The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [40]
Haint purple. It was a thought.
The door opened before I could knock.
There stood Tabitha, a smirk on her face: What took you so long? She nodded, pulled the door open, and Miss Dinah hollered from inside, “She can feel in the floor somebody coming up the porch. No surprises round here.”
The first thing I took in, even before I got through the door, was the smell: biscuits, bacon. Hot food waiting, no matter I’d been expected at six o’clock this morning.
I stepped in, and stopped.
I didn’t know what I’d expected of the place; though I’d been here so many times before, I’d never actually been inside. I’d never given it a thought, really, only assumed it’d be like every other black’s house I’d been in: a TV, a sofa, a table and chairs, and somewhere a picture of Jesus on the wall. Deevonne’s house, and Jessup’s, LaKeisha’s and Tyrone’s houses. The only blacks’ houses I’d ever been in.
Not any different from my own, to tell the truth.
But here.
Here there were books. Everywhere.
Bookshelves lined the walls, from floor to ceiling. Books were piled in stacks on the floor, too, and lay on a coffee table to my right. A sofa sat just past the coffee table, behind it bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and at either end of the sofa were more books piled up.
The only clear wall space in the whole room was across from the sofa, where a set of shelves stopped three feet from the ceiling. There, centered on the wood paneling, was a framed photograph of Benjamin Gaillard in full Marine dress uniform. The American flag was behind him, and he seemed maybe about to smile, his eyes right on me, like he was ready to tell me something I could use.
The kitchen was to my left, a little counter right there where, if it’d been any other place, there might have been a couple of stools so you could sit, eat, talk to whoever was at work in the kitchen. But beneath the counter were bookshelves, all full. A hallway led off the kitchen, back into the house, and from where I stood I could see bookshelves down that way as well.
Unc sat at the table in the kitchen, sunglasses on but with the baseball cap off. He was smiling at me, one leg crossed over the other, stick behind him and leaned against the bookshelves, floor to ceiling, behind him.
Bookshelves in the kitchen.
Miss Dinah, dressed in one of the same old flowery print dresses she always wore, was bent over in front of the oven, then stood, in her hand a plate heaped with biscuits and bacon, a puddle of grits.
“Breakfast at noon,” she said, and gave me something of the same smirk Tabitha had: What took you so long?
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, and turned, looked for Tabitha. She was gone.
“Hurry ’fore it goes cold,” Miss Dinah said, and I went around the counter, stood at the table, next to Unc. A place had already been set: napkin, fork, knife.
“Quite a luxury,” he said. “Sleeping till noon. Like you’re the Prince of Wales or whatnot.”
Miss Dinah put a hand at her hip, the plate still in her other hand.
Unc said, “Take a load off, son.” He’d lost the smile now.
I said, “Why’d you let me sleep for so long? Unc, we got to get going,” and soon as I said it, I wondered, Get going for what? To where? Forty-eight hours to get what done?
“You don’t have a good breakfast, you not going to have a good day,” Miss Dinah said, and set the plate on the table.
I’d kissed this woman’s daughter.
I sat down, looked from her to Unc to her again. I said, “Where’s Tab—” and stopped. Miss Dinah’s jaw got a little bit tighter, her eyes narrowing the smallest bit.
I scooted my chair in, without looking at her said, “Where’s Dorcas?”
“She’s got a little homework assignment,” Unc said.
He had his Braves cap in his hand, was turning it with his fingers, a habit I’d seen him do a million times when he was worried over something: somebody