Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [45]
“Besides, he’s not too happy about that Kent Ballard you’re running around with.”
“What’s it to him?”
“You know how he always was. He don’t think anybody’s good enough for one of his little girls, and he’s afraid you’ll get mistreated again. He don’t think Kent’s very dependable.”
“I guess Kent’s proving Dad’s point.”
—
Carolyn’s sister Iris had dark brown eyes, unique in the family. When Carolyn was small, she tried to say “Iris’s eyes” once and called them “Irish eyes,” confusing them with a song their mother sometimes sang, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Thereafter, they always teased Iris about her smiling Irish eyes. Today Iris was not smiling. Carolyn found her in a bedroom smoking, holding an ashtray in her hand.
“I drew your name,” Carolyn told her. “I got you something I wanted myself.”
“Well, if I don’t want it, I guess I’ll have to give it to you.”
“What’s wrong with you today?”
“Ray and me’s getting a separation,” said Iris.
“Really?” Carolyn was startled by the note of glee in her response. Actually, she told herself later, it was because she was glad her sister, whom she saw infrequently, had confided in her.
“The thing of it is, I had to beg him to come today, for Mom and Dad’s sake. It’ll kill them. Don’t let on, will you?”
“I won’t. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. He’s already moved out.”
“Are you going to stay in Frankfort?”
“I don’t know. I have to work things out.”
Mom stuck her head in the door. “Well, is Kent coming or not?”
“He said he’d be here,” said Carolyn.
“Your dad’s about to have a duck with a rubber tail. He can’t stand to wait on a meal.”
“Well, let’s go ahead, then. Kent can eat when he gets here.”
When Mom left, Iris said, “Aren’t you and Kent getting along?”
“I don’t know. He said he’d come today, but I have a feeling he doesn’t really want to.”
“To hell with men.” Iris laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. “Just look at us—didn’t we turn out awful? First your divorce. Now me. And Laura Jean bringing that guy down. Daddy can’t stand him. Did you see the look he gave him?”
“Laura Jean’s got a lot more nerve than I’ve got,” said Carolyn, nodding. “I could wring Kent’s neck for being late. Well, none of us can do anything right—except Peggy.”
“Daddy’s precious little angel,” said Iris mockingly. “Come on, we’d better get in there and help.”
While Mom went to change her blouse and put on lipstick, the sisters brought the food into the dining room. Two tables had been put together. Peggy cut the ham with an electric knife, and Carolyn filled the iced tea glasses.
“Pappy gets buttermilk and Stevie gets Coke,” Peggy directed her.
“I know,” said Carolyn, almost snapping.
As the family sat down, Carolyn realized that no one ever asked Pappy to “turn thanks” anymore at holiday dinners. He was sitting there expectantly, as if waiting to be asked. Mom cut up his ham into small bits. Carolyn waited for a car to drive up, the phone to ring. The TV was still on.
“Y’all dig in,” said Mom. “Jim? Make sure you try some of these dressed eggs like I fix.”
“I thought your new boyfriend was coming,” said Cecil to Carolyn.
“So did I!” said Laura Jean. “That’s what you wrote me.”
Everyone looked at Carolyn as she explained. She looked away.
“You’re looking at that pitiful tree,” Mom said to her. “I just know it don’t show up good from the road.”
“No, it looks fine.” No one had really noticed the tree. Carolyn seemed to be seeing it for the first time in years—broken red plastic reindeer, Styrofoam snowmen with crumbling top hats, silver walnuts which she remembered painting when she was about twelve.
Dad began telling a joke about some monks who had taken a vow of silence. At each Christmas dinner, he said, one monk was allowed to speak.
“Looks like your vocal cords would rust out,” said Cheryl.
“Shut up, Cheryl. Granddaddy’s trying to tell something,” said Cecil.
“So the first year it was the first monk’s turn to talk, and you know what he said? He said, ‘These taters is lumpy.’ ”
When several people laughed, Stevie asked, “Is that the joke?