Daddy's Favorite

Rachel stepped off the school bus warily, already listening for the angry bark of Daddy’s huge, black mutt, Peach. She walked up the driveway, walking as fast as she could, eyes wide and scanning the yard, so his daily lunge at her wouldn’t take her by surprise. Even with the rope that tethered him to the giant elm, and the fence that lined the driveway, the long walk from the road to the porch was a daily ordeal.

But all was silent as she reached the front steps. She skipped the broken step, then crossed the grey wood porch, with its peeling paint and the bench swing with the broken chain. The screen door gave a quiet scree of warning as she opened it, and even though she knew Daddy wasn’t home from work yet, she was careful not to let it slam behind her.

“Mama, where’s Peach?” Rachel’s eyes darted from the doggie door to the hallway. Mama kept working the meat grinder, humming a little under her breath. Well, if Mama was humming, that demon dog couldn’t be inside, Rachel reasoned, and plunked her book bag down on the table. “What’s for supper?”

“Daddy’s favorite,” Mama murmured. She came over and put a glass of milk down beside Rachel's books, and absently kissed her on the forehead.

Rachel’s jaw dropped. Mama had been furious with Daddy ever since Peach had bit Boo on the arm last week. Mama wanted to take Boo to the clinic, but Daddy wouldn’t let her. “They’ll take Peach away!” he’d shouted. “He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, he was just playing. Boo shouldn’t have tried to take his ball anyway.” 

He’d thrown his beer at the kitchen wall and stormed outside to make sure Peach was okay. Mama had mopped up the beer after it ran down the wall to puddle on the faded linoleum, but the bottle still stuck neck first through the lath-and-plaster wall, silent testament to the stubbornness of the Johnson clan. Both of Rachel’s parents ignored it. Rachel was certain that one of these days it would ignite a raging fight.

Well, if Mama was over it, Rachel wasn’t going to complain. She pulled her homework out and started on the math. The kitchen was silent, except for Mama’s low humming, and Rachel finally relaxed enough to concentrate. She was so focused, she didn’t hear Daddy’s truck pull up an hour later. It wasn’t until his six-foot-one frame filled the doorway that she knew he was home. His shadow reached across the kitchen to fall on her papers. Rachel looked up, stomach clenching with that familiar fear. He held the ragged chewed-off end of Peach’s rope. She waited, but no outburst came.

Mama’s back was to the door, and she kept right on humming and shaping meatballs.

“Where’s Peach?” Daddy finally said, his voice husky and low. Rachel’s eyes opened wide to see how pale and lost he looked.

Mama placed the final meatball in the sauce, covered the pot, washed her hands and carefully wiped them dry before turning to face her husband.

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry. He chewed right through that rope. He was gone when I got home from the drugstore.” She crossed to Daddy’s side and wrapped her arms around him. “I phoned the Millers up the road, Mary said she thought she heard that a dog got hit out by the highway.”

Rachel held her breath, waiting for the backhand that would send her mother sprawling, but it didn’t come. Daddy just kept looking at the rope in his hand, as if Peach might magically appear there. Rachel almost choked when she saw tears in his eyes.

Mama pulled away to get him a beer. She opened it and put it in Daddy’s free hand, gently pulling the rope from his other one. 

“Why don’t you go clean up? I made your favorite supper, spaghetti and meatballs.” Daddy nodded, looking confused, and headed toward the hall. “Oh, and Boo’s fever broke.” Daddy paused in the doorway. “I guess you were right, we didn’t need to take him to the clinic after all.” Daddy grunted, and continued toward the shower.

********

Dinner was by turns both somber and festive. Rachel had never seen Daddy sad before. Angry, yes, but sad? Never. 

Boo was in high spirits, crowing with delight as Mama taught him how to slurp up spaghetti noodles. Rachel felt as if she’d wandered into another world. The mother who couldn’t abide a single crumb on the floor was laughing and clapping her hands while sauce spattered the table and floor around Boo’s high chair.

Rachel, stomach still a pit of uncertainty, pushed her food around the plate, and finally forced herself to take a bite of meatball. She chewed a moment, then looked up. “Mama? This meatball tas-” The words died in her throat when she caught the glint in Mama’s eye. “Never mind,” she mumbled, and forced herself to swallow.

Later, after Daddy had left the kitchen, and Mama had her back turned, wiping up Boo’s spaghetti-sauce smeared face, Rachel quickly scraped her other meatballs back into the pot.

Mama turned in time to see, but she only smiled. She walked over to where Rachel stood, still holding her plate, and gently took it from her confused daughter. She washed it, and dried it, placing it in the cupboard where the door hung crookedly from its hinges, another indication of one of Daddy's violent outbursts.

While Boo chewed on his plastic spoon, and Rachel watched, trying to come to terms with this new, happier Mama, her mother reached into the pot and pulled a meatball out with her fingers, dangled it over her mouth, then dropped it in. She closed her eyes, and chewed with obvious pleasure. Rachel watched her mother’s tongue snake out to catch a drop of the blood-red sauce from her lip.

Mama opened her eyes and looked at Rachel. The fear that had filled those eyes for as long as Rachel could remember was gone.

“Revenge is a dish best served cold, Rachel. But sometimes a nice tomato sauce does just as well.”

Mama winked at her, and finished cleaning up.