Her face was shaded with old pain.

“Yes, ma’am,” Travis said.

She closed the door, and he gazed at the cream-colored walls.

Dusk came, and he had not switched on the single overhead light when Liza Burack called him down for supper.

The dining-room table was heaped high with food. He remembered this, too, about his Aunt Liza, the way she went all out cooking for people, not so much generosity as compensation, as if the sheer weight of food could disguise some hidden inadequacy. Creath was already seated at the table, a massive blank weight, as Liza delivered a white china bowlful of mashed potatoes, a brimming gravy boat.

“Looks fine,” Travis said. “Mama always admired your cooking very much, Aunt Liza.”

“Just you sit down,” Liza said nervously. “The proof’s in the eating, Travis.”

It was as if he was still six years old.

“Lot of work went into setting this table,” Creath said; and Travis thought, yes, her work, but it was obvious he meant the ice plant. “Lot of time, lot of work. Hope you appreciate that.”

“Yessir.”

“Nothing comes cheap.” Creath’s eyes were unfocused and Travis guessed he had said these things many times. “You work for what you get in this life, you understand that, Travis?” “Sir.”

“That may have been the problem with your mother. Expect too much without wanting to work for it. Well, we all know where that path inclines, I guess.”

I am a guest in his home, Travis thought, teeth clenched. I cannot say what I think. But he looked at Creath Burack with a barely restrained loathing.

“Creath,” Liza said, gently warning.