Last night, relatives and friends who know our family tree stopped by to drop off all kinds of food. I’d spent the past two days cooking and cleaning myself. Had to—to stay busy and keep my mind off why I was doing all this in the first place. A little while ago, the dining-room table, kitchen counters, and all them rented tables was full of Tupperware bowls, roasters, and platters. You couldn’t even see the nice lace tablecloths I had put on ’em. It musta been at least four or five hams over there, pots of collard greens, and fried chicken galore. I counted three bowls of potato salad, one coleslaw, and three twenty-pound turkeys, but somebody’s dressing wasn’t hitting on nothing, ’cause didn’t nobody touch it. Some of them Pyrex dishes was still bubbling with macaroni-and-cheese and baked beans when we first set ’em out. I made two big pots of string beans: one with potatoes and one with ham hocks and okra. I even put out my good silver trays for hors d’ouevres: carrot and celery sticks, broccoli and cauliflower spears that nobody touched even though I put some Thousand Island dressing right next to it. Target had a special on white dish towels, which I used to hang over the edges of the bowls for the dinner rolls and cornbread squares. They been gone.

We had two of every kind of cake you can think of: coconut cake; Seven-Up cake; red velvet cake; four pound cakes—one lemon, one almond; a nasty German-chocolate and a serious Sock-It-to-Me cake, which I cut in half and hid in the breadbox, ’cause it taste just the way Mama always make—I mean made—hers. A lotta people don’t bother using a bundt pan or take the time to make the cinnamon, chopped-pecan, and brown-sugar filling, but whoever made this one knew what they was doing. The glaze dripping down the sides was pitch-perfect. I cut myself a thick slice, put it on a little paper plate, and put a napkin over it, hoping nobody would touch it. So far so good.

The only thing we put out to drink was punch, ’cause people turn into alcoholics after funerals. I even used my good crystal and sterling bowls with a ladle and set out two extra cups for dipping. I dropped a mound of orange sherbet in one. Everybody was just sipping away, but I couldn’t help but notice how many of them glasses landed on top of the bar so Al could add something to give that punch some punch. I sure need one now, which is why I pick my cake up and walk straight over to the bar. Al over there sleep in the recliner. I hope he spend the night. I don’t want him to do nothing but hold me, and then he can leave when it’s daylight, ’cause death is easier to deal with in the daytime. We ain’t back together, but we ain’t talked about the divorce since this happened. It’s amazing how two tragic things can cancel one out. But I ain’t forgot.