They ate it room temperature off old wide featherweight china plates that Mebane removed wordless from a china safe and wiped clean with a rag, taking each plate down one at a time and setting it on the counter and then lifting the rag to wipe it off, slow and cautious. As if, Foster thought, making clear that all his life had been conducted one patient slow step after another, every action thought out beforehand in a world where there was no free hand to arrest a fall, to catch a mistake.

Mebane disregarded the meat, dabbing spoonfuls of vegetable distinct on the plate, taking up a single biscuit. Foster loaded his own plate, digging deep into the tin of meat with a wide spoon to bring up the warmest slabs out of the thickened gravy. Then followed Mebane into the shabby dining-room where again they ate side by side at the single spare bare area of the table. He felt soft and easy, wide awake and, because of this, wary. He felt this was when he might miss something. He could not help but think of Daphne cooking this food for him. Regardless of anything else, this meant something. Thinking that it is the small things that stitch us one to another. And wanting to be stitched. As simple as a longing toward home. A home that might grow from a plate of food. Seeing her naked and stumbling into her clothes. Thinking he could not find the way to tell her that her being in the world set him to tremble, throughout his soul.

“Okra,” Mebane said, “is not edible.” He was lifting the chunks of green wheel free of the stewed tomatoes and stacking them at the side of his plate. “It was brought from Africa by the coloreds. Or to feed them with. Somehow we all got stuck with it. You can stew it like this or you can batter and fry it but all you’re doing is eating what it is cooked with. Still, everyone grows it and swears how much they love it. I’d rather eat treebark.” He glared sideways at Foster.

Foster put his fork into the stewed vegetables, lifting up a piece of skinned tomato and one of okra together, and ate them. The tomatoes were sweet with the peppers and seasoning and the okra was a sidelong crunch, something to chew and seep out the other flavors. He said, “I like it.”

“Of course you do,” Mebane said. “From her sweet hands. Eat it up. Eat it up, all of it. Eat that meat too. Used to be when I was a young man I could not eat enough meat. For a time I thought it was on account of not getting much through the war. But it occurred to me that it was something else I was after. Some big bite-hold that would never be mine. I’ve been happier since I gave it up. Better for my bowels, too.”