Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice

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СКАЧАТЬ Morgan’s return was enough reason for a family celebration, she thought, her lips curving in anticipation. It’d been ages since she’d spread the white damask across the dining room table and lit the candles in the polished candelabra. She’d make sherried she-crab soup, Morgan’s favorite. Chicken fricassee might be nice, she thought, jotting down ingredients on her list.

      Oh, how she’d love to have Nona’s biscuits. Her smile broadened. Nona’s biscuits… They were pure magic, like biting into air. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d enjoyed them. From time to time she stopped by Nona’s basket stand along Highway 17 to catch up, though it had been a while. Thoughts of Nona nagged as she added a few more items to her grocery list.

      “Something smells good.”

      Mama June’s head darted up to see Morgan enter the room. The sight of his bent head and lanky form in her kitchen once again filled her heart. His thick hair was spiky and damp from his shower, and his shirt of a pale blue that matched his eyes was wrinkled but fresh. He appeared a bit more relaxed, though his face still had the chalky sheen of deep fatigue.

      “Coffee’s hot, country ham is warming in the oven and the tasso gravy is thickening nicely,” she said in a cheery voice. “Looks like you could use some of all of the above. Go on, darlin’, sit down now. The table’s all set. The Post and Courier is there, too. You might enjoy catching up on the local news.”

      “Thanks,” he replied, moving with a preoccupied shuffle to the table.

      She hummed softly as she fell into the old pattern of preparing breakfast for her son. Time was, every morning she’d fussed like a hen at her chick, urging him to eat a hearty meal before he dashed from the house, hurrying because he’d slept too late. Morgan had always been as slim as a beanpole, no matter how much or how often he ate. Her gaze drifted back to her son. He seemed so different, yet so much the same. The cut of his jaw was like her own. His blue eyes like his father’s. His brown hair was still thick and in need of a good haircut, and he’d kept that lean, lanky physique, too, she thought, watching him stretch his long legs under the table. But the boy had filled out to a man in his chest and shoulders.

      Her heart constricted as she began filling his plate with grits, country ham and eggs. “So, tell me,” she said, opening the conversation. “What’s going on up in the wilds of Montana?”

      “Nothing much.”

      “I gather you still like it way out yonder?”

      “It suits me fine.”

      “I don’t know how you manage, living alone so far out. You’re so isolated. I’d think you’d get pretty lonely.”

      “I do all right.”

      So he was not going to be forthcoming. Well, there was more than one way to eke out information. She cut the heat on the stove, then brought the plate over and set it down in front of him.

      He stared at the food with eyes as wide as saucers. The food was piled high, overflowing the edges of the porcelain. A giant couldn’t eat all of it and she felt a flush of embarrassment. It was obvious she was trying so hard to please.

      “I’ll try to do it justice,” he said, picking up a fork.

      “Perhaps I got a little carried away. Just eat what you can,” she said, rubbing her palms on her apron. “I’ll freshen up your coffee.”

      She hurried to add coffee to his cup, then poured a cup for herself. To keep from standing and staring at him, she began rinsing out the frying pan.

      “Last time you wrote,” she ventured, “you said you were finished with all that bison-protection activity you were so involved in.”

      “We got legislation passed. Things are better. It was time to move on. Besides, the politics were demoralizing.”

      “But I don’t understand. Didn’t you win?”

      “It wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about preserving a natural resource.”

      She was being inquisitive and he was cutting her off again. It was a familiar impasse. Their few phone calls over the years had always left her digging for clues and feeling frustrated by the time she lowered the telephone receiver.

      Mama June’s brows furrowed as she returned to her dishes. She was silent for a moment, but when she was drying the pan, she glanced to the table and noticed that he’d already set his fork back on the table after only a few bites.

      “Too much salt?” she asked, concerned. “Preston always tells me I’m a heavy salter.”

      “No, it’s fine.” He picked up the fork again. “I was walking around upstairs, just looking around,” he said, his eyes on the fork he was twiddling between his fingers. “I went into Ham’s room.” He set the fork down. “I noticed that Daddy’s things are in there.”

      Mama June carefully folded the drying towel and set it on the counter. Morgan looked up at her with question burning in his eyes.

      “Yes,” she replied at length. “That’s his room now.”

      “Since when have you had separate bedrooms?”

      “I can’t really remember for how long now.” She could be evasive, too.

      She hesitated, wondering how much to share with her son. He wasn’t a boy, no matter how much she sometimes thought he was. He was a grown man and familiar with the ways of life. The trouble between her and Preston had been years in the making, a highly private, personal story between a husband and a wife.

      She never had been one for speaking out and voicing her inner thoughts and troubles to others. The way some women went on about personal matters always made her feel as if she’d peeked through their windows. She’d always been one to close her curtains at night, and to her mind, what room was more personal than the bedroom? Son or no, this wasn’t really any of Morgan’s business.

      “You needn’t look so shocked. It’s not all that uncommon after a certain age. And now with the stroke, of course, who knows what?” She carried more rolls to the table.

      “Stop serving me, Mama June!”

      She froze at his outburst.

      Morgan looked at her sheepishly and pulled out a chair beside him. “Come on, sit, Mama. You don’t need to cater. Please.”

      Mama June set the rolls on the table, then slid wordlessly into the chair.

      Morgan placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry about the way I just showed up on your doorstep.”

      “Oh, that!” she said, recovering herself and brushing the awkwardness away. “This is your home. You’re here. That’s all that matters to me. It will mean so much to your father, too. You can’t know.”

      She saw anguish flash in his eyes before he dropped his hand. “Yeah, well…”

      “It will.”

      After a minute he said, “I should go see him. Do they allow visitors?”

      She heard his declaration as duty rather than heartfelt СКАЧАТЬ