Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [103]
Mr. Kitt settled soundlessly on the front four inches of an armchair. “Last night I ate at Mrs. Stamey’s,” he told them. (Sister Myra’s, he must mean. He refused to go along with the “Sister” and “Brother” custom.) “She served me a porterhouse steak her husband had cooked on the barbecue.”
“We’re just having roast beef,” Agatha said.
“That’s okay.”
Their grandpa came down the stairs. In the doorway he stopped and said, “Why, hello there! Doug Bedloe.”
“George Kitt,” Mr. Kitt told him. He rose by degrees and they shook hands. Of the two men, Mr. Kitt was the more dressed up. Their grandpa wore his corduroys and the wrinkled leather slippers that had no heels. “Can I fix you a drink?” he asked Mr. Kitt.
“No, thank you. Drink has been my ruin.”
“Ah,” their grandpa said. He studied Mr. Kitt a moment. “You must be the fellow from Ian’s church.”
“I am.”
“Well, my wife will be down any minute now. She’s just putting on her face.”
He took a seat on the couch next to Agatha. Agatha hadn’t dressed up either—Agatha never dressed up—but Thomas and Daphne had taken special care. Thomas’s heathery pullover matched the blue pinstripe in his shirt, and Daphne wore her favorite outfit: a purple gauze skirt that hung to her ankles and a man’s fringed buckskin jacket. She was twisting the silver hoop in one earlobe, a nervous habit she had. One of her crumpled black boots kept jiggling up and down. “Did you remind Ian to come straight from work?” she asked Agatha.
“I reminded him at breakfast.”
“I sure hope Miss Pennington doesn’t get here before he does.”
“Who’s Miss Pennington?” their grandpa asked.
“My teacher, Grandpa. We told you all this.”
“Oh. Right.”
“My fifth-grade teacher.”
“Right.”
“Fifth grade?” Mr. Kitt asked, looking anxious. “I detested fifth grade.”
“Well, you won’t detest Miss Pennington,” Daphne told him.
“Fifth grade was long division,” Mr. Kitt said. “I used to erase holes in my paper.”
“Miss Pennington’s super nice and she lets us bring in comic books on Fridays.”
The front door opened. “Here he is!” Daphne cried. But the first to enter the living room was a heavyset young woman in a business suit. Ian followed, carrying his lunch pail. He said, “Sorry if we’re late.”
We? The children looked at each other.
“This is Sister Harriet,” Ian said. “She’s new at our church. Harriet, this is my father, Doug Bedloe. You know Mr. Kitt, and I guess you’ve seen Thomas and Daphne at services. Over there is Agatha.”
If Sister Harriet had seen them, they had not seen her; or else they’d forgotten. She was extremely forgettable. Her lank beige hair hung down her back, gathered ineptly by a plastic barrette at the nape of her neck. Her face was broad and plain and colorless, and her suit—a straight jacket and a midcalf-length skirt-was made of some cheap fabric without texture. Also she didn’t seem to be wearing stockings. Her calves were blue-white, chalky, and her bulging black suede flats were rubbed smooth at the widest part of her feet.
“Oh, Mr. Bedloe,” she said, “I’m so pleased to meet you at last. And Mr. Kitt, it’s good to see you again.” Then she went over to the children. “Thomas, I sat right behind you in church last Sunday. I’m Sister Harriet.”
She held out her hand to each of them in turn—a square, mannish hand, with the fingernails trimmed straight across. There was a moment when the only sounds were shuffles and sheepish murmurs. “Um, how do you … nice to …” Then their grandma arrived. She was always slow on the stairs, gripping the banister heavily as she descended, but she must have guessed this evening that she was needed; for before she’d even entered the living room she was calling out, “Hello, there! Sorry I took so long!” This time the introductions went the way they were supposed to, with everyone talking at once and little compliments exchanged. “Isn’t that a lovely pin!” Grandma told Sister Harriet, picking out the one attractive thing about her, and Sister Harriet said it used to be her great-aunt’s. Then the doorbell rang and Ian