Glenn Cooper - The Tenth Chamber

The couple finished stacking the plates and returning the cutlery to the drawer. They sat back at the kitchen table and watched the clock tick for a while. There was an USA Today newspaper half-folded on the counter. Nicholas reached for it and put his reading glasses on.

‘I still can’t get over it,’ he said to his wife.

The front page of the paper was mostly devoted to the explosion that had destroyed a place in France named Ruac. ‘Are you sure your father was from there?’ she asked.

‘That’s what I understand,’ the old man said. ‘He never wanted to talk about it. He had a blood feud with a man in Ruac named Bonnet. Bonnet apparently got the best of him and that was that.’

‘You think they were our sort of people?’ she asked.

The man shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘According to the paper, there’s no one left to ask.’

Through the kitchen window they saw head lights in the distance coming down their mile-long lane. One car, then two, then a steady stream.

‘They’re coming,’ he said, pushing back his chair.

‘How’s the tea tonight?’ she asked.

‘Good and strong,’ he said. ‘It’s a good batch. Come on, let’s get up to the barn.’