I bowed my head, ready and waiting for this morning’s prayer. Ville, the only one left to be seated, slumped down in the chair beside me. Always beside me.
I edged away slightly, something I always did when he took his seat because I didn’t want him to notice as he set my nerves on edge.
His chair screeched, screaming threats that its skinny legs felt like giving way as he dropped his weight down without care.
I closed my eyes as he began. . .
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this food, for this family, and for the unity we have within these walls. We thank you for your sacrifices, for our lives, blessed, for however long they may be.”
I tried not to allow the slightly morbid tone of his voice drag the equally morbid words into my head. I didn’t want them to linger in my ears. Ville never usually mentioned the potential of dying young whenever he said grace.
He continued, “Please bless this breakfast—our most sacred meal—in the way that you have and will continue to bless our lives. Amen.”
“Amen.” The word floated around the room, four voices becoming one.
I dug into the standard breakfast theme of this house, which I’d missed many mornings, thanks to my messed-up sleeping pattern.
The tantalizing scent of biscuits and gravy hit my nose before a crumb set foot near my taste buds. Luckily, it had drowned out that of the bad meat.
I didn’t look at Woodrow or the bland mush he pushed around the bowl in front of him with a bent spoon.
“Don’t play with your food!” Wynter spoke with a full mouth, not the first time this week that she had forgotten her table manners. She had said the exact same thing each day for what was surely the past twenty days. “Anyone would swear you think I’m going to poison you.”
“I don’t,” Woodrow commented back, innocent eyes and a lowly smile directed to his mother.
“No. . . the poison is already in you boy. In your blood.” Ville laughed, before choking on a snort. His germs flew out of his mouth and landed on me. I lowered my arms beneath the tableto brush them off without causing offense.
Woodrow sat, positioned for their ridicule while I kept my eyes on my breakfast bowl, hoping and praying that none of Ville’s throat germs were swimming unseen amongst the lumps in my gravy.
“Right, honey?” Ville winked across the table, his throat finally clear.
Wynter didn’t object to her husband’s claim; she didn’t return any facial expression. She sat with an indifferent expression until she put a smile back on her face—a smile that faltered as soon as Woodrow opened his mouth. Something about him just rubbed her wrong. And the way she treated him grated on me, but I couldn’t comment.
I forced a forkful into my mouth, filling it and preventing myself from talking.
“I’m just checking for lumps,” were the words Woodrow worded back, still gliding the mush around the bowl.
“I can assure you there are no lumps. My cooking isn’t that bad.” She rolled her eyes, directing another forkful of her own food into her mouth. “Now, shut up and eat, and don’t forget—”
“I know,” he cut her off, knowing what she was about to demand. We all knew.Cover your throat.
I took in another mouthful, and the hate in my mouth—the words I held back—made the food taste ugly.
I swallowed, lumps of meat and lumps of unstirred flour, and I wondered how she even managed to make this meal without eliminating them.
I no longer felt hungry. I was now wondering, if it was, in fact, lumps of meat or Ville’s snot. Suddenly, my churning stomach felt nothing but sick.
Wynter’s eyes roamed the table, stopping on her husband, who hadn’t touched his meal.
“It looks dry, Wynter. I ain’t eating no dry food,” Ville spoke up, his eyes downcast to his plate. It was hard to tell whether she was his wife or slave, as he called her with the demand of more gravy, which was sitting in a boat within reaching distance of him.
Her fork was at her mouth, another heavy mouthful about to be eaten when she retracted and stood. Splashes of gravy splattered the tablecloth from her dish, her annoyance showing. But she remained silent as she traveled across the room.
She drowned his breakfast in the gravy, leaving barely any for herself, or me or Nessie should any of us want more.
“Bon appétit,” Wynter said, almost sounding French as she gestured to the food. But something in her stomach twisted. Maybe she had pain, maybe it was something else, but whatever it was, it was plastered on her face thicker than the heavy makeup she wore.
I layered another biscuit into my bowl, fresh and clean of germs. I kept my eyes low; I couldn’t risk Nessie—who sat opposite me, dribbling gravy—noticing the undisclosed agitation burning in my eyes.
