He does not tell her about Mexicans or Asians, thank God. It seems to be something he knows not to talk about around a person like her and it occurs to me for the first time that he must have sensed something about me to bring these things up to a stranger. I wonder what it is, this difference: between my aunt and me. Now he is telling her about his tow truck business and our drive, though he leaves out the part about the cook and the dishwasher.

She is very good at talking, my aunt, and he relaxes and smiles boyishly now and this makes me nervous. Sometimes, it seems, moments like this are when people speak more freely. They get careless. He leans forward, arms gently on the table, voice animated. I look to the doorway—towards the cool outside—and notice a white paper cup tumbling ghostly across the lot.

Now I contemplate rising, but then get the idea that if I do Aunt Jessica will tell me not to because my mother will be back soon. But it has been some time now and she will be back soon, telephone or not.

I wait for them to become more engaged in their conversation, studying them carefully. When it seems they have forgotten me, I slide quickly off the seat and begin making my way through the booths. Unfortunately, some people get ahead of me and I have to slow down as my aunt calls after me.

I get to the door.

Outside it is cool now as a dry wind comes off the snow-capped mountains and simple footlights illuminate the manicured plants and cast little yellow halos. Inside the restaurant Aunt Jessica is coming quickly after me.

She enters the glass doorway, silhouetted.

Get in here, she says.

Her tone is so cold and with the way she holds open the door I do not run across the lot but bow my head and walk obediently inside. She closes the door after me.

We stand by the waiting-area seats. Looking towards the table, I can see that Mom has sat down again. Her purse strap is hooked cautiously about her elbow.

Gabe, are you going in now, or am I going to have to ask you again? my aunt says.

I look at her but do not move.

She is really angry now, clutching her elbows the way she does when she gets mad, but then something in my face seems to make her own expression soften.

What is it, Gabe? she says.

Nothing.

Come on, Gabe.

I told you. Nothing.

Is there something you’re afraid of telling your mother?