Chapter 10 - The Table Set
It was October again.
The trees along Elm Street had turned a bright, dry gold, their leaves drifting down onto the grey slate pavement like giant copper coins.
Inside Apartment 404, the air was warm and smelled of roasted apples, cinnamon, and roasting chicken.
The dining room table was set for four. There were real linen napkins, white porcelain plates that Laura had bought at an estate sale in the country, and three small glass vases filled with red autumn leaves that Sophia had collected in the park that morning.
Mrs. Gable sat at the head of the table, her silver hair neatly pinned back, wearing a navy silk dress that smelled faintly of lavender soap.
Beside her sat Mr. Henderson, the building super, who had put on a clean brown tweed jacket and spent twenty minutes telling Sophia a story about a squirrel that lived in the boiler room.
Sophia sat in her high chair near the window, her cheeks pink from the autumn air, a tiny plastic fork held firmly in her right hand.
Laura came out of the kitchen carrying a large ceramic bowl.
It was filled to the brim with hot chicken soup—thick yellow broth, wide hand-cut egg noodles, chunks of tender white meat, and bright orange circles of carrot floating on the surface.
She set the bowl in the middle of the table, the steam rising into the bright, clear light of the October afternoon.
"Is it hot, Mama?" Sophia asked, leaning forward with her eyes wide.
"It's just right, sweetie," Laura said.
She sat down at the foot of the table, picked up the silver ladle, and filled her daughter's bowl first—a deep, generous helping that made the bright plastic bowl heavy and warm against the wood.
Sophia took her small spoon, dipped it into the golden broth, and brought it to her mouth.
"It's good, Mama," Sophia said, smiling with her whole face, her little teeth showing white and clean. "It's the best soup in the whole world."
Laura looked around the table—at Mrs. Gable laughing at Mr. Henderson’s story, at the gold sunlight hitting the clean pine floorboards, at her daughter’s full, warm bowl sitting firmly on the wood.
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Outside, the wind rustled through the tall oak trees along Elm Street, blowing the dead leaves off the branches and sending them flying away down the long, empty street toward the river.
Inside, the door was locked from the inside, the key was in her pocket, and the soup was warm.
