“We’uns got us a problem, Nellie,” he said. “When you’uns done with breakfast, we need to talk about Daddy.”
“Okay.” Daddy had been shot not long ago. I had seen him on my last visit and he had looked a mite puny but nothing to cause the concerned tone in my brother’s voice. Was Daddy sick? Not healing right? Did he have cancer? Heart disease? None of that ran in our family, but I had a bad feeling about it. I couldn’t make myself ask, and I hoped it was just a bad guess. Sam opened the front door, like a gentleman, and followed me in. Small talk with Sam had never been easy, but I gave it a go as he closed the door and unwound his scarf, asking, “So, how’s married life?”
My brother smiled, showing teeth, his eyes crinkling up. “Better than fine. Finer than frog fur spilt three ways.”
“I’m glad. Marriage should be a happy thing,” I said, shucking out of my coat.
“I’m sorry yours was bad, Nell.”
That stopped me and I shrugged, uncomfortable with the topic of my marriage. I said, “Better the Ingrams than to live with the colonel. Way better, brother of mine.”
“Thatis the God’s own truth, sister,” he agreed.
“What kinda seeds are these?” Mud shouted over the din, a clamor that suddenly crashed down on me. Sam patted my shoulder. “Home sweet home. Come get me when you’uns done with women’s talk.”
“Okay.” I moved through the controlled chaos to the kitchen and hugged Mama. “Love you, Mama.”
“Love you too, baby girl. Sit a spell.” I did and she dished up breakfast and slid a quart jar of honey to me. “Eat you’uns’ French toast,” she demanded to all the bodies at the table. “Sam! Daddy’s busy. You come on and eat. Give that wife of yours a morning in bed.”
“What. Are. The. Seeds!” Mud shouted, jerking my jacket.
“Mindy, you mind your manners!” Mama demanded.
In the living room, three tiny little’uns started resinging the song about Noah and the flood.
“Brighamia,” I shouted to my sister, as half a dozen olderlittle’uns raced through the living room, screaming. I shook my head at the culture shock of being home again.No. Not that. Just being here.Loudly I said, “It’s a succulent bellflower from Hawaii. The common names arealula,olulu, orpu aupaka. Read up on it. Only plant a few at a time,” I cautioned her, and caught her eyes with my own. I added, “You’re going to have tomake it grow.”
Mud’s eyes went wide. “Make...”
Make. It. Grow,I mouthed. We hadn’t talked about her ability with plants. Nor my own. That was a discussion for private places, surrounded by rich soil and clean water and the soul of the earth.
“You... you know?”
I gave her a twitch of a smile and said, “Iam.”
Mud sucked in a breath, eyes so wide I feared they’d pop out of her eye sockets. She took off as if her britches were on fire.
“Nell, you let that child get ready for devotionals and eat,” Mama said. “You want tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, Mama.”
“Coffee for me too, Mama,” Sam said.
“Gitchur own cup, Samuel,” Mama said briskly. “You ain’t a visitor, and I ain’chur maid. If I hear you been making Miss SaraBell get you’un’s coffee, I’ll tan your bottom.”
Sam laughed and got a mug from the cabinet. It was chipped, the lip brown with coffee stains, the enamel cracked and worn, the shine long gone. “I take good care of my wife, Mama.”
“You best do. Get a plate, Sam, if’n you want French toast.”
Across the room, as the minutes before sunrise arrived, the sister-wives, Mama Carmel and Mama Grace, gathered up all the children still eating and led all the young’uns out of the house, to devotions, all of them waving to me and to Sam and to Mama. They were all dressed for the cold, but didn’t stop to talk. Which was strange, as all this morning felt strange. And I realized that Mama was skipping morning devotions to have a cup of coffee with me. Which was incredibly sweet. Or... maybe not. If Mama had something to say, she would grab the first opportunity and say it. An impromptu meeting. When I was growing up, such meetings had been a precursor to me getting a good whipping.
Not wanting to start a conversation that I suddenly didn’t want to have, I ate Mama’s delicious French toast, made withreal vanilla, heavy cream, butter, sugar, and her secret ingredient. Whatever that was. No one knew. As I ate, Daddy ambled out of the back. With a cane. Mama watched him, lips tight. Sam watched him, his expression a mirror of hers.
Daddy joined us at the table and sipped on a cup of coffee, his eyes on me. He looked bad. I had been gone only a little while, a couple of months, but Daddy had lost weight, maybe thirty pounds. His face was gray and tight with pain. I wasn’t a doctor, but I knew my daddy was in trouble. Yeah. This wasn’t just breakfast. It was a meeting, in the odd quiet of the strangely deserted house, just Mama, Sam, Daddy, and me, hastily engineered by Mama when I called.
My French toast gone, I sat back in my kitchen chair, the mismatched spindles pressing into my spine. Mama put on a fresh pot of coffee to percolate, no longer looking at her husband or her son, or even at me—working, keeping busy. Like I did, when there was trouble. I frowned and got up, pouring myself, Mama, and Daddy more coffee from the pot that was ready, and leaving the coffeepot on the table in front of Sam to pour his own. “Daddy?” I asked. “You got a broken leg or something?”
“Jist a bit of digestive upset. Mama Carmel’s got me on half a dozen decoctions and infusions. I’ll be right as rain again soon. Good to see you, Nell.”
