A Place at the Table (6 page)

“Wild strawberries?” Meemaw takes the satchel, opens it, and frowns. “These don’t look like no wild strawberries to me. You took them out of someone’s garden, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, before Keisha can make up another lie.
“But it was a really big garden. They won’t even know these are missing.”

“Lord have mercy, Bobby, you just cain’t do that! You hear me? Whoever grew those berries could have come running after you with a gun! People are protective of their crops, specially something hard to grow as a strawberry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I had started to feel bad about taking the berries during our ride home. Now I feel awful. I wonder if God will punish me for stealing.

“And you too, young lady,” says Meemaw.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Keisha, though she does not sound sorry.

“All-right then. Why don’t y’all go inside, wash up, and let me fix you some breakfast. These strawberries would taste right perfect on a slice of pound cake, but I think that might be sending you two rascals the wrong message, so how about scrambled eggs and bacon instead?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“Miss Keisha, you want to run tell your aunt that you are over here?”

“Aw, she won’t mind.”

“Well, why don’t I just phone over there and make sure. You know your number?”

Keisha nods.

“And no more sneaking off, you hear? You and Bobby can play together all you want; you just make sure a grown-up knows. And Bobby, you go put on a shirt. Your daddy is coming to pick you up at nine. I don’t want him to think I’m turning you into a wild Indian.”

Meemaw follows us inside. I go to my bedroom to get a clean shirt. I can hear Meemaw speaking in gentle tones on the phone. She keeps saying, “No bother, no bother at all. Those two are getting on like gangbusters. Oh no, don’t you worry.”

After Meemaw hangs up she fixes us our breakfast, then goes back outside to keep gardening, saying she already had a bowl of oatmeal. While we eat, Keisha and I play a game where we pretend that each sip we take of orange juice gives us the power to transform into anyone—or anything—we like. Keisha pretends she is a banana split from Dairy Queen, because that way she will always have its taste on her tongue because her tongue is part of the split. I pretend I am a bullhorn so everyone will listen to what I have to say.

“You just need to speak up, smart boy,” says Keisha. “You kind of sort of whisper your words. Who gonna listen if you do that?”

I shrug, then bend over and lick her arm. “Yum,” I say. “I got the part with strawberry syrup.”

“You crazy,” she says, but she is smiling.

There is a loud knocking on the door. Keisha’s auntie, probably. I hear Meemaw answering it. “Well, hey there, sweetheart! Didn’t expect to see you this morning, but I’m sure glad I get to! Where’s your daddy?”

“In the car. Listening to the Braves game. Is Bobby ready?”

It’s Hunter.

“Should be. I’ve got a pound cake for y’all. Come on in the kitchen and I’ll get it for you. Bobby’s in there.”

Hunter and Meemaw walk into the kitchen, where I stand by the sink, rinsing off my dish. Keisha is still at the table, finishing her juice.

“Keisha, this is Bobby’s brother Hunter. Hunter, this is my neighbor and Bobby’s friend, Keisha.”

“Hi,” Hunter mutters.

“Hey,” she says.

If Hunter weren’t standing there I would remind her that “hay is for horses.”

“Our church is having a picnic next week if you wanna come.”

“Where do y’all go to church, sugar?” asks Meemaw.

“Zion Baptist.”

“That’s a nice place. Nearby, too. I’m sure Bobby would love to go with you, wouldn’t you, son?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is it a potluck? Should I get my mama to fix something?”

“We’re bringing soda. You don’t have to bring nothing.”

“Daddy said to hurry,” says Hunter.

I glare at him but follow his order, going to the bedroom to get my bag. Keisha, Hunter, and me all walk out the door together. Meemaw’s phone rings just as we are leaving, so she waves good-bye instead of hugging and kissing me and watching me walk to the car like she usually does. Outside the house I wave bye to Keisha and tell her I’ll see her next week for the picnic. She tells me not to go strawberry picking without her, and then she picks up her bike from the front lawn, straddles it, and starts riding home.

She isn’t ten feet away when Hunter asks, real loud, “Why are you playing with that nigger girl?”

I know Keisha heard because I see her back jerk as she pedals toward her house, but she doesn’t stop or turn around or anything. I want to say something. To stand up for her. To tell Hunter he is a bully and a jerk. To tell Hunter no one likes him anyway. And I try. But I can’t make the words come out. And now she is farther down the street and I know that if I want her to hear me I’ll have to yell, and what if she didn’t actually hear Hunter? What if what I thought was her back jerking at his bad word was actually just her sneezing or something?

