She had the table in the kitchen all set. It was a good meal. I could smell it from the living room, where I sat on the antique settee and looked out the window onto Weber Street. Roast beef. Some potatoes. And a pie. It had taken an entire month's sugar rations to make that pie. Mom was so proud of it, so I could somewhat understand the tone in her voice as she asked after Jeff. "He should be here any moment, Momma," I called back. Was it to reassure myself, or her? The clock on the wall ticked and tocked the seconds away, getting closer and closer to six. I'd arranged with Jeff to meet at half past five. Where was that boy? "If he's not here in five minutes, we're eating without him!" Mom said, poking her head into the broad doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen. As always, I couldn't look at anything but the silver in her hair. Three years ago, in 1914, it had been all black.
