Chapter Six
Jessica
We were seated in the dining room with Papa in his usual spot at the head of the table and Mama to his immediate right. Normally, I sat to his left, but today, Mr. Roberts sat there, and I was next to him.
Mama asked, “Kevin, would you like to say grace?” and I immediately bowed my head. That’s when I felt Mr. Roberts grab my hand.
I looked up to see him give me a smarmy smile.
“We usually hold hands at our house when we pray.”
My mother exclaimed, “Yes, of course!” and quickly reached for my father’s hand.
I knew Papa was cringing inside as he took Mr. Roberts’ hand.
He hated holding hands with a man, that’s why he always positioned himself between Mama and another female at church.
It’s also why we didn’t hold hands when we prayed before eating—even though my brothers only came over anymore on holidays and special occasions. And they brought their wives.
I didn’t really hear Mr. Roberts’ prayer; I was too focused on trying to figure out what the heck was going on—why were my parents trying so hard?
I got Mr. Roberts was an elder, but we’d had elders over before, and they’d never acted this way.
When I heard everyone say, “Amen,” I chimed in with my own.
My mother turned to me and suggested, “Why don’t you serve, since you made it?”
Eyeing my mother warily, I stood and asked my father for his plate.
“You know what I like,” he said with a warm smile.
That’s it—I’m in the Twilight Zone.
I loaded his plate and handed it back to him, then asked for Mr. Roberts’.
“Chicken and dumplings?”
He nodded his head. “Yes, please.”
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Of course.”
“Green beans? Cole slaw?”
“Yes to it all. I can’t wait to try your cooking.”
Why?
Of course, I didn’t ask that. I just smiled like the good girl I was and handed him back his plate.
Mama handed me hers and said, “I’ll have everything, too. Just not as much.”
After serving everyone else, I finally was able to fix my own plate.
I had a new-found respect for my mother.
She used to serve all six of us before ever being able to eat herself.
Although, I never understood why my father was so against just passing the dishes around the table and insisted on my mother serving us.
Or why my mother never argued.
Another thing I was going to do differently in my house.
“This is excellent, Jessica,” Mr. Roberts said with his mouth full of food.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I snuck a glance at Mama. My brothers used to get smacked upside the head for talking with their mouths full at the dinner table.
Mama seemed intent on studying the contents of her plate and refused to look up to meet my gaze.
Papa carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin, then said, “So, Kevin, did you catch the Braves game last night?”
Mr. Roberts shoveled more food in his mouth before replying, “I’m more of a White Sox fan, myself.”
The nearby Kannapolis Cannon Ballers were a farm team for the Chicago White Sox, so it wasn’t unusual for people around here to root for the White Sox.
At least Mr. Roberts didn’t say he was a Phillies fan. That might have gotten him thrown out without dessert. Papa was a die-hard Atlanta Braves man. So die-hard, my brothers’ names were Andruw, Dale, and Aaron, and our dogs have included Chipper, Maddux, Freddie, and Javi.
The sad irony was the only Bradbury child with any interest in baseball was me—the girl named after a minor biblical character.
My father nodded thoughtfully before murmuring, “They’re having a tough season so far.”
“And how are the Braves doing?”
“They’re up by four games,” I blurted out without thinking.
A hint of a smile ghosted my father’s lips.
I truly believed it was my love of baseball that had kept my dad from kicking me out when I’d told my parents I was pregnant.
Mr. Roberts’ smile didn’t reach his eyes when he replied, “How nice of you to take an interest in your father’s team.”
Yeah, my love for the Braves might have begun because of Papa’s influence, but he wasn’t why I followed them so closely now.
However, I knew better than to correct Mr. Roberts.
My mother must have been worried I was going to do just that because she interjected, “Jess got offered a job today.”
Papa’s brows furrowed as he thoughtfully chewed his food before asking, “Where?”
Before I could reply, Mama answered, “Beaumont Bakery.”
Mr. Roberts piped in, “Beaumont Bakery? Wasn’t the girl who owns that kidnapped?”
Papa nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, Earl Schilling and his nephew.”
What? Oh my god!
I’d read about that. I’d had no idea it had been Lainey. Meeting her today, I would have never known she’d suffered such an ordeal.
Mr. Roberts observed, “She had a baby out of wedlock.”
So? What’s the point? That justifies Earl and his nephew kidnapping her?
My mother replied, “I think her husband was Shawn O’Brien—the Marine who was killed in action in December.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that she was his widow.”
Everyone knew about Shawn O’Brien’s death. A local boy had gone off to war and made the ultimate sacrifice for his country. He was a hero, and people had honored him for weeks after his death.
I hadn’t realized he was Lainey’s son’s dad. Her conversation with Jade made a lot more sense now. And I had a whole new respect for Lainey.
I’d expressed my sympathy to her earlier, but learning Shawn was the man in question made my heart hurt even more for her. Although, she’d said she was single, not widowed—not that that made the pain hurt any less.
Still, I wasn’t about to tell anyone at the table I didn’t think they’d been married. Especially since Mama had just essentially vouched for her.
I wondered why she’d done that.
My dad quietly asked, “What about Ruthie?”
“Lainey says I can bring her with me.”
“How many hours a week?”
I hesitated. “She said it can be full-time if I want.”
His mouth turned down, and he shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’d be making above minimum wage,” I countered, casting a glance at Mr. Roberts before continuing. I really didn’t want to be discussing family business in front of someone who wasn’t a Bradbury, but since my parents didn’t seem to mind… “I’d be able to pay you rent.”
“I don’t see the harm, Henry,” Mr. Roberts chimed in, like he was entitled to an opinion. “She’s not going to school this fall. She can get a job and make a little money for a while.”
I thought he was out of line, butting into our business. However, since he was siding with me, I didn’t dwell on it.
My dad looked across the table at my mom with a scowl. Still, as he stabbed his mashed potatoes with a fork, he grumbled, “How are you going to get there?”