Daddy has popped open the trunk of the wagon so I can shove my bike in there. By the time I get it situated Hunter has already taken the front seat. I get into the back and, without meaning to, start crying, crying like the time I got separated from Mama at Davison’s Department Store downtown.

“What in the world is the matter?” Daddy asks, switching off the game and turning to look at me.

“He called my new friend a nigger,” I say, pointing at Hunter.

First time in my life I have ever tattled on my brother.

“You mean that little colored girl y’all came out with?” Daddy asks.

I nod.

“Is that true, son?” asks Daddy, turning his attention to Hunter.

Hunter just looks down at his lap, not saying anything.

“Tell me the truth, son. Did you call her that name?”

“Yes, sir, but she didn’t hear me. I said it soft, and she was already walking away.”

“Doesn’t matter if you whispered or shouted it, it’s unacceptable language and I will not have it. When we get home you and I are going to discuss this further in private, you hear?”

Oh boy. Hunter is getting the belt. Daddy doesn’t spank all that often, but when he does, he makes sure you remember it.

Hunter mumbles, “Yes, sir.” And then he shoots a backward glance at me that is so full of evil the hairs on my arms pop up, as if they are soldiers standing at attention.

(Decatur, Georgia, 1975)

H
ow, Mama asks, could she say no when Mrs. Lacy Lovehart herself asked Mama to host a luncheon for The SERVERS (
S
weet
E
arnest
R
everent
V
essels
E
njoy
R
espect and
S
alvation)? This is
Lacy Lovehart
, for goodness’ sakes: confirmed Christian, former Miss America, and current spokeswoman for the Central Georgia Peach Growers Association. Still, the upcoming event has Mama nervous as a cat in a carrying case. Sure, Mama says, she herself did publish
Gracious Servings
, a book on Joyful Christian Entertaining, and sure, she has both hosted a thousand luncheons and instructed other women on how to do so, but still. Mrs. Lovehart is famous and a legendary beauty, and there’s going to be a photographer from the
Atlanta Journal
covering the event, which means Mama’s homemaking skills will be on display for
everyone who gets the paper.

But Mama knows how to cope. “The best way out is through,” she says at breakfast, the top of her hair covered in a blue and white
bandana. Hunter, Daddy, and I all know what this means—Troy would know, too, but he’s gone, a sophomore at Duke.

Cleaning Lady has arrived.

“Cleaning Lady” is an official term that Daddy came up with, way back during the early years of his and Mama’s marriage, before any of us were born. Daddy loves to tell the story of first “meeting” Cleaning Lady, after six months of wedded bliss. Usually, he says, Edie was sweet and fun, easy to be around, albeit mighty energetic. But when Mama’s parents called from LaGrange to say they were coming to stay in Mama and Daddy’s new house in Decatur for a week, boy howdy did Cleaning Lady arrive. Daddy said Cleaning Lady was
beyond
energetic, manic even, pulling everything out of every closet, every cabinet, every drawer: cleaning, sorting, and rearranging. And Cleaning Lady did
not
dress to impress. Usually Mama changed her blouse and applied fresh lipstick each night before Daddy came home, but Cleaning Lady met Daddy at the door with a bandana still tied around her head. She did not even stop her cleaning to eat dinner with Daddy but instead fixed him a peanut butter sandwich—not even taking the time to spread on jelly!—and a glass of milk.

Daddy says that after each of Cleaning Lady’s first few appearances he and Mama would argue and be cross with each other. But, Daddy later realized, Cleaning Lady was a part of Mama, and when he married Edie he agreed to love her, warts and all. Cleaning Lady even became a topic in the seminar he hosts each year for married couples, called Keeping the Spark Alive!

Hunter
hates
Cleaning Lady. Maybe I should, too. And I do hate how snappy and irritable she makes Mama. But I love how the house sparkles after a good deep clean, and I don’t mind helping out. After breakfast I ask if Mama needs help scrubbing the kitchen. Mama chews on her lip for a minute but then quickly takes me up on the offer, as if it might go away if she doesn’t say yes real fast.

