From the living room, the widow Ridgehorn let out another long wail, this one a little tired and drawn out, as if her heart wasn’t really in it.

"Poor Momma," Anna Beth said.

Roby put the wrap on the counter, rolled out a couple of feet. When he yanked the clear film across the serrated blade, he caught his thumb on the sharp edges. The blade bit the thick meat above his nail.

He put the thumb in his mouth. The blood tasted of gravy.

"You okay?" Anna Beth asked.

"I’ll live," he said.

Someone had been thoughtful enough to bring paper napkins, which lay in a sterile pile near the desserts. He pulled one free and wrapped his thumb. The bleeding stopped. He ripped the piece of wrap, fluffed it in the air so the corners wouldn’t stick, then draped the clear film over the ham.

"Can’t have all this going to waste," he said. "I know you don’t feel much up to it now, but comes a time when hunger helps feed the grief."

"Yeah. It’s been a long time since Aunt Iva Dean passed. That was the last one in the immediate family."

"You were seven then. I remember, because you were in the second grade, and some boy had kicked you in the shin and you had a big bruise."

Anna Beth’s face grew thoughtful and far away, the sadness momentarily gone. "Yeah. Funny how things like that come back. I’d forgotten all about it."

"It’s the smell," Roby said.

"Huh?"

"Smell. See this sweet potato pie? That’s Beverly Parsons’s favorite recipe. But she changes ingredients a little for a bereavement. Uses molasses instead of brown sugar. So the smell of molasses is a little sad to me."

"I never noticed. I probably ate dozens of her pies, her being a neighbor and all, and she makes one for every homecoming at the church."