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Gail snapped. She rushed to his side and smacked his hand away. “What are you doing? Get out of the way!”
    “Magdalena’s not eating with us. I’m supposed to move her plate and tell Mama.”
    Gail’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open. She closed it, scooped up Magdalena’s place setting and ran it to the bureau.
    “He’s here!” Carla called from the front room. She wasn’t one to shout, her voice could barely be heard above the reverberation of Pop’s old truck as it rumbled into the lane.
    Carla came into the dining room with a stack of cloth napkins and set each one on the table, dropping the plainest and most tattered one next to James’ plate. He was the littlest. He was the last. That’s the way things were, Pop said.
    Mama darted from the kitchen, an apron tied over the same faded dress she’d worn to his ballgame. She started around the table to check the settings, make sure the plates, silverware, glasses—and one coffee cup for Pop—were all in the right place. James watched her, her movements, her quick and studious glances, all so familiar. Mama did this every night when Pop came home. She hurried. When James thought of Mama at home, he thought of hurry!
    James came alongside her as she turned the last corner and approached Magdalena’s empty spot.
    Alex and Harold popped through the doorway. Mama stopped and glanced at the older boys, a smile of welcome on her tired face. They nodded, warm smiles returned, as they slipped to the backs of their chairs. They stood like sentinels. No one sat until Pop did.
    James reached for his mother’s apron, the soft fabric gripped between his fingers.
    “Now, Mama?” Betsy poked her head through the door. Betsy always did what was right. It was her way of keeping things peaceful and in order.
    The back door opened, and Pop’s voice could be heard over the rain as he told King goodnight before stepping inside. Alex and Harold straightened. Betsy didn’t wait for Mama’s okay. She began toting steaming dishes to the table, a thin towel between her hands and the hot pottery. James heard Gail set a coffeepot on the stove. The coffee would be ready when Pop was, hot and thick, the way he liked it.
    “Mama?” James whispered.
    “James, get behind your chair.” Her command came out in a sharp whisper.
    “But, Mama—”
    “James, I said get behind your chair. We’re getting food on the table.” She stepped toward the kitchen as the back door closed.
    “But, Mama, Magdalena’s gone.”
    Mama stopped and stared at him. Her hurry churned and stalled, but it didn’t vanish.
    “Gail put her dishes away. Magdalena said to tell you she’s gone out, but to tell Pop she’s trying out for a job.”
    Mama drew in a deep breath and dipped her head in a slow nod. He knew she was thinking about what he’d told her, and the things she would now have to say.
    She started to push around James, but he held onto her apron. “Mama…the game… I don’t want Pop to…”
    This time the hurry vanished from her eyes. Her preoccupation was broken. A strange glimmer, a distant flicker appeared, then disappeared. She looked down at him. “No game,” she said. “Nothing about the game. Nothing about the afternoon.” She sounded like Magdalena. Warning him, more than just agreeing to keep Pop from knowing he’d messed up.
    “What game?”
    James saw what Pop looked like in his mother’s face. He could smell the slightly burnt odor that was permanent in Pop’s skin and clothing, tiny blackened holes testifying he was a welder. James turned and looked into his father’s face. The game you didn’t come to. The one you don’t even remember you were supposed to come to . The game James was relieved he hadn’t come to since it wasn’t good, not good enough for Pop.
    “Nothing. Supper’s on the table,” Mama said, as she slipped from James’ fingers and rushed to the kitchen. James turned back and watched her, then took his place behind his chair.
    Pop