•  •  •

“Have you decided on what you’re wearing?” I ask, spraying Fantastik on an emptied shelf of the refrigerator.

“I’m half-tempted to wear that Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress I got on sale at Davison’s,” she says, dumping a Tupperware container of old tuna noodle casserole into the garbage disposal. “Though I have a feeling Lacy Lovehart might disapprove. Not of the dress so much, but the message behind it.”

“That a woman can easily slip out of it?” I ask.

Mama laughs but then cuts a suspicious look at me. “How you come up with these things. . . .”

“Wear your St. John suit,” I say.

Daddy gave her that suit for Christmas, and it is her pride and joy.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” Mama asks.

“Too much of everything is exactly enough,” I say, stealing a line I heard on a soap opera.

Mama lets out a little laugh. “Yes, but the St. John is so severe. Lacy Lovehart always looks so sunny and colorful when she’s photographed.”

“Well, sure. She’s trying to look like a peach.”

Mama laughs again and I feel myself inflate with the air she releases.

“Should I toss these hotdogs, or are they still good?” I hold up a leaky plastic package with two remaining Oscar Mayer wieners in it.

Hunter walks in from the living room, where he was watching
Hollywood Squares.
“I’ll take em,” he says.

“No, sir, you will not,” says Mama. “I’m using them for pork and beans tonight.”

Hunter grunts, then disappears into the walk-in pantry. “Did someone eat all the potato chips?” he calls.

I ignore him and keep talking to Mama. “What about that pink suit you bought at Mark Shale? With the little linen jacket with the bone buttons?”

“Potato chips?” yells Hunter.

“Excuse me?” says Mama, though she heard him perfectly.

“Please, Mama, where are the potato chips?”

“They’re in the bread box!” she calls. “And put them back when you’re finished. I don’t want them going stale.”

I hear thrashing around in the pantry, and then Hunter comes out, holding a bright yellow bag of Lay’s in one hand, stuffing them into his mouth with the other. Mama glances at him and frowns.

“I’ll tell you what the problem with that suit is: If I get hot and want to take off the jacket, the little silk blouse that goes with it is practically see-through. It absolutely requires a camisole.”

“So wear a camisole,” I say.

Hunter squints his eyes. “What’s a camisole?” he asks, pronouncing it “cam-saw.”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” answers Mama.

She turns her attention back to me. “I can certainly do that. The problem is, I don’t have an undergarment that works well beneath it, and I absolutely cannot host Lacy Lovehart . . .” She pauses, then whispers,
“While not wearing a brassiere.”

“Wear the Mark Shale suit. And the camisole. And go buy a bra that works. Is it that the cups are too big?”

Hunter makes a noise of disgust and stomps out of the room.

Mama reaches out, rests her hand gently on my cheek. “Darling, how do you know about such things?”

Because I love looking at the pictures in your
Vogue
magazines, Mama. Because I notice anytime a woman’s slip shows. Because I know pink is a good color on you while yellow makes you look sickly. Because I’m me, Mama, and I’ve always been this way.

I smile, shrug my shoulders. “I dunno,” I say.

•  •  •

For parties, Mama always has everything ready in advance. “Ladies,” she warns in
Gracious Servings,
“when it comes to entertaining, take a lesson from the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared.”

The day of the Lacy Lovehart luncheon, Mama is nothing if not prepared. The crab dip, which will be served hot with Club Crackers, waits in the refrigerator, a sheet of plastic wrap adhered to the dip itself, so it won’t dry out. The toast cups—buttered pieces of crustless white bread, baked in muffin tins so they hold the shape—are stored in a large Ziploc bag. The chicken salad—all white meat, with fresh tarragon and peeled white grapes—is piled high into a pretty yellow bowl in the refrigerator, the sides wiped down so no signs of mixing remained. The Jell-O salad with bing cherries and pecans quivers in its mold. The crudités are cut and chilling in cold water to keep them crisp; the curry dipping sauce is mixed. And dessert, a fluffy, frozen, lemon thing made with Cool Whip and condensed milk, waits in the freezer atop its graham cracker crust.

I am in the living room watching
The Price Is Right
when I hear a loud gasp coming from Mama’s bedroom. And then she appears before me, her natural prettiness exaggerated with extra blush and mascara, her hair stiff with Aqua Net, her panty hose and one-inch white pumps visible beneath her terry-cloth housecoat that zips up the front.