some clothes on!”
“You kiss my ass!”
“Do it, Grace,” said Connie. “Go, like a good girl. Cover yourself we love you just the same.”
“She ever hear of sunbathing?”
“Go on now.”
Gigi went, exaggerating the switch of both the cheeks she had offered Mavis.
“What rock did she crawl out from under?” Mavis asked.
“Hush,” said Connie. “Soon you’ll like her.”
No way, Mavis thought. No way at all. Mother’s gone, but Connie’s okay. I’ve been here almost three years, and this house is where we are. Us. Not her.
They did everything but slap each other, and finally they did that. What postponed the inevitable were loves forlorn and a very young girl in too tight clothes tapping on the screen door.
“You have to help me,” she said. “You have to. I’ve been raped and it’s almost August.”
Only part of that was true.
SENECA
S omething was scratching on the pane. Again. Dovey turned over on her stomach, refusing to look out of the window each time she heard it. He wasn’t there. He never came at night. Deliberately she drove her mind onto everyday things. What would she fix for supper tomorrow?
Not much point to garden peas. May as well use canned. Not a taste bud in Steward’s mouth could tell the difference. Blue Boy packed in his cheek for twenty years first narrowed his taste to a craving for spices, then reduced it altogether to a single demand for hot pepper.
When they got married, Dovey was sure she could never cook well enough to suit the twin known to be pickier than his brother, Deek. Back from the war, both men were hungry for down-home food, but dreaming of it for three years had raised their expectations, exaggerated the possibilities of lard making biscuits lighter than snow, the responsibility sharp cheese took on in hominy. When they were discharged and back home, Deek hummed with pleasure as he sucked sweet marrow from hocks or crunched chicken bones to powder. But Steward remembered everything differently. Shouldn’t the clove be down in the tissue, not just sitting on top of the ham? And the chicken-fried steak—Vidalia onions or Spanish?
On her wedding day, Dovey had stood facing the flowered wallpaper, her back to the window so her sister, Soane, could see better. Dovey held up the hem of her slip while Soane drew the seams. The little brush tickled the backs of her legs, but she stood perfectly still. There were no silk stockings in Haven or the world in 1949, but to get married obviously bare-legged mocked God and the ceremony.
“I don’t expect he’ll be satisfied at table,” Dovey told her sister.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He compliments my cooking, then suggests how to improve it next time.”
“Hold still, Dovey.”
“Deek doesn’t do that to you, does he?”
“Not that. He’s picky other ways. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you. If he’s satisfied in bed, the table won’t mean a thing.”
They laughed then, and Soane had to do a whole seam over.
Now the difficulty that loomed in 1949 had been solved by tobacco. It didn’t matter whether her peas were garden fresh or canned. Convent peppers, hot as hellfire, did all the cooking for her. The trouble it took to cultivate peas was wasted. A teaspoon of sugar and a plop of butter in canned ones would do nicely, since the bits of purple-black pepper he would sprinkle over them bombed away any quiet flavor. Take late squash, for example.
Almost always, these nights, when Dovey Morgan thought about her husband it was in terms of what he had lost. His sense of taste one example of the many she counted. Contrary to his (and all of Ruby’s) assessment, the more Steward acquired, the more visible his losses. The sale of his herd at 1958’s top dollar accompanied his defeat in the statewide election for church Secretary because of his outspoken contempt for the schoolchildren sitting in in that drugstore in Oklahoma City. He had even written a hateful letter to the
“You kiss my ass!”
“Do it, Grace,” said Connie. “Go, like a good girl. Cover yourself we love you just the same.”
“She ever hear of sunbathing?”
“Go on now.”
Gigi went, exaggerating the switch of both the cheeks she had offered Mavis.
“What rock did she crawl out from under?” Mavis asked.
“Hush,” said Connie. “Soon you’ll like her.”
No way, Mavis thought. No way at all. Mother’s gone, but Connie’s okay. I’ve been here almost three years, and this house is where we are. Us. Not her.
They did everything but slap each other, and finally they did that. What postponed the inevitable were loves forlorn and a very young girl in too tight clothes tapping on the screen door.
“You have to help me,” she said. “You have to. I’ve been raped and it’s almost August.”
Only part of that was true.
SENECA
S omething was scratching on the pane. Again. Dovey turned over on her stomach, refusing to look out of the window each time she heard it. He wasn’t there. He never came at night. Deliberately she drove her mind onto everyday things. What would she fix for supper tomorrow?
Not much point to garden peas. May as well use canned. Not a taste bud in Steward’s mouth could tell the difference. Blue Boy packed in his cheek for twenty years first narrowed his taste to a craving for spices, then reduced it altogether to a single demand for hot pepper.
When they got married, Dovey was sure she could never cook well enough to suit the twin known to be pickier than his brother, Deek. Back from the war, both men were hungry for down-home food, but dreaming of it for three years had raised their expectations, exaggerated the possibilities of lard making biscuits lighter than snow, the responsibility sharp cheese took on in hominy. When they were discharged and back home, Deek hummed with pleasure as he sucked sweet marrow from hocks or crunched chicken bones to powder. But Steward remembered everything differently. Shouldn’t the clove be down in the tissue, not just sitting on top of the ham? And the chicken-fried steak—Vidalia onions or Spanish?
On her wedding day, Dovey had stood facing the flowered wallpaper, her back to the window so her sister, Soane, could see better. Dovey held up the hem of her slip while Soane drew the seams. The little brush tickled the backs of her legs, but she stood perfectly still. There were no silk stockings in Haven or the world in 1949, but to get married obviously bare-legged mocked God and the ceremony.
“I don’t expect he’ll be satisfied at table,” Dovey told her sister.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He compliments my cooking, then suggests how to improve it next time.”
“Hold still, Dovey.”
“Deek doesn’t do that to you, does he?”
“Not that. He’s picky other ways. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you. If he’s satisfied in bed, the table won’t mean a thing.”
They laughed then, and Soane had to do a whole seam over.
Now the difficulty that loomed in 1949 had been solved by tobacco. It didn’t matter whether her peas were garden fresh or canned. Convent peppers, hot as hellfire, did all the cooking for her. The trouble it took to cultivate peas was wasted. A teaspoon of sugar and a plop of butter in canned ones would do nicely, since the bits of purple-black pepper he would sprinkle over them bombed away any quiet flavor. Take late squash, for example.
Almost always, these nights, when Dovey Morgan thought about her husband it was in terms of what he had lost. His sense of taste one example of the many she counted. Contrary to his (and all of Ruby’s) assessment, the more Steward acquired, the more visible his losses. The sale of his herd at 1958’s top dollar accompanied his defeat in the statewide election for church Secretary because of his outspoken contempt for the schoolchildren sitting in in that drugstore in Oklahoma City. He had even written a hateful letter to the
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