Read Online The Taste of Salt by Martha Southgate - Free Book Online

ready pretty soon.”
    â€œAw, Mom, five more minutes? It’s Saturday. Come on.” This came from Tick with his sweetest smile. I was already resigned to (and sometimes grateful for) Tick’s ability to get around my mother. To get around most people really. There was just something about him—that angelic pout, his quick wit, his liveliness—that made you willing to do what he wanted. Sometimes his powers were used to the advantage of us both—that’s when I was grateful. But when he wasgetting some privilege that I couldn’t manage to wheedle? Oh, it made me furious.
    â€œOkay, five more minutes. But then you need to come when I call.”
    â€œOkay, Mom.”
    We went back to our game. Daddy came out shortly afterward dressed for work; he was getting in some overtime, as he often did on Saturdays. “What the devil are you two doing?” He smiled. It wasn’t the same as with Mom, perhaps because it was rarer and that made it more precious. We told him about the game and he said, “You know, the national bird was supposed to be the turkey, not the eagle.” When he was in good spirits, he offered up odd little facts like this, the slight showing-off of a self-educated man.
    â€œYeah, Daddy?” Tick said, seizing the moment of connection. “That’d be pretty funny, eating the national bird for Thanksgiving.” Daddy laughed and rubbed his head and went down to breakfast. We didn’t say anything to each other, didn’t acknowledge the good feeling. But it was on us like sunshine. Our mother didn’t call us down for at least twenty minutes, too, so we got to play more.
    When we came thundering down the stairs, Daddy and Mom were sitting at the table, silent. The air was a little still between them. We sat down and Mom gave us some slightly cold eggs and they continued to eat, not speakingto each other. Tick pressed his leg into mine, briefly. We ate fast. Then I thought that maybe Daddy was angry because we hadn’t mentioned his birthday. “Happy birthday, Daddy!” I said and jumped up to hug him. “Yeah, Daddy, happy birthday,” said Tick. My mother’s back relaxed a bit and she said softly, “Happy birthday, Ray.”
    He smiled at us. “Y’all got something planned for me later?”
    â€œWe might. We might.” This from Mom.
    â€œWell, good. I’ll be home early—round five or so.” He stood up, pulled on his cap (one of those flat Kangol-style ones—very snappy), kissed each of us, and left. The air in the kitchen lightened suddenly. We were dismissed to go get dressed and come back down to help.
    W E WORKED HARD THAT day. We baked a beautiful vanilla cake with white icing and helped Mom clean up the house and carefully wrapped the bottle of Old Spice we had bought him. (He never wore aftershave, but we loved to buy it for him. I used it for bath oil for my Barbies after he’d made his one-time-to-be-gracious use of it.) Mom cooked his favorite, smothered pork chops and string beans. She put on a beautiful pink dress—the color my father liked her best in—and put a little perfume behind her ears. And then we sat down in the living room towait. He was supposed to be home in about half an hour. We sat. And sat. And sat. Five-thirty. Six. Six-thirty. Tick and I played old maid for a while but then we started to throw the cards at each other and yell for justice. Mom kept telling us to hush up. She sat by the window, looking out it as if she could will him home. The cake turned soggy under its warming frosting and the fat congealed on the gravy-covered pork chops and she looked out the window. At around seven-fifteen I couldn’t stand it anymore. I said in a small voice, a smaller voice than I thought I possessed, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can we go ahead and eat?”
    I couldn’t read the look Mom gave me. My stomach rumbled and Tick and I looked at her,