rest. She’s already gone to bed. That poor
woman has just about grieved herself to death…” He catches what he has just
said, but we both know it’s too late to take it back. Instead, we ignore it.
I quickly
change the subject. “Wow. Wonder when my parents did all this?” I ask as I
motion around the renovated kitchen.
“Your dad
kept himself quite busy since he retired earlier this year.”
“Retired?
My dad? Are you sure?” I can’t fathom him ever doing that willingly. I rub my
temples in the hopes of making all of this clearer, but it’s not working.
“Yes. He
announced at the Christmas Party that it was time to spend more time with his
lovely bride.” Mr. Chester moves a little closer and says quietly, “Between you
and me, your dad was waiting for you to decide to come home so he could hand it
over to you. He wanted you to sow your oats and didn’t want to rush you, so he
temporarily handed things over to John Paul.”
Well , that explains why he is at the funeral home .
Jean had managed to worry him slap to death in only six short months. I push my
own guilt from Mr. Chester’s words down as far as I can. I’m at a loss as to
why Dad ever thought I would come back home to run his businesses. Nothing
against the restaurant and market, but no .
I don’t
want to hear any more, so I set out to look for my brother. I find him at the
door, practically shoving people out.
“Thank you
for all of your help, condolences, and food.” John Paul repeats this repeatedly
as he shows people to the door. I realize it is now after ten, and I still have
not eaten by the time he has closed the door for good for the night. He senses
this, or is hungry himself, because he guides me back to the kitchen. “Let’s
eat.”
I set my
sights on the bounty of food that practically covers every surface of the
kitchen. This is a southern tradition, unlike what I have encountered up north
at wakes, which resemble more of a somber cocktail party. Here in the South,
it’s like a family reunion with endless supplies of food that is always more
than can be consumed. Southern folks love to love on you with food. Feeding you
gives them a purpose in these sad situations. Right now, I’m super glad of this
because I’m starving. I scan the counters and spot more mac and cheese
casseroles than needed, several pots of chicken bog, a spiral-cut glazed ham,
potato salad, butter beans, fried squash, fried chicken, fried shrimp, homemade
biscuits, and any type of dessert you could imagine. It looks like a bakery
shop has been unloaded in here.
I pop a
deviled egg in my mouth before grabbing a paper plate. I dig a fried chicken
leg out of an aluminum pan and set my sights on the desserts. I find my
favorite right away and cut a considerable chunk off. It’s an old-fashioned
chocolate cake made of twenty thin layers, and the smell of the fudgy icing
sets my mouth to watering. I’m unable to resist, so I run my finger along the
edge of the cake plate and scoop a large glob of gooey goodness into my mouth.
Oh boy, this stuff is so good. So good, in fact I cannot resist another glob.
As I suck the stickiness off my finger, I catch John Paul staring at me with a
smirk on his face.
“What?” I
ask around a mouthful of fudgy icing.
He shakes
his head. “Wish I had my camera. You’ve smeared that crap all over your chin.
Looks like you been eating sh—.”
I playfully
pop him in his mouth with my sticky hand before he can spit the rest of the
ugly word out. I’ve never been a fan of that kind of language, and he knows it.
He jumps
away from me, laughing. “Gross, Savannah. Don’t put that nasty hand on me.” He
bats my hand away.
After
grabbing a glass of sweet tea, I leave him in the kitchen and head to the porch
swing. I glide slowly in the night’s soothing silence as I enjoy my greasy
chicken leg and scrumptious cake. John Paul joins me by the time I’ve made a
substantial dent in my chunk of cake.
“Here,”
woman has just about grieved herself to death…” He catches what he has just
said, but we both know it’s too late to take it back. Instead, we ignore it.
I quickly
change the subject. “Wow. Wonder when my parents did all this?” I ask as I
motion around the renovated kitchen.
“Your dad
kept himself quite busy since he retired earlier this year.”
“Retired?
My dad? Are you sure?” I can’t fathom him ever doing that willingly. I rub my
temples in the hopes of making all of this clearer, but it’s not working.
“Yes. He
announced at the Christmas Party that it was time to spend more time with his
lovely bride.” Mr. Chester moves a little closer and says quietly, “Between you
and me, your dad was waiting for you to decide to come home so he could hand it
over to you. He wanted you to sow your oats and didn’t want to rush you, so he
temporarily handed things over to John Paul.”
Well , that explains why he is at the funeral home .
Jean had managed to worry him slap to death in only six short months. I push my
own guilt from Mr. Chester’s words down as far as I can. I’m at a loss as to
why Dad ever thought I would come back home to run his businesses. Nothing
against the restaurant and market, but no .
I don’t
want to hear any more, so I set out to look for my brother. I find him at the
door, practically shoving people out.
“Thank you
for all of your help, condolences, and food.” John Paul repeats this repeatedly
as he shows people to the door. I realize it is now after ten, and I still have
not eaten by the time he has closed the door for good for the night. He senses
this, or is hungry himself, because he guides me back to the kitchen. “Let’s
eat.”
I set my
sights on the bounty of food that practically covers every surface of the
kitchen. This is a southern tradition, unlike what I have encountered up north
at wakes, which resemble more of a somber cocktail party. Here in the South,
it’s like a family reunion with endless supplies of food that is always more
than can be consumed. Southern folks love to love on you with food. Feeding you
gives them a purpose in these sad situations. Right now, I’m super glad of this
because I’m starving. I scan the counters and spot more mac and cheese
casseroles than needed, several pots of chicken bog, a spiral-cut glazed ham,
potato salad, butter beans, fried squash, fried chicken, fried shrimp, homemade
biscuits, and any type of dessert you could imagine. It looks like a bakery
shop has been unloaded in here.
I pop a
deviled egg in my mouth before grabbing a paper plate. I dig a fried chicken
leg out of an aluminum pan and set my sights on the desserts. I find my
favorite right away and cut a considerable chunk off. It’s an old-fashioned
chocolate cake made of twenty thin layers, and the smell of the fudgy icing
sets my mouth to watering. I’m unable to resist, so I run my finger along the
edge of the cake plate and scoop a large glob of gooey goodness into my mouth.
Oh boy, this stuff is so good. So good, in fact I cannot resist another glob.
As I suck the stickiness off my finger, I catch John Paul staring at me with a
smirk on his face.
“What?” I
ask around a mouthful of fudgy icing.
He shakes
his head. “Wish I had my camera. You’ve smeared that crap all over your chin.
Looks like you been eating sh—.”
I playfully
pop him in his mouth with my sticky hand before he can spit the rest of the
ugly word out. I’ve never been a fan of that kind of language, and he knows it.
He jumps
away from me, laughing. “Gross, Savannah. Don’t put that nasty hand on me.” He
bats my hand away.
After
grabbing a glass of sweet tea, I leave him in the kitchen and head to the porch
swing. I glide slowly in the night’s soothing silence as I enjoy my greasy
chicken leg and scrumptious cake. John Paul joins me by the time I’ve made a
substantial dent in my chunk of cake.
“Here,”
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