Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [36]
“Silence gives consent!” she called. She pressed her hand to her belly, which had begun to protrude outward. To curve. Then, with a laugh, she cried: “Aye, so it does! Here comes Mia to the feast! May it serve both her and the chap who grows inside her! May it serve them very well!”
And she did feast, but not in one place and never from one of the plates. She hated the plates, the white-and-blue forspecials. She didn’t know why and didn’t care to know. What she cared about was the food. She walked along the table like a woman at the world’s grandest buffet, taking things with her fingers and tossing them into her mouth, sometimes chewing meat hot and tender right off the bone before slinging the joints back onto their serving platters. A few times she missed these and the chunks of meat would go rolling across the white linen tablecloth, leaving splotches of juice in nosebleed stains. One of these rolling roasts overturned a gravy-boat. One smashed a crystal serving dish filled with cranberry jelly. A third rolled clean off the far side of the table, where Mia heard something drag it underneath. There was a brief, squealing squabble, followed by a howl of pain as something sank its teeth into something else. Then silence. It was brief, though, and soon broken by Mia’s laughter. She wiped her greasy fingers on her bosom, doing it slowly. Enjoying the way the stains of the mixed meats and juices spread on the expensive silk. Enjoying the ripening curves of her breasts and the feel of her nipples under her fingertips, rough and hard and excited.
She made her way slowly down the table, talking to herself in many voices, creating a kind of lunatic chitchat.
How they hangin, honey?
Oh they hanging just fine, thank you so much for asking, Mia.
Do you really believe that Oswald was working alone when he shot Kennedy?
Never in a million years, darling—that was a CIA job the whole way. Them, or those honky millionaires from the Alabama steel crescent.
Bombingham, Alabama, honey, ain’t it the truth?
Have you heard the new Joan Baez record?
My God, yes, doesn’t she sing like an angel? I hear that she and Bob Dylan are going to get themselves married…
And on and on, chitter and chatter. Roland heard Odetta’s cultured voice and Detta’s rough but colorful profanity. He heard Susannah’s voice, and many others, as well. How many women in her head? How many personalities, formed and half-formed? He watched her reach over the empty plates that weren’t there and empty glasses (also not there), eating directly from the serving platters, chewing everything with the same hungry relish, her face gradually picking up the shine of grease, the bodice of her gown (which he did not see but sensed) darkening as she wiped her fingers there again and again, squeezing the cloth, matting it against her breasts—these motions were too clear to mistake. And at each stop, before moving on, she would seize the empty air in front of her and throw a plate he could not see either on the floor at her feet or across the table at a wall that must exist in her dream.
“There!” she’d scream in the defiant voice of Detta Walker. “There, you nasty old Blue Lady, I done broke it again! I broke yo’ fuckin plate, and how do you like it? How do you like it now?”
Then, stepping to the next place, she might utter a pleasant but restrained little trill of laughter and ask so-and-so how their boy so-and-so was coming along down there at Morehouse, and wasn’t it wonderful to have such a fine school for people of color, just the most wonderful!…thing! And how is your Mamma, dear? Oh I am so sorry to hear it, we’ll all be praying for her recovery.
Reaching across another of those make-believe plates as she spoke. Grabbing up a great tureen filled with glistening black roe and lemon rinds. Lowering her face into it like a hog