A small window in the back of the breakfast nook looked out on a corner of the backyard where in another month a lilac bush would fill the space with a purple fragrance proud to have survived another winter. The two boys at the Formica table squabbled while their mother struggled to prepare supper.

 

“Boys, stop fighting. Don’t you have homework to do?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Then go to your rooms and do it. And if it’s done, then check it again or read a book.” As soon as she heard them pushing upstairs, she consoled herself. “God knows there’s enough books in this house with Herman working across from a used bookstore.”

 

Vivian added a little more water to the canned alphabet soup and muttered, “Right, Herman said the name of the bookstore was ‘Read them again, Sam.’ There never was any Sam associated with that store. Once when I was downtown, I went in and asked. They said the original owner liked Bogart!”

 

She opened a can of ravioli, put two slices of bread in the toaster, and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Boys, your soup is ready. You need to be down in a minute, you hear me?”

 

There were a thump and a cry. “Herbie threw my book on the floor and pushed me!” “Did not.” “Did too.” “Not.” “Did.”

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Vivian ignored the cries and returned to the kitchen. The bowls and utensils were on top of the counter next to the stove. The toast popped up just as she was spooning the soup into their bowls, causing her to spill a few drops. She yelled over her shoulder, “Boys, down here now! It’s been a long day.”

 

Herbie stopped short in the hall outside the kitchen, planting his hands on his hips. “We’re here. And you’re always saying it’s a long day.”

 

Charlie pushed his older brother aside and added his two cents. “Yeh. Even in the middle of the winter. We learned all about the equinox it school! And you once said that when it was the shortest day of the year!”

 

“Charles, you fix that tone and show some respect. I’m tired and it was a long day and you two are not making it any shorter! Now take your soup bowls to the table and behave!”

 

Herbie snickered.

 

“Herbert that’s a good way to get no supper. And if either of you want toast, you have feet.”

 

Charlie got up. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll get the toast. Is there anything else I can do?” He turned and made a face at his brother.

 

“No, dear. Just eat supper nicely. No slurping. We’re having ravioli. You both like it.”

Vivian rinsed the pot, dumping in the contents of the canned ravioli, she added a little water and the pieces of American cheese she had cut up while the boys were upstairs. She went to the window.

 

The last of the yellow flowers hung on the forsythia bush in the backyard. She remembered when Herman had planted it; she was pregnant with Charlie nine years ago. She looked over her shoulder while gently stirring the ravioli. Two years, Herman, has it been two years already? Now I’m as shriveled as those flowers.

 

She turned off the flame on the stove, took another bowl from the cabinet, and brought the pot and bowl to the table. She served the boys first, “I’ll save on the wash-up and just put this in your empty bowls,” then spooned what was left into her bowl.

 

The boys ate silently, trying not to get tomato stains on their polo shirts, and paced themselves with their mother. They were tired of being reminded to eat slowly but finished two bites before her anyhow.

 

“If you boys are still hungry, I can make a salad.”

 

Herbie glanced at his brother. “Nah, we’re good for now. But later we can have a treat?”

 

“Well then, if you’re finished, take your dishes to the sink and rinse them. How many times must I tell you that your mother is not your servant!”

Charlie elbowed his brother and showed how he was turning down one finger after another under the table. Then they both got up, Herbie taking his mother’s bowl and spoon, Charlie the pot, and rinsed them all, stacking them on the left side of the sink.

 

Vivian sat exhausted at the table, but when she heard her sons turn off the water in the sink, she called out, “OK. You can have milk and cookies in an hour but only if you play quietly! Better yet, read a book in your own room and that way you can stay out of trouble.”

 

Vivian retrieved the countertop rag from the hook next to the sink, I had to nag Herman to get this done. As she wiped off the table, she looked down at the tops of the lilac, thinking how their time to blossom was still a few weeks off. She took a deep breath, dropped her shoulders, and, approaching the stove, stopped to stare out the back window at the Rose of Sharon planted at the far end of the yard. She smiled, knowing it wouldn’t bloom until the end of the summer, but the flowers would hold on until the first hard frost. She wondered what the Rose of Sharon would think if it could look back at the house—a widow doing her best to raise two boys on her own.