Suppertime With My Intended

Mama greeted me nervously as I entered the kitchen. A quick glance showed an extra setting at the already crowded table. My heartrate quickened as I saw my mother busy herself, avoiding my eyes.

Suppertime came with the arrival of the beady-eyed man whom Mama introduced with downcast eyes.

“Isabel, you remember Papa’s second cousin, Elijah?” She seated him next to me as a lump formed in my throat forcing any possible reply down into my gut.

I took my seat next to my obvious intended.

An awkward silence enveloped us in our newly assigned seating arrangement while we waited for Papa. I sat looking at my hands clasped tightly in my lap listening to the chatter of the children at the other end of the table. I avoided looking at my beautiful mama, my heart feeling betrayed while my head knew this was not of her doing. She and I were both mere pawns in the game played by the elders.

A hush fell over the crowded table upon Papa’s entry, with the younger children poked into silence by their older siblings. Retrieving the two goblets set upon the silver tray, he handed one to Elijah before taking a seat in his plush armchair at the head of the table. 

“Welcome, my good man,” he raised his glass towards Elijah as if at a table for two rather than a dozen.

“Good to be here.”  Elijah indulged in a long swig of the alcohol before setting his empty goblet down on the table.

Mama carefully placed the oversized platter in front of Papa then returned to the oven to divide the remaining fish into small manageable portions for the children.

“Elijah, please enjoy the filet fresh from the creek,” Mama said in an unnaturally high voice, her back turned to her family as she worked quickly and efficiently at the hot oven.

“Isabel is quite adept; you will never go hungry,” Papa boasted a moment later, after the lack of response to his wife’s comment became apparent.   

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the belly hanging over the brown leather belt, the buttons of the work shirt straining not to pop. Going hungry didn’t appear to be a problem, I thought with disgust at the prospect of feeding this man old enough to be my father.

“Wonderful,” Elijah replied, the word hanging in the air with a sinister feel as his hand found my leg under the table. A heat rushed through my body; a red hot anger filled me as I clenched my fists.

“Red means stop,” I longed to scream, waving a blasted red ribbon in his face. Red. Means. Stop.

Mama wiped her hands on her apron before bringing her plate to the single wooden chair at the wives’ workstation. She took the seat left empty by Caleb’s second wife who had begun to serve the salad. The freshly picked cucumbers and tomatoes were plentiful at the head of the table, then gradually dwindled as it garnished every child’s plate sparsely until the bowl became empty. Enough to make the rounds of the grand table but falling short of making it to the wives’ workstation, I noted sadly as Mama went without.

Caleb’s third wife, the youngest of the three and the least accepted, stood at the corner counter, slicing and plating the decadent chocolate cake. Feeling the other wives’ cold resentment, she busied herself arranging the slices from small to large, and then reversing the order. Desperate to appear useful, she repeated the charade until her turn to serve.   

I watched with growing disgust. The perfectly orchestrated dance of the wives was like the animated figures that came out and twirled about when the cuckoo clock struck the hour. Felix, the elderly clockmaker, still created his handmade treasures, working year round on the coveted winter gifts. He could take a lesson from these women who worked in perfect synchronization.

In a matter of days, it will be me dancing that dance, bottle of whiskey in one hand, empty goblet in the other. “Cuckoo, cuckoo.” As the clock strikes twelve, I pop out to twirl around my new husband’s kitchen. “Cuckoo, cuckoo.”  I pop out for all to see with baby in belly in one year’s time.

I was suddenly struck with the ironic parallels between wife status and the division of roles. Mama, the first wife, tended to the fish, the main meal of the feast. Caleb’s second wife picked, cleaned and tossed the salad, the side dish. Lastly, Caleb’s third wife was in charge of the frivolous chocolate cake, the unnecessary addition to their already full bellies. Would I be the preparer of the supper waiting for Elijah to add to his menu as well?

Mama rose to start the cycle of service again. “Elijah, more whiskey, perhaps?” she asked with impeccable manners. Without answering, he poured himself a drink, unconcerned as it overflowed and spilled onto the embroidered napkins.

Then the words I dreaded drawled out under the slur of whiskey, putting an icy fear into my heart.

“We could make it official tonight?” Elijah questioned my father.

Papa leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Time stood still as he sat in deep contemplation. 

Panicked, I searched Mama’s eyes beseechingly as she looked directly at me for the first time in days.  The terror I felt was reflected on her face. I silently begged her to intervene, to veto this underage union. 

“Let’s stick to the rules, my friend. She’ll be all yours in a matter of days,” Papa finally announced his decree for my future.

The hand returned under the table. Dirty from overindulgence, it left a smear of chocolate cake on my skirt as it moved upward along my thigh.

“Red means stop,” I again longed to scream. Red. Means. Stop. 

Papa abruptly stood to leave the room, wagging a finger at Elijah to follow. Closing the deal was more than a simple handshake between two men. As with any transfer of property, there were papers to sign after the details were carefully discussed and agreed upon. 

My intended exited without a glance in my direction nor any sort of gratitude towards the team of three hostesses. 

I sighed in relief. There was still time to change my fate, but it had to be done quickly.

~

(Excerpt from novella “Red Means Stop” – a work in progress!)