I looked up to see him give me a smarmy smile.
“We usually hold hands at our house when we pray.”
My mother exclaimed, “Yes, of course!” and quickly reached for my father’s hand.
I knew Papa was cringing inside as he took Mr. Roberts’ hand. He hated holding hands with a man, that’s why he always positioned himself between Mama and another female at church. It’s also why we didn’t hold hands when we prayed before eating—even though my brothers only came over anymore on holidays and special occasions. And they brought their wives.
I didn’t really hear Mr. Roberts’ prayer; I was too focused on trying to figure out what the heck was going on—why were my parents trying so hard? I got Mr. Roberts was an elder, but we’d had elders over before, and they’d never acted this way. When I heard everyone say, “Amen,” I chimed in with my own.
My mother turned to me and suggested, “Why don’t you serve, since you made it?”
Eyeing my mother warily, I stood and asked my father for his plate.
“You know what I like,” he said with a warm smile.
That’s it—I’m in theTwilight Zone.
I loaded his plate and handed it back to him, then asked for Mr. Roberts’.
“Chicken and dumplings?”
He nodded his head. “Yes, please.”
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Of course.”
“Green beans? Cole slaw?”
“Yes to it all. I can’t wait to try your cooking.”
Why?
Of course, I didn’t ask that. I just smiled like the good girl I was and handed him back his plate.
Mama handed me hers and said, “I’ll have everything, too. Just not as much.”
After serving everyone else, I finally was able to fix my own plate. I had a new-found respect for my mother. She used to serve all six of us before ever being able to eat herself. Although, I never understood why my father was so against just passing the dishes around the table and insisted on my mother serving us.
Or why my mother never argued.
Another thing I was going to do differently in my house.
“This is excellent, Jessica,” Mr. Roberts said with his mouth full of food.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I snuck a glance at Mama. My brothers used to get smacked upside the head for talking with their mouths full at the dinner table.
Mama seemed intent on studying the contents of her plate and refused to look up to meet my gaze.
Papa carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin, then said, “So, Kevin, did you catch the Braves game last night?”
Mr. Roberts shoveled more food in his mouth before replying, “I’m more of a White Sox fan, myself.”
The nearby Kannapolis Cannon Ballers were a farm team for the Chicago White Sox, so it wasn’t unusual for people around here to root for the White Sox.
At least Mr. Roberts didn’t say he was a Phillies fan. That might have gotten him thrown out without dessert. Papa was a die-hard Atlanta Braves man. So die-hard, my brothers’ names were Andruw, Dale, and Aaron, and our dogs have included Chipper, Maddux, Freddie, and Javi.
The sad irony was the only Bradbury child with any interest in baseball was me—the girl named after a minor biblical character.
