Tidsby by Mista Midas

CHAPTER 3

       The following morning I awoke with a start. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. I could tell by the soft light seeping through the window that the sun had not yet completely risen, but was peeking over the horizon. I climbed out of bed and went and relieved myself. Afterward, I freshened up and was getting ready to begin my day when I suddenly remembered that my grandfather had told me the day before that he wanted to talk to me about something. I decided to go back to my quarters and wait until he showed up.
       Laying on my bed, I gazed up at the ceiling, listening contently to the plantation coming alive; the cacophony of sounds: laughter, shouts, farm animals, birds, insects, and children—was one I happily welcomed daily.
       About an hour later, as I laid in a peaceful trance, I heard a soft knocking on my door. Believing it to be my grandfather I eagerly hurried to the door and snatched it open. I was utterly surprised to see Anabelle.
       I simpered.
       She frowned.
       "Why's you still laid up?" she demanded. I took it as a morning greeting; her way of saying good morning.
       "G'morn', An'belle."
       "Mornin'," she huffed. "Yo' breakfast is ready."
       No sense in refusing. As hungry as I was, I would be a damned fool to refuse her offer. Plus I noticed that ever since my grandfather had shown up she had become more relentlessly demanding in her pursuit of me; as if he had given her the right of way to have me.
       I chanced a prying glance at her face. My eyes lingered a little longer than I had intended. I noticed for the first time that though not pretty, Anabelle was a very beautiful woman. As if she had felt the change that had came to life inside me; the attraction I suddenly began feeling for her, she smiled coyly.
       "Go on back to the big house," I instructed. Even though I did not intend it to be, my tone of voice was more authoritative than it normally was. "I'll be there in a few."
       She nodded slightly. " 'Kay," she replied softly and walked off.
       Before I could make it to the big house, I could smell the mouthwatering aroma of fried fish. I wondered what my grandfather had done with the fishes we had caught.
       I walked up to the back door—which was open. I knocked lightly a few times on the doorpost. The smell of the fried fish was overpowering. Anabelle was at the stove. She turned around, and seeing me, she pointed at the table with the large wooden spoon she was using to cook. Without a word, I walked over to the small kitchen table and took a seat.
       Within minutes I was being served a hefty breakfast fit for a North American king: two of the fishes I had caught dipped in cornbread batter and fried succulently, a batch of warm, fluffy biscuits, a small bowl of cinnamon-flavored oatmeal, a few roasted potatoes, a big bowl of buttered grits, and some type of creamy meat-flavored gravy, that I asked, but she refused to tell me the recipe.
       After polishing off my breakfast I sat comfortably in the kitchen, sipping on a mug of strong black coffee. I could tell by the glow on Anabelle's face that she was proud. I complimented her on her cooking and thanked her over and over again for the breakfast.
       There was a sharp startling rap on the back door. I flashed a glance in the direction and saw my grandfather walking into the kitchen. I was so caught up in the small talks with Anabelle that I didn't even hear him walking up to the kitchen. He was dressed in his normal, but this time he had on a long black coat—that looked to have seen better days—covering his weapons. The only one visible was his rifle.
       "Mornin', missy," he greeted Anabelle with a polite nod.
       "Mornin'," Anabelle replied, bowing slightly.
       It dawned on me that contrary to my belief, my grandfather had not been sleeping in the big house. He glanced over and shot me a polite nod.
       "G'morn', grandpa," I greeted.
       "Grandson," he acknowledged and walked up and took the seat across from me. He looked at the mess of dishes and bowls on the table and smiled and shook his head. "Looks like this here young buck's been eating mighty fine," he chuckled. "You mind giving an old man some scraps?" he asked Anabelle.
       "You's won' be eating no scraps 'roun' here," she huffed, flashing him a toothy smile. "Not while I's in this kitchen." She commenced to heaping food on plates and bringing them to him.
       My grandfather ravenously annihilated his food. I watched as he took one of the fishes, separated the meat and cast the bones aside and then, as if the fish had done him wrong, devoured it in a few quick bites, and forced it down with spoonfuls of hot buttered grits.
       Within no time he had polished off his meal. Anabelle then poured a large mug of steaming hot coffee and sat it on the table before him.
       As my grandfather and I sipped our coffee, Anabelle removed all the empty dishes and began cleaning up the kitchen.