In Front of God and Everybody (9 page)

Everyone was seated at the supper table by the time I washed my hands and went into the dining room.

Isabel sat in a chair at one end of the table, her foot propped up in another chair nearby with every pillow and cushion in the house under it. Boy, I hoped her skinny, stinky foot wasn't on the pillow where I lay my own personal head.

Isabel's crutches leaned against the wall behind her. Ian sat on her right, and next to him sat Grandma and Mr. Rance. Daddy sat at the head of the table with Mama on his right. Myra Sue came next. Lucky for her, she got to sit on Isabel's left. She patted the empty chair between her and Mama.

“Here, sis,” she said happily.

“What's wrong with you?” I asked her as I sat down.

She smiled as if I'd given her a compliment; then she turned that dopey grin to Isabel, dazzling the woman with all her braces-covered teeth, including the lower ones.

“Time to give thanks,” Daddy said. “Mr. St. James, as our guest tonight, would you?”

Ian looked at him. “Would I what?”

“Ask the blessing?”

The man's eyes bugged, then settled back in his head.

“Oh, well, I—”

“We are
not
religious,” Isabel piped up in a tone of voice that said they weren't cannibals, either. Then she plucked up a fork and looked at it as if she'd never seen one before.

“Almighty God!” yelled Mr. Rance, and everyone but him jumped about three feet. Isabel's fork clattered to the table. I saw the old man had his eyes closed and realized he was hollering a prayer, not swearing. He thanked the Lord for everything from summer rain and good food to paved roads and high-steppin' horses. Then he asked for a blessing on the world, the United States, Texas, the “group gathered here today to eat of the bounty which looked fit,” and “Miz Grace, who is one of yer own dear angels, dear Lord.” I thought he was done, but he kept rambling, and I like to have passed out from starvation.

As Mr. Rance droned on, I breathed in the wonderful smell of Mama's crispy fried chicken. I opened my eyes while the old man prayed without ceasing and eyeballed the platter of corn on the cob in front of me. Butter dripped off every piece. I imagined biting into it, how it would taste all sweet and smooth and salty. Next to the roasting ears, a bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes sat like a snowy mountain, and there was thick, creamy gravy right next to it. There was big salad with everything taken from our garden that day and a bowl of seasoned, fresh green beans with pieces of bacon and onion. The fried okra came next, then a platter of red tomatoes, sliced thick and fresh, with long slabs of cucumbers and little green onions around them.

I heartily wished God would tell Mr. Rance, “Enough, already.”

I cut a glance from the food to see if anyone else were dying of hunger and over-blessedness, but they all had their eyes closed—except Isabel. She was staring at the fried chicken like she thought it might roost on her plate at any minute. Then her eyes darted nervously from the bowl of gravy to the fried okra to the heaping basket of Grandma's hot, homemade yeast rolls, for which she is famous.

I looked at Mr. Rance to see if he were about finished, and what do you think I saw? He was talking all that big prayer to God, but he was looking around the dining room to beat the band. He even picked up the serving fork next to the chicken, flipped it over and studied the writing on the back, all without taking a pause in all that thanksgiving. He never did see me looking at him 'cause I closed my eyes again before he had the chance.

When he finally yelled, “Amen!” there was silence. Nobody moved for a minute. I wanted to say something about the total inappropriateness of looking around during prayers, but I supposed I was a bit guilty myself. Anyway, I was too hungry to get sent from the table for speaking out of turn.

“Well, dig in, folks,” Daddy said. “If you don't see it on the table, just ask for it. Lily, my sweet, it all looks mighty fine, as usual.”

“Apple cobbler for dessert,” Mama told him. They gave each other that gooey look, which I dearly hoped didn't lead to a kiss. Mr. Rance might think kissing at the table was a habit in our house, and he might decide to lay one on Grandma again.

My daddy looked tired. He had rushed his chores when he could probably have taken his time. As you might know, summer is the busiest time of year for dairy farmers. But do you think the St. Jameses thought of that? In California, they probably never ate their supper until eight or nine.

Before anyone could pass him the fried chicken, Mr. Rance reached out and stuck his fork in the biggest piece. He commenced to whoop and holler about how good it looked. Pretty soon, the food made the rounds with folks serving themselves. Except for Isabel, who took nothing. Myra Sue held out the bowl of potatoes to her, and the woman curled back as if it was full of worms. Ian finally reached across the table, grabbed the bowl, and served himself a little.

I thought Isabel would scream when the gravy reached her. Ian took it from Myra Sue and dabbed a bit on his potatoes.

“Isabel,” Mama said, looking concerned, “you don't have a thing on your plate. Aren't you hungry? Are you feeling poorly?”

Isabel's long blade of a nose curled as her skinny lips puckered into a tiny, wrinkled circle. Boy, could she make herself any uglier?

“I
cannot
eat this,” she said.

All of us looked at the big bunch of food Mama had worked all afternoon to prepare.

“We eat very little fat,” Ian said.

“And everything here is swimming in grease,” added his lovely wife.

“Swimming in grease?” Mama repeated weakly.

“Butter, gravy, fried,” Isabel said. “In California, we don't eat any of it.”

Ian shook his head. “Never.”

I figured there were plenty of folks out there who ate fatty foods—they have McDonald's out there, don't they?—so I didn't believe them. Mama looked as if someone had slapped her. I glared at Isabel and wanted to hit her in the head with one of her crutches, then smack Ian with the other one. Not that I'm violent, but boy, oh boy. Being nice doesn't seem to work with some people.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Mama said. “I never even thought . . . I'm so used to my way of cooking . . .”

