Tuesday Night Supper

Grandpa’s iron skillet was heavier than she expected. Fortunately, when it hit the kitchen floor, it landed upright. Emma Jean looked around the room to see if anyone witnessed her fumble. She refolded the threadbare kitchen towel and wrapped it around the handle before scooping up the skillet and placing it on the empty burner on the cooktop. The towel offered little protection from the heat stored in the skillet. She shook her right hand and blew on it as if it would ease the burn. As she turned, she noticed the dent and black smudge on the linoleum floor. Emma Jean dropped to her knees. Using the underside of her apron, she began to scrub furiously at the black smudge. Was it fading? She couldn’t tell. Raising her head slightly, she saw Grandpa’s polished, black, shoes. The soles were wearing thin, but Grandpa polished them every day. Tears brimmed from her eyes as she looked into the older man’s face.

    “I’m so sorry. I was only trying to help.” She spit the words out between sobs.

    Grandpa reached down and pulled the young girl to her feet. “Emma Jean! How many times have I told you not to take that skillet out of the oven by yourself?” He drew the child to him, resting her head against his chest. “You could have scalded yourself!” He smoothed the tangles in Emma Jean’s sandy blonde hair.

    “Now, now, child. Let’s not have any crying. Grab a rag from under the sink and the Pine Sol. We’ll make quick work of that ugly smudge.” He patted the child on the backside. “Nobody has to know; it will be our secret.”

    Grandpa turned his attention to the stove, removing the lid on the pot of pinto beans. Grandpa’s beans were fancier than Momma’s because he added ground beef, tomatoes, and onions. Emma Jean reckoned if you gotta eat beans, they might as well be fancy. She sat back on her heels, hands on her knees. “I think I got it, Grandpa. What do you think?”

    “That’s mighty fine child. Mighty fine indeed. Grab one of those potholders and put it on the table for these beans.”

    “Grandpa,” Emma Jean sprinted back into the kitchen, “can I turn the cornbread out?”

    “Do you think you’re big enough?”

    “I’m way taller than the counter now. You said I could when I got bigger.” Emma Jean puffed out her chest.

    “Alright, then.” Grandpa stood behind her. She wasn’t much taller than the countertop. He wrapped a towel around the handle and laid a melamine plate on top of the skillet. “Here we go, child. Now, put your left hand on the plate.” He covered her hand with his. “And get a good grip on the handle.”

    Emma Jean winced. The heat coming through the towel reminded her of the burn she got earlier in the evening. She squeezed her eyes tightly, hoping Grandpa didn’t see. He put his right hand under hers, gave the skillet a lift, and flip. Emma Jean shrieked with joy as she felt the cornbread thump out of the pan and onto the plate.

    “I did it, Grandpa!”

    “Take it to the table, EJ, and call your brothers to the table. I’ll round up your momma and daddy.”

    The screen door flapped behind her as she ran into the backyard to call the boys in for dinner. It was an all-out foot race between the boys to the back door. Emma Jean grabbed the handle and swung it wide as the two pushed their way through simultaneously. Grandpa smiled as he carried a bowl of fried potatoes and one of turnip greens to the table before stepping into the den. There, Momma and Daddy sat bent over a stack of paperwork.

    “Dinner,” he said. They looked up at him. Momma’s blue eyes were glassy and rimmed in red. The lines on Daddy’s forehead sat deeper today than yesterday. His eyes did not meet Grandpa’s as he laid the papers down and stood. He took Momma’s hand, pulling her to him. He kissed her forehead before passing Grandpa to enter the dining room.

    “Boys,” Daddy said taking his place at the head of the table, “show me your hands.” They stretched out their hands, pulling their shirt sleeves up to the elbow. Their father gave them the once-over before the boys flipped them so the back could be checked.

“Good job.” Daddy then nodded at Grandpa, who said grace. It was the same way he had for the last one hundred years; Emma Jean supposed.

“Everything looks good, Dad.” Momma smiled at Grandpa as she cut the cornbread and then filled Daddy’s plate. She always filled Daddy’s plate first.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. Momma’s shoulders relaxed, and she took a deep breath.

“All right boys,” Momma continued, “pass those plates.” The conversation shifted to the news of the day. Mr. Haldeman had testified before the House Committee all day, Momma said. Silently, Emma Jean added yeah, and he did it on all three channels. Why didn’t they just fix that water gate and go on about their business? Grandpa had fixed lots of gates in his time, never a water one, but Emma Jean was certain that he could. She imagined that Grandpa could do just about anything.

“Daddy,” Emma Jean swallowed and wiped the butter from her bottom lip, “why are they giving the president peaches?”

Momma and Daddy looked at each other, smiling. “Well, honey, they aren’t exactly giving him peaches,” Daddy reached for the bowl of potatoes. “They are impeaching him. That means that they believe he did something illegal, and they are holding these hearings to find out.”

Emma Jean nodded knowingly. “So, it’s like when Tommy Johnson stole that bike at school and everybody had to go tell the principal what they saw.”

“Something like that,” Daddy moved the top layer of potatoes to the side, looking for the brownest bits to spoon onto his plate. Daddy said that all the best food was the scoops that were the brownest. “What they think the president did is very bad. He has a lot of people around him, giving him advice that they have to talk to all of them about it.” He set the bowl down and continued, “And, EJ, there are bad people who are trying to cover it all up by lying.” Daddy reached for another piece of cornbread, “What does the Bible say about lying, EJ?”

“That God hates a liar,” she smoothed the hair out of her eyes.

“That’s right, sweetheart. And no one wants God to hate them. If you remember that all your life, you will be just fine. Now, finish your supper.”

Emma Jean hid a bite of turnip greens under a lump of potatoes and swallowed the whole bite without chewing. It was the only way she could eat them, hidden under something tastier. The vinegar lingered at the back of her throat, but a gulp of milk washed it down. The cool glass eased the burning sensation on her right hand. She wondered if not telling her parents about the dent in the floor would be a lie. She turned to look at Grandpa.

“Grandpa, are you ok?” Grandpa’s face looked weird; one side was regular, but the other reminded her of the mudslide that covered the road during Spring melt.

Grandpa tried to speak, but no words came out, only utterances. Momma jumped up from her chair, knocking it over backward. “Richie, go call 911.” Emma Jean’s older brother ran to the phone on the wall in the kitchen.

“Dad, can you hear me?” Grandpa turned his head to look at Momma. “Dad, say something.” Grandpa continued to struggle to find his words.

Richie came in from the kitchen. “The ambulance is coming, Momma. They’ll be here soon.”

Emma Jean sat transfixed on the patriarch of the family. How could he go from the formidable man who helped her hide her earlier mistake to an incoherent, frightened shell of his former self?

“He’s having a stroke, Piper,” Daddy said coming around to the side of Grandpa’s chair. “Emma Jean, Richie, Tony, you kids go out front and wait on the ambulance. Now.”

With that, they were outside. She could hear the siren in the distance. They would be there soon, and Grandpa would be ok. It had to be.