The kitchen was warm from the afternoon sun and the heat of the cook stove.  The sweet smell of buttered cornbread floated through the air causing my mouth to water. I took my seat between Denny and Mother and eagerly watched as the bowls were placed on the table.

I leaned over the bowl of green beans until I could feel the steam sweep across my forehead. Mother scolded, “Lean back and sit in your chair like a proper lady. We haven’t even said Grace.” She then shoved a large serving spoon into the dish, twisting her elbow towards me so that I had to duck out of her way.

After she placed the last bowl onto the table, Mother sat and reached her hands towards mine. Grace was the one time that I actually got to slip my hand inside of my mother’s. Even after all of the times that we have said Grace at this table, I’m still always surprised at the coolness of her touch.

We bowed our heads and Mother began the prayer. “We thank you dear Father for the bounty you’ve placed before us and for the health of our family. Thank you also, Lord, for our dutiful sons. In Jesus’s…” Daddy quickly cut in, adding, “And we thank you, Lord, for our daughter who is hardworking and loving.” I could feel Mother’s hand tighten around mine as she mumbled, “Of course. In Jesus’s name, Amen.” She shook loose my hand before the word Amen had crossed her lips. I didn’t mind that Mother forgot me in the prayer because I knew that God wouldn’t. Or at least I hoped.

I slowly looked up to see Daddy watching me. He tilted his head slightly and smiled. My throat tightened and my eyes tingled with the threat of tears not because Mother had again forgotten me but because of Daddy’s sad smile—part love, part pity. I quickly looked at my plate and prayed, “Please God, if you can’t make me what she wants then please make her want what I already am.”

My thoughts drifted but were broken by the sound of spoons clinking against bowls and glasses being bumped into plates. I sat quiet with my legs crossed underneath me, hoping that the height it gave me would make me seem bigger than I felt at that moment.

Mother grabbed the serving spoon and ladled lumps of mashed potatoes onto each of our plates. “I wish I could give you boys more than one scoop, but this is it.” She sighed. Seeing Daddy’s shoulders slump, Denny quickly said, “I’m not very hungry.” Giving Daddy a sideways glance, Mother said, “Growing boys need food.”

Mother abruptly sat and spooned a few pieces of peaches into her mouth. Swallowing hard, she set down her spoon and said sharply, “I have come to accept chipped plates…” Studying her spoon, she added, “And tarnished silverware, but it is not acceptable for our children to be hungry.” Denny set down his own spoon and argued, “Mother, we are not going hungry.” Rare to do so, Mother ignored Denny as she looked at my father for an answer.

With his head lowered, Daddy mumbled, “The foreman told me today that Boney because quit, he needs the back tunnel covered. So, I’m going take on those hours.” Mother shrugged and said, “If you think that will help.” Daddy scooped his remaining peas onto Caul’s plate and said, “I think every little bit helps.”

I watched Mother as she angrily dug her fork into her chicken and snapped, “Very little.” Always patient, Daddy gently pushed back his plate, leaned closer to Mother and asked, “What’s wrong?” With a forced smile, Mother said, “Nothing. It’s just been a long day.”

All Mother’s days seem to be long, filled with hours that slowly creep by crowded with dirty wash and meals that seem to begin as soon as the last dish is cleaned. She’s done these daily tasks so many times that the purpose has faded leaving only a habit.

At the end of her day, all she is left with are the complaints she piles upon Daddy’s already tired back like bags on a pack mule. He always listens, promising her that everything will get better, which pleases her but only for a moment.

Caul spent most of his time during dinner making tunnels in his mashed potatoes. Smearing the last bit across his plate, he excitedly asked Daddy, “When do I get to be a mole man?” Daddy cupped his hand over Caul’s shoulder and said, “If I can help it, son, never.” Smushing the potato tunnels flat, Caul groaned and asked, “Why?” Daddy said, “It’s not where I want my boys to be.” Quickly looking at Mother, he added, “It don’t make for a good life.”

The men who work in the mines are called moles because they spend most of time underground in the dark, scurrying around in the small and dirty cracks of the earth. Instead of breathing in fresh air and feeling the warmth of the sun, they breathe in soot and fear cave-ins. My father is nothing like a little blind rat, though. After he shakes off the dirt of the day, all that remains is a strong man whose only blindness is to my mother.
 

It’s not often quiet during dinner, but when it is I know it won’t be long before Mother turns her attention and anger towards me. Shoving back her plate, Mother looked at Daddy and demanded, “Do you know what really made today hard?” It took no more than his raised eyebrows for her to go on.

Pointing at me, she hissed, “She did it again.” Daddy asked, “Did what?” Mother shook her head and nearly shouted, “She disobeyed me! Again. I’ve repeatedly told her that I don’t want her getting muddy and playing with dirty little bugs but does she listen?”

Never really wanting an answer to her question, Mother said, “How is she ever going to be a part of respectable society when she is always up to her elbows in grime?” Just getting started, Mother took a deep breath and said, “She needs discipline. You need to discipline her and I think…”

Daddy cut in, “Wait a minute. You need to slow down. First of all, I ain’t going to correct the child for getting dirty because that’s what kids do.” Stopping, he looked at me and said, “You’re a good girl and as long as you do what is right and stay true to yourself then you’ll always be respectable.”

Daddy again turned to Mother and said, “Second of all, I don’t know what society you are talking about, but if it’s those few stingy old ladies sitting slurping tea at Vivian’s every afternoon then you need to rethink what’s important.” Not used to Daddy’s harshness with her, Mother’s back stiffened, but she said nothing. Daddy said, “I know that I don’t want our daughter to be a part of a circle of gossips who judge a person’s worth by a string of pearls and a diamond broach.”

Mother’s face flushed red as she puffed-up like a rattler about to strike. “I’ve heard enough. Those women are not gossiping as you call it. They are talking about important community matters and I see nothing wrong with admiring someone’s riches if it has been earned honestly.”

Pushing back her chair, Mother stood and said, “I would love the chance to have tea at Vivian’s but this is just one more thing not possible on a miner’s pay.” Daddy’s head dropped as Mother stomped down the hall. Mother didn’t strike often but when she did she made sure it hurt.

Vivian’s Tea Room is in the center of town and is one of the only places that the refined ladies, as Mother calls them, can go and enjoy the company of one another. It sits upon the street with a white awning that stretches across the cracked sidewalk and every time I walk underneath I’m reminded that some places are there just to let others know that they don’t belong.

When I have to pass by the Tea Room, I straighten my back and quicken my step but there is something about those pink and gold striped wing-backed chairs and blue china teacups set on white linen napkins that tug at mother causing her, I think, to regret some of the choices she has made in her life.

Maybe she blames Daddy for not making enough money or us for being the extra mouths she has to feed, but I believe you become who you are meant to be. Sometimes you choose your life and other times it chooses you.

I don’t really know why Mother wanted so much to be one of these women who only feel important when they make others feel small. These snobby silver-haired ladies, with thinly-lined pink lips and rouge that sticks in the wrinkles of their cheeks seemed silly in a town where the rich folks were the ones whose house wasn’t built on a dirt road marked with potholes and ruts. Their roads were the only ones with signposts. I guess when you have something in life others want to know where to find you.

The rest of us went on unnoticed, hidden away in our small houses with chipped paint and broken shutters hidden on winding rough roads leading to cornfields and cow pastures and nowhere at all.

Copyright 2019 Sherry Parnell