“Your way of cooking is the best in the whole world,” I declared. Daddy patted her hand. Grandma had pulled in the corners of her mouth, aiming a sour expression at some of our company.

“Well, I meant no offense,” Isabel sniffed. She blinked rapidly about twelve times. “I just don't want to develop that corn-fed look you country people have. I guess you can't help it, Lucy, if you always eat like this. I simply refuse to put on the extra pounds. Sorry.”

“I understand,” Mama said quietly. “Here's a nice salad.”

“Her name is Lily,” I told that nasty woman. But she acted like I wasn't at the table. She brightened as the salad reached her. I guess she'd rather look like a hollowed-out scarecrow than soft and pretty like Mama.

Mr. Rance had been wolfing down his supper like he was the only one in the room. He looked up and saw that everyone watched Isabel put salad on her plate.

“Try some of this here chicken,” he yelled, shoving it her direction. “It's larrupin'.”

Boy, do I hate that word. It sounds like a disease. Couldn't he just have said the chicken was tasty?

Ian pushed it back, and Mr. Rance shoved it toward them again.

“Feed that poor woman!” he hollered. “She looks half-starved.”

The platter tipped, and a great big chicken breast slid off to land smack-dab on top of Ian's wee blob of mashed potatoes and gravy.

Ian looked down at his plate and back up at Mr. Rance. “My wife does not eat fried foods,” he responded.

No way the deaf old man heard that, and his next words proved it.

“Give 'er some of this here chicken. You'd be surprised how much better she'll look with a little meat on 'er bones.”

After the chicken fell onto his plate, I reckon Ian must have given in to temptation because he scooped out a big serving of potatoes, asked for the gravy, then got a couple of roasting ears, some beans, and a hot roll. Before you had time to turn around twice, his plate was as full as Daddy's. Isabel looked like she was gonna divorce him. She grabbed his arm with her bony white fingers.

“What do you think you're doing?” she asked.

“Eating,” Ian said. “This food is great.”

Isabel squawked like an old laying hen. “Do you have to talk with food in your mouth?” She pinched her lips together and turned back to her salad. She ate it one tiny bit at a time and kept blinking as if someone threw sand in her eyes every few seconds.

I cut a sideways glance at Myra Sue to see if she watched this nonsense, and what do you suppose I saw? That girl had pushed aside all the good stuff and was nibbling on her salad, one small piece at a time. And blinking her eyes.

“Ian, are you going to renovate the old house, or are you going to build a new one?” Daddy asked.

Isabel sat up straight. She leaned in, and you could practically see her ears grow as she listened to Ian's answer.

“Well, I'm not sure that old house can be saved—” Ian began.

“At last you see reason!” Isabel announced, curling her lips in what I figured was her version of a smile. It looked to me more like she smelled something foul, but what do I know?

“Termites may have done a lot of damage,” Ian continued, as if she weren't there. “And the roof has a lot of leaks. The decking is probably completely ruined. We'd be better off not moving into the house just yet.”

“So you're going to build?” Daddy asked.

“Not exactly. We can't—”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” Isabel interrupted— quite rudely, I might add. “We will
not
live in that hideous old shack, and the housing we saw in that pathetic little town is absolutely out of the question. There are no decent hotels. We will have to go elsewhere, and that's that.”

Isabel sat back as if she'd just recited the entire Declaration of Independence and half the Constitution.

Ian acted like he was deaf. “We'll have to make do for a while, so I went into town this morning to look at used mobile homes—”

“What?!
” Isabel screamed and stood up, sore foot and all. “What? What?”

When I pictured that prissy, stuck-up woman living in a trailer house when she so obviously believes she belongs in a gold-encrusted mansion, I like to have exploded my face and lungs trying not to laugh right out loud.

“You and your roots might be trailer trash, Ian St. James, but I am not! My father was a California state senator!”

Ian finally turned and looked at his little woman.

“I am talking.” He bit the head off of every word.

“I don't care.” She bit right back.

“Mobile home living isn't so bad, Isabel,” Mama said. “There actually are some very nice ones.”

Isabel gave her a look that would make a blackjack tree drop its thorns. Mama just smiled at her, but I could see the smile no longer reached her eyes. In fact, it hadn't reached her eyes all evening.

“You might want to live in one, Lucy, but I refuse!” said Isabel.

“We have to live somewhere, Isabel,” Ian said.

She leaned forward and hissed like a snake. “If you hadn't lost all our money in Las Vegas—”

“We will not talk about that in front of these people.” Ian said this through clenched teeth.

Boy, oh boy, the St. Jameses were itching for a fight, and I wasn't sure I wanted to see it. On the other hand, I wasn't sure I'd want to miss it, especially if it was going to lead to throwing punches. But after they glared at each other for about ten seconds, Ian turned from his little woman and ate a big forkful of fried okra. Isabel blinked a bunch of times in that way she had, then picked up her glass of ice water and sipped.

Don't misunderstand and think Isabel blinked to hold back tears. No sirree, not for a minute. I'm pretty sure she was trying to keep her eyeballs from bursting into flames like those pictures you see of Satan.

Here's the thing: If she didn't want to live here, why didn't she just go back to where she came from? Or failing that, somewhere else? It was plain as day she and the mister had problems. And it wasn't like she couldn't get a job. I figured she could get work real easy as one of the “before” models in the before-and-after ads you see in those dumb tabloid newspapers at the supermarket. She could even pose for the alien photos they sometimes print on the cover.

They must have had a good reason to leave California and never return, because ole Isabel was homesick, good and proper. I was itching to ask why they left and why they stayed, but the atmosphere at the table rendered me wordless. Now, that's saying something.