hands,” said the Basset Hound.
He linked his pinky with hers, and braced himself for a long, heartfelt, melodramatic thanks to the Lord.
Bonnie said, “Good bread, good meat, good Lord, let’s eat.”
Belly picked up his fork. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“And there’s one more thing,” she said, pressing on Belly’s forearm to lower his fork, “before we eat. I’d like to read a
poem in honor of Stevie Ray’s confirmation.”
“Read it Sunday,” Belly said, shoveling a lump of mashed potatoes in his mouth. They erased four years of instant potato spuds
from his culinary memory.
“I won’t be here.”
“No?” he smiled. “Aw, that’s too bad.”
“Lay off, Belly,” said Nora.
“Lay off, Grampa,” echoed Jimi.
“You lay off, little man,” he raised a pretend fist to Jimi, his tough little grandson. He could sort of see why Nora might
prefer him to Stevie Ray’s soft and willowy way.
Bonnie recited a poem, from memory, something about butterflies and caterpillars and suffocating cocoons.
“Thank you, Bonnie,” said Nora.
“I didn’t get one word of it. Not one word.”
“I did,” said Stevie Ray.
“Great, you like poetry now? Now you’re definitely going to be a homo.”
“Belly,” warned Nora. “Enough.”
“No, really, explain it to me.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Grampa,” said Jimi.
“It’s about how hard it is to grow up,” Stevie Ray explained. “How hard it is to turn into a butterfly.”
“Very good,” said Bonnie.
“Well, why not just say it then? Why not just say it like that?”
“She did. It said it just like that.” Stevie Ray took a bite of beef stew. “You have to listen.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Jimi again. He put a dollop of mashed potatoes on the baby’s tray.
“This is delicious,” said Bonnie. “Thank you so much for cooking, Nora.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Belly didn’t say anything, just took tiny forkfuls of food and chewed quietly.
“Where’s Eliza?” he asked finally. “I thought this was a family dinner.”
“Aunt Eliza don’t eat cows,” said Jimi.
“Doesn’t,” said Nora.
Belly took a bite of beef and said, “Children, thank your mother.”
“We don’t have to,” Jimi said. “It’s her job.”
“You going to take that?” asked Belly.
“What?” said Nora. “He’s right.”
“It’s not your job. You don’t have to feed them. You could put out a slice of pimento loaf and let them fight for it if you
wanted to.”
This was a game they played in prison. Someone would smuggle a treat from the kitchen, an extra slice of ham, a brownie, or,
in the best of times, a ripe tomato. During recreation they’d put it in the center of a group of men, reverse dodgeball, and
see who could get to it first.
He thought of telling them—engaging them in a prison yard game with his lemon meringue pie—but then he realized not one of
them, not a single member of his immediate family had asked him what he had endured those forty-six months. Maybe they didn’t
want to know. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they were embarrassed to have a felon for a father.
“She gets paid to raise us,” said Stevie Ray.
“What do you mean?”
Nora served herself seconds. “I get an allowance, from Phil. Because I don’t work. Because I can’t work. He wanted to have
a big family, so that’s how it is. I get paid to raise the children.”
He looked at Bonnie. “Aren’t you going to say something? Aren’t you one of those feminists or something?”
“It’s great,” she said. “It’s brilliant. All mothers should get paid to raise their children. It’s a job like any other.”
Nora raised her fork and said, “Cheers.”
“I never got paid to raise my children,” Belly said. “I paid for them myself, every cent I made.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. We all had jobs.” Nora swallowed hard. “Eliza and Ann put themselves
He linked his pinky with hers, and braced himself for a long, heartfelt, melodramatic thanks to the Lord.
Bonnie said, “Good bread, good meat, good Lord, let’s eat.”
Belly picked up his fork. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“And there’s one more thing,” she said, pressing on Belly’s forearm to lower his fork, “before we eat. I’d like to read a
poem in honor of Stevie Ray’s confirmation.”
“Read it Sunday,” Belly said, shoveling a lump of mashed potatoes in his mouth. They erased four years of instant potato spuds
from his culinary memory.
“I won’t be here.”
“No?” he smiled. “Aw, that’s too bad.”
“Lay off, Belly,” said Nora.
“Lay off, Grampa,” echoed Jimi.
“You lay off, little man,” he raised a pretend fist to Jimi, his tough little grandson. He could sort of see why Nora might
prefer him to Stevie Ray’s soft and willowy way.
Bonnie recited a poem, from memory, something about butterflies and caterpillars and suffocating cocoons.
“Thank you, Bonnie,” said Nora.
“I didn’t get one word of it. Not one word.”
“I did,” said Stevie Ray.
“Great, you like poetry now? Now you’re definitely going to be a homo.”
“Belly,” warned Nora. “Enough.”
“No, really, explain it to me.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Grampa,” said Jimi.
“It’s about how hard it is to grow up,” Stevie Ray explained. “How hard it is to turn into a butterfly.”
“Very good,” said Bonnie.
“Well, why not just say it then? Why not just say it like that?”
“She did. It said it just like that.” Stevie Ray took a bite of beef stew. “You have to listen.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Jimi again. He put a dollop of mashed potatoes on the baby’s tray.
“This is delicious,” said Bonnie. “Thank you so much for cooking, Nora.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Belly didn’t say anything, just took tiny forkfuls of food and chewed quietly.
“Where’s Eliza?” he asked finally. “I thought this was a family dinner.”
“Aunt Eliza don’t eat cows,” said Jimi.
“Doesn’t,” said Nora.
Belly took a bite of beef and said, “Children, thank your mother.”
“We don’t have to,” Jimi said. “It’s her job.”
“You going to take that?” asked Belly.
“What?” said Nora. “He’s right.”
“It’s not your job. You don’t have to feed them. You could put out a slice of pimento loaf and let them fight for it if you
wanted to.”
This was a game they played in prison. Someone would smuggle a treat from the kitchen, an extra slice of ham, a brownie, or,
in the best of times, a ripe tomato. During recreation they’d put it in the center of a group of men, reverse dodgeball, and
see who could get to it first.
He thought of telling them—engaging them in a prison yard game with his lemon meringue pie—but then he realized not one of
them, not a single member of his immediate family had asked him what he had endured those forty-six months. Maybe they didn’t
want to know. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they were embarrassed to have a felon for a father.
“She gets paid to raise us,” said Stevie Ray.
“What do you mean?”
Nora served herself seconds. “I get an allowance, from Phil. Because I don’t work. Because I can’t work. He wanted to have
a big family, so that’s how it is. I get paid to raise the children.”
He looked at Bonnie. “Aren’t you going to say something? Aren’t you one of those feminists or something?”
“It’s great,” she said. “It’s brilliant. All mothers should get paid to raise their children. It’s a job like any other.”
Nora raised her fork and said, “Cheers.”
“I never got paid to raise my children,” Belly said. “I paid for them myself, every cent I made.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. We all had jobs.” Nora swallowed hard. “Eliza and Ann put themselves
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