And Father Provides

*Although not directly stated, this story contains suggestions of gore*

Mary lit the last candle in the center of the table, illuminating four place settings clustered at one end of the table. The head of the table, however, was bare but for a high-backed wooden chair. Leaving the dining room, she paused, placing a forlorn hand upon the back of the chair, bowing her head to it as if in prayer.

Back in the kitchen, a fire roared in the brick hearth, sending shadows dancing around the room. Above the fire hung a large cast iron pot, its contents finishing their simmer. Mary busied herself with a basket of rolls when the kitchen door swung open. A small rosy figure sidled over to the table where Mary worked.

“That sure smells good, Mama.” It was Dorothy, her youngest daughter.

Mary's heart broke every time she saw just how ragged Dot's dresses were becoming, and how her toes were peeking through her threadbare shoes. It broke the same way when she saw the dirt collecting in the house. It was not for a lack of trying, either. Every day she’d dust and sweep. But as long as the bombs continued to drop, the dust continued to settle. Their neighborhood remained unscathed, however, but the same could not be said of those around them.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Mary kissed the top of Dot’s greasy curls, “Will you go collect your brother? It's almost time to eat.”

She watched as Dot skipped away, envious, yet proud, that she had maintained her naivety and innocence. Not to mention her youthful plumpness. All her children had. While the other neighborhood children were hardly more than flesh and bone, digging amongst the trash bins for scraps. While her children remained full, never going a night with empty bellies.

 As Dot exited the kitchen, Mary's eldest daughter, Rose, entered. Her beautiful flower, who should be blossoming out in the world. She should be spending the summer falling in love, not helping her poor mother raise her two siblings. But there was no one around to fall in love with. All the able-bodied men had been sent away to fight strangers in strange lands. Robert, Rose’s father, however, had not been sent away, having been crippled in the last war. But still, he made his own sacrifices to keep food on their table.

Rose lifted the lid of the large iron pot, sending the meaty aroma wafting through the small kitchen, “You've done great, Mother. Despite the war and everything, you and Father have still provided for us while others starve.”

A weak smile twitched across Mary’s face.

Rose picked up the small basket of stale rolls, “Father would be proud,” she called over her shoulder, exiting the kitchen.

Once her daughter had left the kitchen, Mary strode over the pot on the fire. Donning a pair of scorched oven mitts, she lifted the pot from the hook suspending it over the fire, and set it down hard onto the scarred wooden table in the center of the room, where a large, tarnished serving dish sat waiting. Mary worked diligently ladling the stewed meat into the serving dish so as not to spill a single drop.

Carrying the steaming serving dish, Mary pushed through the swinging kitchen door into the dining room. She was pleased to see that all her children were already settled in their seats, Rose scrunching her beautiful features into grotesque faces at the pleasure of her younger two children. Marry set the serving dish and ladle between the towering candles in the center of the table.

“Wow,” her son Robert Jr. exclaimed. Robert, who looked so much like his namesake.

As he reached for the ladle, Mary swatted his hand away, “Not before we pray. It’s what your father would have wanted.”

Mary and her three children joined hands around the table, bowing their heads in prayer, “Thank you, Father, for this meal we share. Lord, bless this food, give us today our daily bread. Forgive our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. Save us from the time of trial, and deliver us from evil.”

“Amen,” echoed around the table.

Rose picked up the ladle, scooping a generous helping into each of their bowls. Robert Jr. began eating greedily. Dorothy, on the other hand, only toyed with hers.

“I miss Daddy.”

“I know sweetie,’ Mary reached across the table to pat her daughter’s shoulder, “That’s why we eat in his memory.”

At this, Dot ate. Mary too ate, savoring the warmth of the meat as it slid down her throat. With sad happiness, she looked around the table at her children as they dined. Robert Jr. was now dunking his stale roll into the juices that had collected in his dish. Rose ate with a grace that would have been more at home in a stately dining hall rather than their dim dining room. Dorothy did her best to emulate her older sister, but still ate with a child’s ferocity.

Overhead came the rumbling wine of an aircraft engine. They paused; spoons held to their lips. The room swelled with anticipation. But the blast did not come. The windows did not rattle. And no dust fluttered from the rafters. As the silence settled, they returned to their meal.

Robert Jr. had just held out his dish for another serving when the front door banged open, causing Mary to spill a helping of meat onto the table. The four of them turned in the direction of the front door where their neighbor, Clara, stood breathless.

“The allies,” she gasped, “It’s the allies, they’ve dropped food and –“ Catching her breath, she observed the scene in front of her. Her eyes swept over their faces, and the outstretched bowl in Robert Jr.’s hand and the lump of fleshy meat on the table between him and Mary, “Mary…is that.” Bringing a shaking hand up to her lips, she backed away, “I knew there were rumors, but I didn’t – Oh, Marry. How could you?”

Rose swept from her seat placing a hand on her mother’s shoulder. The two younger children simply stared at their neighbor shaking in the doorway.

Gently, Mary wiped her lips on her cloth napkin and cleared her throat, “It’s what he wanted.”