What Happens to Goodbye(77)

I glanced at Riley, who was tying on an apron patterned with red checks. “They know nothing,” she assured me. “Promise.”
“Tip-off?” Deb said.
“U plays Loeb College at seven sharp,” Riley’s dad called out, gesturing for us to come into the dining room. Once we were closer, he stuck out his hand. “Jack Benson. You know you have the same name as one of the best college basketball coaches of all time?”
“Um, yeah,” I said, shaking it. Behind me, Riley and her mom were bustling around, bringing out various pans and casseroles and putting them on the table. “I’ve heard that.”
“Can I help you with anything?” Deb asked her as she dropped the best-looking macaroni and cheese I’d seen in ages onto a trivet.
“Do you see that?” Riley’s mom said, pointing at Dave and Ellis. “That’s called manners. You all should take lessons. Or at least notice.”
“We stopped offering because you never said yes,” Ellis told her. To me he added, “She’s a total control freak when it comes to cooking. Our plating skills were not up to her standards.”
“Hush up,” Riley’s mom said, swatting at him with a stack of napkins. To Deb and me, she said, “You two are guests. Sit down. Riley, make sure everyone has a drink, will you? We’re almost ready.”
“You know,” Mr. Benson said as I sat down next to Dave, “I gotta say, you look kind of familiar to me. Do I know you from somewhere? ”
“No,” Riley called over her shoulder as she dumped ice into a pitcher.
“I think I do.” He squinted at me. “You were the one at the game with Dave the other day! Talk about great seats. You must be pretty special to warrant that. He still won’t tell me how he scored them.”
“Because it’s not your business,” Mrs. Benson said. The smell of fried food, hot and mouthwatering, wafted over me as she walked behind me, depositing a huge platter of chicken on the table in front of her husband. “Now let’s stop talking about basketball for ten minutes and say grace. Any volunteers?”
I looked at Deb, sort of panicking. Then Dave said, “Don’t worry. That’s a rhetorical question, too. You could never say grace as well as she does.”
“David Wade,” Mrs. Benson said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “That is not the least bit true.”
Everyone else at the table laughed, but she just shook her head, ignoring them. Then she put out both hands, one to Ellis on her left, and to me on the right. Just as her fingers closed around mine, I felt Dave take my other hand.

“Thank you, God, for this food,” Mrs. Benson said, and I looked around the table, seeing that Riley and Deb both had their eyes closed. Mr. Benson, from what I could tell, was eyeing the chicken. “And for the opportunity to share it with our family and friends, old and new. We are truly blessed. Amen.”
“Amen,” Mr. Benson agreed, already reaching for a serving spoon. “Now, let’s eat.”
I’d learned from my dad that opinions about food are always biased, and to be skeptical of even the most rave review. In this case, however, what I’d been told was not an exaggeration. After a few bites, I realized that this was true southern food: crisp chicken, creamy mac and cheese, green beans cooked with pork fat, fresh-baked rolls that melted in your mouth. The iced tea was sweet and cold, the servings huge, and I never wanted it to end.
I was so immersed that it wasn’t until I reached for another piece of chicken—well on my way to coming close to, if not meeting, Dave’s record—that I realized how long it had been since I’d sat around a table this way, eating like a family. I’d spent the last two years eating either on the couch at home, at the end of one bar or another, or in the kitchen with my dad, picking off the same plate, as he made other people’s dinners. Here at Riley’s, it was so different. The talk was loud, bouncing from topic to topic, as plates were passed and cups refilled. Dave and I kept bumping elbows while Riley’s mom peppered me with questions about how I liked Jackson and how it was different from my other schools. Meanwhile, Ellis and Heather talked basketball with Riley’s dad, and beside them, Deb was telling Riley about the model and the plans she had for it. It was loud and hot, my face flushed. I suddenly understood again the appeal of food, how it was bigger than just having something made and then slid across a kitchen prep window. It was about family, and home, and where your heart was, like Opal had said about Luna Blu not so long ago.
“Mclean, get yourself some more of those green beans,” Mrs. Benson said, gesturing for Ellis to pass them down. “And it looks like you need another roll, too. Where’s the butter?”
“Right here,” Heather said, picking up the dish and handing it to Mr. Benson, who passed it to Dave. As the conversation rose up again, I watched both it and the bread basket move down the table. Steadily, they went from hand to hand, person to person, like links on a chain, making their way to me.
After dinner, Riley’s mom put us all on dish duty, while Mr. Benson excused himself and went into the living room, where he eased into a big leather recliner with a fresh beer. A moment later, I heard an announcer’s voice and glanced over to see two men in suits shaking hands, a referee between them.
“Look at that,” Mr. Benson called out over his shoulder. “Old Dog Face is only wearing two of his championship rings tonight.”
“Daddy hates Loeb College,” Riley said, adding some soap to the watrunning in the sink. Clearly, there was a routine here, as everyone had fallen into certain places: she had the sponge, with Ellis beside her to rinse, and then me and Deb armed with dish towels. Dave and Heather were the floaters, already opening cabinets to put things away. “Especially the Loeb coach.”