Bernese wasn’t looking, she set the fork back down, centering it carefully on her folded paper napkin.
Bernese said, “Well, if you’re going, you might as well take Ona a message. Tell her she better get those other two dogs put down. They’re a menace.” She stared down into the dishwater, implacable, running the sponge around and around the half-cup’s edge. “If Ona won’t do it, I’ll get Isaac to get me a court order, and Thig can. And if Isaac and Thig can’t get it done, I will shoot those dogs myself. Fisher, are you eating?”
“My dinner is sad,” said Fisher, and Bernese wheeled around on her.
“Eat it,” she yelled. “You have to eat this list of food exactly for the book to work.”
Fisher looked mutinous. Her hands stayed in her lap.
“Pick. Up. Your. Fork,” said Bernese.
Fisher shoved her hands under her thighs and slumped. “It’s too sad for eating.”
Bernese came roaring down the length of the kitchen looking murderous. I hurried around and got in between them, leaning over the table by Fisher. “It’s not sad,” I said to Fisher. I picked up the cantaloupe and turned it over so its points curved upward in a cheerful arch. “It’s happy. See?”
Fisher stared down at the plate for another moment. “Okay,”
she said. She picked up her fork and dutifully stabbed some beans.
I turned around to Bernese, who was standing behind me, blowing like a bull. “Are you all right?” I said to her. Bernese had a temper, but I’d never seen her loose it upon Fisher so quickly.
“You riled me,” she said.
I held up my hands. “I’m sorry I brought it up. We can talk about Ona later. I need to get on to see Mama now.”
Bernese moved her tongue around inside her mouth, shifting her jaw as if sucking on something nasty. “All right then.” She went deliberately back to her dishes.
I kissed the top of Fisher’s head. “See you tomorrow.” She kept her head lowered, mechanically forking up food. “I’ll let myself out, Bernese.”
I was almost into the hall when Bernese added in an oddly formal tone, “Thank you for coming.”
I paused, surprised, and said, “You don’t have to thank me.
She’s my mother.”
Bernese said, “It’s hard to know how seriously you take your family these days. Technically, a husband is family, and look what you’re doing to yours.”
Hot blood rushed to heat my face, and I found myself clutching my purse, with the nails of my other hand digging hard into my palm. But Fisher was between us, sitting with her head bent earnestly over her supper, and there was nothing I could say.
CHAPTER 7
ISTOPPED AT the nurses’ station to find out Mama and Genny’s room number. They were up on the second floor. As I came out of the elevator, I could hear Genny’s piping voice coming down the hall. She was yammering in spurts, and as I got closer to her room, I heard a calm male voice speaking soothingly in the pauses. I followed the sound to room 214. The door was open, so I went in without knocking.
Mama was tucked into the bed by the window. She was still sound asleep. The curtains between the beds were open. Genny was in the closer bed, her shoulder and neck swathed in bandages. She had the blanket pulled over her legs. Her mouth looked tiny and puckered in her round face, and it took me a moment to realize this was probably the first time in years I had seen her without a cheerful slash of pink lipstick. Her long white hair was down, thick and still streaked liberally with black.
Henry Crabtree was sitting in a visitor’s chair, pulled up close beside her bed. As I came in, Genny saw me over his shoulder, and her eyes lit up as she squawked, “Oh, Nonny, you came!”
Henry stood immediately and turned toward me, smiling. He was built low, close to the bone, and his unbandaged forearm, corded with muscle and prominent dark veins, looked incongruous emerging from the rolled cuff of his shirt as he held one hand out to me.
I took
Bernese said, “Well, if you’re going, you might as well take Ona a message. Tell her she better get those other two dogs put down. They’re a menace.” She stared down into the dishwater, implacable, running the sponge around and around the half-cup’s edge. “If Ona won’t do it, I’ll get Isaac to get me a court order, and Thig can. And if Isaac and Thig can’t get it done, I will shoot those dogs myself. Fisher, are you eating?”
“My dinner is sad,” said Fisher, and Bernese wheeled around on her.
“Eat it,” she yelled. “You have to eat this list of food exactly for the book to work.”
Fisher looked mutinous. Her hands stayed in her lap.
“Pick. Up. Your. Fork,” said Bernese.
Fisher shoved her hands under her thighs and slumped. “It’s too sad for eating.”
Bernese came roaring down the length of the kitchen looking murderous. I hurried around and got in between them, leaning over the table by Fisher. “It’s not sad,” I said to Fisher. I picked up the cantaloupe and turned it over so its points curved upward in a cheerful arch. “It’s happy. See?”
Fisher stared down at the plate for another moment. “Okay,”
she said. She picked up her fork and dutifully stabbed some beans.
I turned around to Bernese, who was standing behind me, blowing like a bull. “Are you all right?” I said to her. Bernese had a temper, but I’d never seen her loose it upon Fisher so quickly.
“You riled me,” she said.
I held up my hands. “I’m sorry I brought it up. We can talk about Ona later. I need to get on to see Mama now.”
Bernese moved her tongue around inside her mouth, shifting her jaw as if sucking on something nasty. “All right then.” She went deliberately back to her dishes.
I kissed the top of Fisher’s head. “See you tomorrow.” She kept her head lowered, mechanically forking up food. “I’ll let myself out, Bernese.”
I was almost into the hall when Bernese added in an oddly formal tone, “Thank you for coming.”
I paused, surprised, and said, “You don’t have to thank me.
She’s my mother.”
Bernese said, “It’s hard to know how seriously you take your family these days. Technically, a husband is family, and look what you’re doing to yours.”
Hot blood rushed to heat my face, and I found myself clutching my purse, with the nails of my other hand digging hard into my palm. But Fisher was between us, sitting with her head bent earnestly over her supper, and there was nothing I could say.
CHAPTER 7
ISTOPPED AT the nurses’ station to find out Mama and Genny’s room number. They were up on the second floor. As I came out of the elevator, I could hear Genny’s piping voice coming down the hall. She was yammering in spurts, and as I got closer to her room, I heard a calm male voice speaking soothingly in the pauses. I followed the sound to room 214. The door was open, so I went in without knocking.
Mama was tucked into the bed by the window. She was still sound asleep. The curtains between the beds were open. Genny was in the closer bed, her shoulder and neck swathed in bandages. She had the blanket pulled over her legs. Her mouth looked tiny and puckered in her round face, and it took me a moment to realize this was probably the first time in years I had seen her without a cheerful slash of pink lipstick. Her long white hair was down, thick and still streaked liberally with black.
Henry Crabtree was sitting in a visitor’s chair, pulled up close beside her bed. As I came in, Genny saw me over his shoulder, and her eyes lit up as she squawked, “Oh, Nonny, you came!”
Henry stood immediately and turned toward me, smiling. He was built low, close to the bone, and his unbandaged forearm, corded with muscle and prominent dark veins, looked incongruous emerging from the rolled cuff of his shirt as he held one hand out to me.
I took
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