Read Online A Place at the Table by Susan Rebecca White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Rebecca White
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my mouth so dry it’s hard to get out the words. “Why would I want to look at that? And I didn’t take your underwear. Hunter did. He must have stolen it from your drawer and put it in mine. That’s what you did, isn’t it?”
Mama and I both look at Hunter. He speaks as if it is painful to do so. “I walked in on him, Mama. I should have told you after I did, but it was just so weird I didn’t know what to do. It was a couple of weeks ago. He must have thought he was alone in the house. He was standing in front of the mirror on our closet door, wearing your stuff—your bra and underwear. Not this one, a different one. I think he’s been doing this for a long time, Mama. I think he’s really sick.”
I spring, like a dog attacking an intruder. Mama holds her arm out to the side, blocking the path, and I think of the many times she has made that exact same motion while driving, when she comes to a sudden stop and worries I’ll go flying through the window. Except this time she isn’t protecting me. This time she’s protecting Hunter from me.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice gritty. She is looking at me in a way she never has before. It’s as if behind each eye someone has switched off a lamp.
She believes him.
Yes, the dirty picture is mine, but the rest of what Hunter said is a lie. I have never dressed in my mama’s underthings. I would never dream of doing such a thing. I don’t want to do such a thing. And yet I know I’m guilty. That picture from the magazine. I cannot believe I am standing in the kitchen with Mama, that picture between us.
Mama looks exhausted. The corners of Hunter’s mouth show the faintest smile. He is loving this.
“He’s lying,” I say meekly.
“Son,” she says. “Please don’t make things worse.”
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other sadly. And then she straightens her shoulders, glances at the clock above the stove, sees that it is 10:30 a.m., stuffs the picture into one pocket, the bra into the other, and rotates her body so that she can address us both.
“My guests arrive in an hour,” she says. “Bobby, you are to put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, and then make sure there’s a clean monogrammed towel in the guest bathroom. Yes, I have checked twice already, but for my peace of mind I need you to do it again. After that, I want you to shower and put on khakis and a polo shirt. I don’t care how hot it is, I want you boys in long pants for Mrs. Lovehart.
“Hunter, you shower now, and both of you, make sure to wipe up any water that gets on the sink and on the floor. I expect you boys to be seated in the living room, shirts tucked in, by eleven-twenty sharp, ready to greet my guests. When they arrive, Bobby, you are to offer lemonade, and Hunter, you are to pass around the hot crab dip. And then I want you two to say good-bye and I want you out of the house. And I swear to my sweet Lord Jesus, if you come homehaving so much as touched each other I will have your daddy tear you apart. I don’t care how old you are. And if he doesn’t do it to my satisfaction I will do it myself, and don’t think I don’t mean it. And don’t even think about showing up at this house again until six-thirty p.m., at which point you better be here sharp for dinner with Daddy, during which none of us will say a word about what Hunter found in Bobby’s drawer until I figure out what to do.”
“But Mom ,” Hunter protests. “He’s sick.”
“You don’t think I know that?” she asks.
• • •
I am dutiful, doing everything Mama asked of me. I shower, dress in long pants, check to make sure there is a clean hand towel in the guest bedroom. I sit on the couch in the living room with Hunter, waiting for her guests to arrive, two polished silver trays on the coffee table before us, one filled with glasses of lemonade, the other with crab dip, Club Crackers, and Mama’s monogrammed linen napkins. Sitting next to Hunter is pure
Mama and I both look at Hunter. He speaks as if it is painful to do so. “I walked in on him, Mama. I should have told you after I did, but it was just so weird I didn’t know what to do. It was a couple of weeks ago. He must have thought he was alone in the house. He was standing in front of the mirror on our closet door, wearing your stuff—your bra and underwear. Not this one, a different one. I think he’s been doing this for a long time, Mama. I think he’s really sick.”
I spring, like a dog attacking an intruder. Mama holds her arm out to the side, blocking the path, and I think of the many times she has made that exact same motion while driving, when she comes to a sudden stop and worries I’ll go flying through the window. Except this time she isn’t protecting me. This time she’s protecting Hunter from me.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice gritty. She is looking at me in a way she never has before. It’s as if behind each eye someone has switched off a lamp.
She believes him.
Yes, the dirty picture is mine, but the rest of what Hunter said is a lie. I have never dressed in my mama’s underthings. I would never dream of doing such a thing. I don’t want to do such a thing. And yet I know I’m guilty. That picture from the magazine. I cannot believe I am standing in the kitchen with Mama, that picture between us.
Mama looks exhausted. The corners of Hunter’s mouth show the faintest smile. He is loving this.
“He’s lying,” I say meekly.
“Son,” she says. “Please don’t make things worse.”
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other sadly. And then she straightens her shoulders, glances at the clock above the stove, sees that it is 10:30 a.m., stuffs the picture into one pocket, the bra into the other, and rotates her body so that she can address us both.
“My guests arrive in an hour,” she says. “Bobby, you are to put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, and then make sure there’s a clean monogrammed towel in the guest bathroom. Yes, I have checked twice already, but for my peace of mind I need you to do it again. After that, I want you to shower and put on khakis and a polo shirt. I don’t care how hot it is, I want you boys in long pants for Mrs. Lovehart.
“Hunter, you shower now, and both of you, make sure to wipe up any water that gets on the sink and on the floor. I expect you boys to be seated in the living room, shirts tucked in, by eleven-twenty sharp, ready to greet my guests. When they arrive, Bobby, you are to offer lemonade, and Hunter, you are to pass around the hot crab dip. And then I want you two to say good-bye and I want you out of the house. And I swear to my sweet Lord Jesus, if you come homehaving so much as touched each other I will have your daddy tear you apart. I don’t care how old you are. And if he doesn’t do it to my satisfaction I will do it myself, and don’t think I don’t mean it. And don’t even think about showing up at this house again until six-thirty p.m., at which point you better be here sharp for dinner with Daddy, during which none of us will say a word about what Hunter found in Bobby’s drawer until I figure out what to do.”
“But Mom ,” Hunter protests. “He’s sick.”
“You don’t think I know that?” she asks.
• • •
I am dutiful, doing everything Mama asked of me. I shower, dress in long pants, check to make sure there is a clean hand towel in the guest bedroom. I sit on the couch in the living room with Hunter, waiting for her guests to arrive, two polished silver trays on the coffee table before us, one filled with glasses of lemonade, the other with crab dip, Club Crackers, and Mama’s monogrammed linen napkins. Sitting next to Hunter is pure
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