How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [88]
“Rhonda and I have a lot in common,” Zack says. “I guess since we work together we’ve thought that maybe something could happen.”
Office romance? We had one of those at Palacio del Rey. When the waitress and bus boy broke up, the strife between them could have been cut with any sharpened kitchen knife. Working anywhere near either of them had been a test of everyone’s sanity. We went home weary those nights.
As the children leap over the path toward us, Zack’s last words to me are, “It isn’t going to happen. It just won’t.”
Poor Rhonda.
I, who was seething with jealousy yesterday, am now overcome with sorrow for Rhonda. At the same time, I feel like shouting while doing a handstand. But I haven’t been able to do a decent handstand since second grade, and besides, my mother’s warning about a woman not exposing her emotions keeps me from doing anything. I give the stew two good stirs.
When Rhonda approaches me, she looks sweaty from the game of kickball. I offer her a juice box and then a smile.
Humans are the most fickle of God’s creations. Also the most hardhearted. Dogs are forgiving; they only know how to pump pureness through their arteries. Maybe I should rethink my opinion about dogs.
I cast a look toward Zack, who is on his way to the restrooms, Bubba and Dougy protesting behind him, “Why do we have to wash our hands again?”
Something about the way Zack is distraught over his relationship with Rhonda brushes against me like a soft sheet drying on the clothesline on a spring afternoon. He really cares about the feelings of others. He hates the uneasiness between Rhonda and him. Mom used to dry our clothes on a wire line strung between two cedar trees. Growing up, she told us that clothes hung on a line were the most sanitary, a claim I have since found to be odd. Probably because as the sheets and towels hung on warm afternoons, I would often come by and hold the ends of the cotton sheets in my hands and press my nose into the fabric, letting the aroma of sun and soap fill my lungs. My hands, after playing around the barn, were less than sanitary.
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When I am asked to offer the blessing over our meal, I look at Robert as if he’s made a mistake. “Me?” I want to say. “You want me to pray? Are you out of your mind? I am clearly the most selfish, jealous, angry person at this gathering, and you want me to talk to God? Aloud? In front of everyone?”
Then I look at Darren seated to my left and think of his burns. I glance at Charlotte and think of how she’s been abandoned again and again. All of us here are just mere hopeless creatures—except that we are loved by God. His love is saturated with an equal amount of consistency for everyone.
They are all waiting for me. Zack gives an encouraging nod, lowers his head.
I take in a breath and wish the earth would open and swallow me right now. I have no idea what I’m going to say. When was the last time I prayed audibly in front of a group? Then the answer comes to me. I fold my hands and close my eyes. “Dear God, thank you for each person here. Help us to grow in the love, patience, joy, peace, and forgiveness that you freely give to us. Thank you for this food and this time together. Amen.” As I say the word forgiveness, my heart feels a rapid tug. I blink back tears.
“Amen!” says Bobby. “Let’s eat!”
I stand to fill plastic bowls with stew, sniff a few times. No crying, not here, I tell myself.
As we eat, I realize that praying wasn’t hard. I just put into practice what I’ve learned while living in these rugged Smoky Mountains. I opened my heart and let it out. As Chef B would say, “She write her heart onto the pages of her journal.”
“Miss Livingston loves those fruits,” says Bubba as he reaches for a roll.
I smile at him.
Rainy says, “Miss Livingston taught us to make some really good things this year, and we’re eating soup from a can?”
“Dummy,