No You Didn't

Two: Dinner at Jenny's

Dad and I bumped along the dirt road outside of town that led to Clay and Jenny's house. We still called it "Clay and Jenny's" even though Clay wasn't there physically and Jenny was only half there mentally.

It was always a sober ride every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday evening.

Even though Jenny wasn't related by blood, she was as much our family as anybody else. She'd bore my parents' grandchildren, after all, and loved Clay even through the worst tragedy.

"Mama said not to let the collards get too cold," I remarked, peeking inside the cloth-covered bowl resting on my lap.

"Going as fast as I can," Dad replied, going the speed of a turtle through molasses. "She knows better than to put me in charge of her vittles."

"It's not her fault that the women's council decided to plan a summer dance." I heaved a dramatic sigh.

"Oh, come on," Dad said. "You know you always have fun at those. We all do."

"But I can't look forward to them out of principal. It would be too out of character for me to be excited beforehand, you know?"

"I do not."

"Besides," I went on, "I hate the whole getting ready. Mama always makes it such a big fuss."

"That's why I ain't going."

"You know she's gonna make you."

"Let me dream, Vivian."

I laughed and looked out the window. The sun had already set, leaving the horizon bruised with tranquil color.

Tobacco fields stretched out on either side of the road. The seeds had been planted in early spring and the plants were just beginning to grow, dotting the fields in perfect green rows.

By the end of summer, the fields would be full of leathery green leaves. I loved the earthy smell it produced. It brought back scattered memories of all the summers before. Some memories were sweet. Some were very bitter.

We only lived about fifteen minutes away from Clay and Jenny. They'd inherited the land from our great-great-something-or-others and Dad had sold some of it to farmers, but kept one spot for us, one for Clay.

It had always been Clay's plan to build on his share of the land so he could stay close by and raise his family here in Ida Creek.

Now, the only person left was Jenny and her mother from Chicago.

The old pickup sputtered to a halt in front of a cabin-like house. It was only supposed to be a temporary establishment, but Clay and Jenny had their first daughter, Lily, just twelve months after they were married. Soon after came Colleen, Earl Jr., and baby Henry.

There'd been no time to construct an entirely new house, especially in the 60's when times were hard.

But after the children were gone and Clay was in prison, Jenny refused to move. She insisted on staying in the old house, leaving everything untouched exactly like the day it all happened.

If it weren't for Jenny, I would have otherwise hated going into the house. It loomed in my waking hours and haunted my sleeping ones.

But if that was what Jenny had to do to cope with it all, I would have moved in if she'd asked me.

I went inside while Dad got the casserole dish, knocking once before opening the door myself.

"Jenny!" I called, sounding much happier than I felt inside. "Mama made some green bean casserole, but she's at the women's council gabbing the night away. I don't know what all they do there, but I bet I can guess the schoolteacher's the hot topic of tonight..."