THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

            I don’t think I have ever had a better breakfast in my life. One thing’s for sure, as unsettling as this little adventure is, I have certainly eaten well. A black woman is at the stove, stoking the fire and placing thick slabs of bacon into a cast iron skillet. The meat sizzles, protesting against the extreme heat. She leaves the frying pan and removes a pan of thick fluffy buttermilk biscuits from the oven. Tossing the hot bread in a basket she places it on the kitchen table in front of me.

            “Thank you,” I say and she looks surprised. Emily eyes me from across the table then places her delicate hands in her lap, waiting. The woman hurries over to Emily’s plate and quickly butters her biscuit and then spreads on a thick layer of strawberry preserves. Emily doesn’t thank her; instead she lifts the steaming bread to her red lips and takes a small bite. I am disappointed to say the least and I sit in disbelief as the woman makes her way down the table doing the same for Elizabeth Faulkner. I sigh and grab the butter knife, buttering up my own biscuit.  I want to say something smart like, “My hands aren’t broken,” but I refrain seeing I am a guest and should mind my manners. Still I am not going to let this woman do something for me that I can certainly do myself.

            Elizabeth Faulkner however notices and makes her comment in the form of a question.         “Avery dear, doesn’t your family own slaves?”

            All eyes are on me, I can even see the black woman lending her ear my way as she flips the bacon. I can sense Quillan’s anxiety, anticipating my answer. If indeed I am masquerading as the granddaughter of Allen T. Griffin, it would be apparent that such a wealthy man would own a slew of Negros.

            I take a small sip of the fresh squeezed orange juice and dab the corner of my mouth with a napkin, making them wait while I discern the best way to answer without blowing our cover.

            “Why yes, we do.” Is all I say but I can tell she isn’t satisfied.

            “It just seems to me you act a tad bit uncomfortable with Pearl’s service. I can assure you she has washed her hands, we demand cleanliness here.”

            “Oh no, I am not concerned with Pearl’s hygiene,” I say. “It’s just that I can butter my own bread is all.”

            Elizabeth gives me a strained smile and cuts her eyes over to her husband. Something about sitting at a table with Mr. Brackett again, gives me the shivers but I must remind myself he is James Faulkner and it is him we must convince not to hang Lunar. I wonder what compelled him to do such a horrid thing. He seems nice enough, nothing like his friend Mr. Potbellied Butler. So instead of letting my answer stay with what I said, I decide to tread on sacred ground and do a little fishing. I hope Quillan doesn’t get angry.

            “We tend to treat our Negros as servants instead of slaves. We compensate them for their hard work.”

            I might as well have dropped the F bomb. James released his fork letting it fall onto his plate, Elizabeth choked on her coffee, and Emily went more pale if that is possible. I can’t see Quillan’s reaction because he is sitting right next to me but I do feel his body tense up. Pearl is stirring the scrambled eggs slowly, trying to listen to what will transpire next. I know I have to take control and quick. I must give an incentive for such a statement.

            “My grandfather hasn’t made his millions in ignorance. He is a savvy business man and knows how and when to invest. For example, if I have a goose that lays a golden egg the last thing I want to do is kill the goose, cause then I don’t get any more eggs do I? That’s what Pappy taught me, and all his children and grandkids. We find that if our Negros are content and feel their work is rewarded, then they produce more and do a much better job. Everyone’s happy in the end.”

            I take a quick drink allowing the tall glass to hide my nervousness.  

            Elizabeth laughs softly, “What would a negro do with money? No one would take money from them.”

            “Maybe not,” I say, “But some will, after all money is money. We teach our Negros to save up for when the day they are free.” I look at James Faulkner then at Emily hoping my next statement will make some kind of impact. “Things will change you know, things always change, you must know that.”

            There wasn’t much time for rebuttal after my prophetic disclosure. The grandfather clock announced the time reminding us all that church would be starting soon and if we were to attend services we must get the move on as my momma always says. Leaving the clean-up for Pearl everyone stands to leave. I am the only one who carries my plate to the sink; some habits can’t be broken no matter the time period. Again I catch disconcerting eyes but I don’t let it affect me until I see Quillan carrying his plate to the sink as well. I try hard not to grin, a big toothy grin.

            We drive our own carriage into town and I am glad. I really didn’t want to ride along with the Faulkner family. Actually I didn’t really want to go to church at all but I can’t evade that one. Our rented horse trots along the dirt road and as soon as we are out of earshot Quillan decides to comment on my breakfast antics. I brace myself, I’ve got it coming I know.

            “I don’t understand why you are afraid of so many things.” He says and his statement surprises me. I thought he was ready to attack for what I did at the table.

            I adjust my full skirt, shifting on the cushioned seat ready for another probing of my soul from Quillan. But before I can answer his criticism he continues.

            “A girl as pretty and smart as you should walk the earth with confidence.” I turn my head to see if maybe Emily was riding along with us. Was he referring to me? Taking his eyes off the road he looks my way, “What you did at the table was brilliant, not to mention very courageous.” Forget brains and bravery, he said I was pretty. I am ecstatic.

            You have an active progressive mind, and a kind one at that, but you have all these self-protective barriers up, that only inhibits your ability to live life.

            Nothing he can say will make me mad right now; he thinks I’m pretty and smart.

            “I do have barriers up,” I admit again for the hundredth time, “But it’s all about survival for me. If I don’t protect myself, who will?”

            “If you don’t quit barricading yourself behind your walls of self-protection, Prince charming can’t get in to rescue you.”

            I look at him and he smiles at me with his eyes. My heart leaps and my belly burns again. I realize I am having more fun than I ever have before.