Turn 36 of 233

My parents and I have a good time, even with my new lifestyle. Head back to work Monday and ask Walt about being team lead

The door opens and Janet stands there with her hand on the frame and her face goes through three expressions in two seconds — shock at the nakedness, recognition of the daughter beneath it, and then a slow deliberate settling into the expression of a woman who has decided that love is more important than surprise. She steps back and Lena walks in barefoot and dirty and full of burritos and Janet closes the door and says, "You're early," and Lena says, "I ate on the way," and Janet looks at the grease on her daughter's belly and the crumbs on her thighs and doesn't say anything about them.

Samuel is in the kitchen. He's standing at the counter with a coffee and a newspaper — the posture of a man who was not going to come to the door but couldn't stay in the kitchen either — and when Lena walks in he looks at her and his jaw works once and then stops. He has seen the photos. He has stood on the construction site. He has looked at the calluses. The nakedness is new but the body is not, and something in the way he carries himself tells Lena that he has already spent the weeks since his visit running out of arguments and arriving at the place where the only thing left is the fact of her.

"Hey, Dad," Lena says. She walks past him to the fridge and opens it and pulls out the leftover pot roast and starts eating it cold with her fingers, standing at the counter, her belly pressing against the cabinet. Samuel watches her eat. He doesn't comment on the nakedness or the dirt or the smell. He drinks his coffee and reads his paper and after a minute he says, "How's the second house coming," and Lena says, "Walls are up, second floor is sheeted, we start roofing Tuesday," and he nods and turns a page and that is the conversation.

The weekend unfolds the way weekends unfold in the Park house — slow, domestic, organized around meals and television and the quiet rhythms of two retired people who have made a life together and are now fitting their transformed daughter back into it. Lena eats everything Janet cooks and asks for more. She sits on the couch with her bare feet on the coffee table and watches baseball with Samuel and they argue about the Angels' bullpen and Janet brings sandwiches and Lena eats three of them and belches and Samuel doesn't flinch. At dinner Saturday night Lena eats two full plates of Janet's bulgogi and a bowl of rice and a plate of kimchi and then leans back in her chair and lets out a long low fart that rumbles the wooden seat and Janet closes her eyes for a moment and Samuel keeps eating and Lena reaches for the rice.

Sunday morning Lena runs three miles barefoot through her parents' neighborhood and comes back sweaty and panting and eats six eggs and a pound of bacon and Janet refills her plate without comment. In the afternoon Samuel sits on the back porch and Lena sits beside him and they don't talk much. He looks at her feet — black with street dirt, the calluses thick and yellowed — and he looks at her hands and he looks at the tan and he doesn't say anything about any of it. When Lena leaves Sunday evening Samuel stands in the doorway and says, "Tuesday. You said roofing Tuesday," and Lena says, "Tuesday," and he nods and she drives home naked with a container of Janet's japchae on the seat beside her, eating it with her fingers, the noodles cold and sweet and garlic-heavy, and she doesn't belch or fart in the truck because she's full and calm and the drive is quiet and the road is dark and her belly is warm and round in the lamplight of the dashboard.

Monday morning. Five-forty. The east side lot. The second house stands framed and sheeted and the crew is gathered around the tailgate where Walt has the prints spread out and coffee in his hand. Lena walks up barefoot and shirtless in the tiny shorts, her belly full and golden, her body still carrying the warmth of the weekend — the food, the porch, the silence with her father. She picks up her coffee and drinks and waits for a break in the conversation and then she says, "Walt. You mentioned crew lead."

Walt looks at her over the rim of his cup. He's a compact man, fifty-five, sun-leathered, with the particular stillness of someone who has been doing this long enough to read a person's seriousness before they finish the sentence. He doesn't answer immediately. He takes a sip of coffee and looks at the prints and then looks back at Lena.

"I did," he says.

"I want it," Lena says. No preamble. No softening. The directness of a person who has learned that the straightest line between two points is the one you walk yourself.

Walt nods slowly. He sets the cup on the tailgate and crosses his arms.

"Crew lead means you're not just running lumber and checking studs. It means you're running people. Scheduling, material orders, coordinating subs, dealing with the office when they push back on timelines. It means when something goes wrong it's your name on it."

"I know," Lena says.

"I know you know," Walt says. "That's why I'm not saying no."

He pauses. Marco and Daryl and Ray are within earshot and they're not pretending they can't hear. Tuki has the saw idling and even he's glancing over.

"Here's what I need," Walt says. "I need you to finish this house — roofing, siding, the rough-in coordination. I need to see you run a sub schedule without me holding your hand. You do that clean, I put you on the next two houses as crew lead. Full responsibility. Pay bump. Your name on the site sign."

Lena nods. Her belly is tight with something that isn't food — a different kind of fullness, the kind that comes from standing at the edge of something and being told you're ready to step into it.

"Roofing starts Tuesday," she says.

"Roofing starts Tuesday," Walt says. He picks up his coffee and turns back to the prints and the conversation is over and the crew drifts back to work and Lena picks up her hammer and walks to the house and her stride is long and heavy and sure.