Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

Thomas set down the cake and stood. Half a dozen guests hung back at the edge of the pavilion. They held plates but had no place to sit. One old man leaned against a post. A young couple stood in the cold beyond the roof. Thomas saw their stiff smiles and knew the truth. A man could not feel welcome standing while others ate. "I built the table too fast," he said to Dorothy. "I never counted the chairs." He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. The turkey steamed. The people waited. He needed seats, and he needed them now. Ezekiel Goodwin rose from the bench. The traveling preacher had walked in off the road that morning, a stranger Thomas had waved to his feast. He set his worn Bible on the plank and touched Thomas's shoulder. "Friend, I slept two nights in that old sawmill by the water," he said. "There's a store room in back. I saw chairs stacked there, folded and waiting." Hope jumped in Thomas's chest. "Show me." He grabbed a lantern. Ezekiel took another. The two men crossed the dark ground to the abandoned sawmill. Inside, dust hung thick. Ezekiel raised his light. In the corner stood a stack of folding chairs, slim frames locked together, seats painted red and green and gold. The paint had chipped. The metal held firm. "They'll do," Thomas said. He gripped the stack and pulled. It did not budge. Rust had fused the legs to the floor. He pulled again, teeth clenched, and the stack broke loose with a screech. Chairs clattered down. He caught them before they scattered. They carried the chairs two and three at a time. The slope was steep. Thomas's arms burned. Ezekiel walked beside him, lantern high, humming low. On the third trip Quincey met them halfway. She had left her law folder on the bench. "Grandpa, give me some," she said, and hauled four chairs against her chest. They reached the pavilion. Thomas unfolded a chair and set it by the old man at the post. "Sit," he said. "Please." The old man sat. Thomas set the next chair for the young couple. One by one, the standing guests took their seats. The chipped paint caught the lantern light. No one stood now. Dorothy counted the table. Every guest sat. She squeezed his hand. "Now it's a feast," she said. Thomas looked down the long planks. Every face had a place. Ezekiel bowed his head over his plate. Thomas sat last, in a red chair with peeling paint. His arms ached and his knees were raw. He lifted the cover off the maple cream cake again. "Now," he said, "we eat." The table cheered. But as he cut the first slice, he saw the platters. The turkey was picked to bone. The bowls sat near empty. He had counted chairs. He had not counted second helpings, and the guests were still hungry.