Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [46]
Instead of entering by the front door, I took the brick walk around the house to the back. I opened the screen door to the kitchen, leaned against the doorjamb, and grinned at the expression of surprise and chagrin on my sister-in-law's face.
But I believe I was more shocked than Frances. She had begun to put on weight the last time I had seen her, but in two years' time she had gained another forty pounds. She must have been close to one hundred and eighty pounds. Her rotund body was practically shapeless under the faded blue dressing gown she wore over her nightgown. Frances's face was still young and pretty, but it was as round and shiny as a full moon. Her short brown hair was done up tight with a dozen aluminum curlers. With a grimace of dismay, Frances put a chubby hand to her mouth.
“You would catch me looking like this!” she exclaimed. “Why didn't you let us know you were coming?”
I put an arm about her thick waist and kissed her on the cheek.
“Well,” she said good-naturedly, “you can stop grinning like an ape and sit down at the table. The coffee'll be ready in a minute. I was just fixing to start breakfast'
I sat down at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. Frances lifted the lid of the coffee pot to look inside, and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “You may have lost your voice, Frank,” she scolded, “but you can still write! We haven't heard from you in more than six months.”
I spread my arms apologetically.
“I guess I'm a fine one to talk,” she said, smiling, “I never write myself, but we do enjoy hearing from you once in a while.” Frances filled two white mugs with coffee, put the sugar and cream where I could reach it easily, and sat down across from me.
“Randy'll be down pretty soon. He was up late last night working on an article, and I didn't have the heart to wake him. He likes to work at night, he says, when it's quiet. But if it was any quieter in the daytime I don't know what I'd do. We never go anyplace or do anything anymore, it seems to me.” She sipped her hot coffee black and then fanned a dimpled hand in front of her pursed lips. “This isn't getting your breakfast ready now, is it?”
Because Frances knew how fond I was of eating, or because she used my visit, as an excuse, she prepared a large and wonderful breakfast. Fried pork chops, fried eggs, grits, with plenty of good brown milk gravy to pour over the grits, and fresh hot biscuits. I ate heartily, hungry after walking out from town, listening with stolid patience to the steady flow of dull gossip concerning various kinfolk and townspeople. I was finishing my third cup of coffee when I heard Randall on the stairs. As he entered the room, I got up to greet him.
“Well, well,” he said with false heartiness, holding onto my hand and grinning, “if it isn't the junior birdman!”
He patted his wife on her broad rump, crossed to the sideboard and poured a shot glass full of bourbon. He swiftly drank two neat shots before turning around.
“Welcome home, Bubba,” he said, “how long are you going to stay?”
He sat at the table, and I dropped into my seat again. Randall looked well. He always did, whether he had a hangover or didn't have one. His face was a little puffy, but he was freshly shaven, and his curly russet hair had been cut recently. His starched white shirt, however, was frayed at the cuffs. The knot of his red-and-blue striped rep tie was a well-adjusted double windsor, and his black, well-worn oxford flannel trousers were sharply creased.
When I managed to catch his eyes with mine, I shrugged.
“I see,” he nodded, “the enigmatic response. Before I came downstairs I looked outside, both in front