Elsa Crane's Arc

Chapter 63 of 66

The next day the hut filled by noon. Charlie set the table along the back wall. Fern lined the benches. Clara took coats at the door. Elsa sat in her chair beside the threshold in her heavy wool robe, the flower crown pinned tight to her hair. Bodhi stood at her elbow in the too-big parka, chalk stub in one fist, the woven vine crown resting on the stool beside him. The families came in order. The Peters girl first with her mother, a covered bowl in her arms. Then the cobbler with twins holding a loaf between them. Then the miller's boy with a jar of honey. Elsa smiled at each one as they passed. She kept the smile small so she could hold it. She had four days of strength left and she meant to spend it here. Under the wool she pressed her thumb hard into her palm. That was the trouble. She and Bodhi had never fixed a sign. If she smiled too soon, before the last dish was down, the room would still be moving and no one would see. If she waited too long, her face would drop on its own and the village would call it a failing, not a giving. She watched the table fill. Thirty-eight dishes. Thirty-nine. Larissa came in with a pot of stew. Forty. Charlie carried the last basket to the table, a round of dark bread, and set it beside the honey. Forty-one. Charlie stepped back and folded her hands. The room quieted on its own. Bodhi felt it. He turned from the table and faced the crowd. He did not look at Elsa yet. "Thank you for bringing your food," he said. His voice carried clean across the driftwood walls. "Thank you for trusting me at your doors and with your children." He named Clara, Fern, Jasper, Dahlia, Nancy, Wren, Charlie. He named the reindeer waiting outside. He thanked each one for a piece of what he was. Then he turned to Elsa. "And thank you, Elsa Crane," he said, "for teaching me the warmth." That was the signal. She had not asked for it and he had not promised it, but she knew it the moment he said her name. She lifted her face to him and let the smile come the way it had always come at the door of the hut, wide and round-cheeked, both eyes crinkled, the smile she had used on every stranger for forty years. The room saw it. The mothers saw it. Larissa put a hand to her mouth. The Peters girl pointed without a sound. Bodhi held her eyes and did not look away until she let the smile settle. Elsa lowered her chin. Her hands stayed still in her lap. The gift was given, in the room where she had first received one, in front of every witness the village had. Bodhi lifted the vine crown from the stool and set it on his own head.