone to avoid paying what they owed.
"Sit," he said, not looking at anyone in particular.
Richard sat to his right. Richard was thirty-six, a vice president of something involving container logistics, with the thin, pale hair of a man who spent too much time in airport lounges and an expression of permanent, mild satisfaction. He adjusted his silk tie, gave Wren a brief, unseeing nod, and immediately reached for the basket of hot rolls.
"The snow’s coming down harder out toward the turnpike," Richard observed, buttering his roll with three efficient strokes of his knife. "The county’s already behind on the salt trucks. Glad we brought the Audi. That all-wheel drive handles the slush like it isn't even there."
"Maren brought the bus, didn't she?" my mother asked, passing the gravy boat to Talia. Her voice had that airy, conversational tone that she used when she was delivering a blow. "The number 14 down Madison? I saw her walking from the corner under that old green umbrella of Callum’s. The hem of her coat was completely soaked, poor thing."
Wren looked up from her empty plate, her small fork held tightly in her fist. "We took the train first," she said, her voice clear and too loud for the quiet room. "The train has the red seats. And then we walked three blocks. Mommy let me step in the big drifts because my boots are rubber."
"Rubber boots in December," Talia murmured, her eyes fixed on her own plate as she carved a thin slice of turkey breast. "How... rustic. Let’s hope she doesn't catch that croup that’s going around the Lakewood clinics. Richard says the public schools down there are practically breeding grounds for it this season."
"Wren’s school is fine, Talia," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I hadn't touched my food. The smell of the turkey, the sage, the rich butter of the potatoes—it all felt thick and oily in my throat, like something I couldn't swallow without choking. "They have an excellent arts program. Callum’s old colleagues are still there. They look out for her."
"Ah," my father said, not lifting his eyes from his meat. "The union crowd. Always looking out for each other until the pension fund goes dry. That’s the trouble with public money, Maren. It makes people soft. It makes them think there’s always a net underneath them, even when the ropes have been rotten for twenty years."
The conversation drifted after that, moving over the heads of Wren and me like a cold wind that didn't quite touch the ground. They talked about the country club’s renovations; they talked about the new harbor taxes in Erie; they talked about the couple on the corner who had been forced to sell their house after the husband’s firm went into receivership. My family spoke of these people with a strange, clinical detachment, as if they were discussing an old car that had finally dropped its transmission on the highway—unfortunate, yes, but ultimately the owner’s fault for not buying a better model.
Wren ate her sweet potatoes with a small, slow rhythm, her fork making no sound against the grandma’s Virginia silver. Every few minutes, she would look sideways at me, her dark eyes wide and asking the question she hadn't yet learned how to put into words: Why do they look at us like we are made of glass that someone forgot to clean?
I reached under the table, my hand finding her small knee beneath the green velvet. Her skin was warm, and she gave me a quick, hard squeeze back with her fingers before returning to her plate.
"The lawsuit," Richard said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and wiping his mouth with his linen napkin. "I saw the brief on the county ledger last week, Maren. The defense filed a motion for change of venue to Columbus. They’re claiming the local jury pool in Cuyahoga is prejudiced because of the school superintendent’s statement to the press after the accident."
My father paused, his fork hovering an inch above his plate. "They’ll get it, too," he said, his voice flat. "The Columbus judges don't like Cleveland lawyers coming down with emotional appeals about public servants. It’s a bad strategy, Maren. I told you three months ago to take the settlement. By the time this thing goes to a jury, the legal fees will have eaten whatever capital you have left, and you’ll be sitting in that flat with nothing but a pile of transcripts."
"I have an attorney on contingency, Dad," I said, my teeth clicking together.
"Contingency," Talia laughed, a short, sharp sound like a bird hitting a window. "That’s just another word for the lawyers who put their faces on billboards by the bus stops, Maren. Honestly, it’s embarrassing. Every time someone at the club asks how you’re doing, I have to tell them you’re 'in transition.' It sounds like you’re out on parole."
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"Talia," my mother said, though her tone had no teeth in it. "Let’s not discuss the legalities at the table. It’s Christmas Eve. We should be focusing on the family. On what we have."
"We're focusing on what Maren doesn't have, Mom," Talia said, her voice sharpening as she looked directly at me across the holly branches. "That’s the problem, isn't it? She comes here with her brown paper packages and her public transit clothes, and she sits there like a ghost at the feast, waiting for us to feel bad because she wouldn't take the advice of the only man in this family who actually understands how a contract works."
