She was definitely up to something.
Thanksgiving dinner unfolded as it had every year. Except nothing was the same. My father was in pajamas, my mom’s chair was empty, and I was holding hands with a Caster girl under the table. For a second, it was overwhelming—feeling happy and sad at the same time—as if they were tied together somehow. But I only had a second to think about it; we had barely said “amen” before the Sisters started swiping biscuits, Amma was spooning heaping mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy on our plates, and Aunt Caroline started with the small talk.
I knew what was going on. If there was enough work, enough talk, enough pie, maybe nobody would notice the empty chair. There wasn’t enough pie in the world for that, not even in Amma’s kitchen.
Either way, Aunt Caroline was determined to keep me talking. “Ethan, do you need to borrow anything for the reenactment? I’ve got some remarkably authentic-looking shell jackets in the attic.”
“Don’t remind me.” I’d almost forgotten I had to dress up as a Confederate soldier for the Reenactment of the Battle of Honey Hill if I wanted to pass history this year. Every February, there was a Civil War reenactment in Gatlin; it was the only reason tourists ever showed up here.
Lena reached for a biscuit. “I don’t really understand why the reenactment is such a big deal. It seems like a lot of work to re-create a battle that happened over a hundred years ago, considering we can just read about it in our history books.”
Uh-oh.
Aunt Prue gasped; that was blasphemy as far as she was concerned. “They should burn that school a yours ta the ground! They’re not teachin’ any kind a his’try over there. You can’t learn ’bout the War for Southern Independence in any textbook. You have ta see it for yourself, and every one a you kids should, because the same country that fought together in the American Revolution for independence, turned clear against itself in the War.”
Ethan, say something. Change the subject.
Too late. She’s going to break into the “Star Spangled Banner” any second now.
Marian split a biscuit and filled it with ham. “Miss Statham is right. The Civil War turned this country against itself, oftentimes brother against brother. It was a tragic chapter in American history. Over half a million men died, although more of them died from sickness than battle.”
“A tragic chapter, that’s what it was.” Aunt Prue nodded.
“Now don’t get all worked up, Prudence Jane.” Aunt Grace patted her sister’s arm.
Aunt Prue swatted her hand away. “Don’t tell me when I’m worked up. I’m just tryin’ ta make sure they know the pig’s head from its tail. I’m the only one doin’ any teachin’. That school should be payin’
me.”
I should have warned you not to get them started.
Now you tell me.
Lena shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’ve just never known anyone who was so knowledgeable about the War.”
Nice one. If by knowledgeable you mean obsessed.
“Now don’t you feel bad, sweetheart. Prudence Jane just gets her britches in a twist every now and again.” Aunt Grace elbowed Aunt Prue.
That’s why we put whiskey in her tea.
“It’s all that peanut brittle Carlton brought by.” Aunt Prue looked at Lena apologetically. “I have a hard time with too much sugar.”
A hard time staying away from it.
My dad coughed and absentmindedly pushed his mashed potatoes around his plate. Lena saw an opportunity to change the subject. “So Ethan says you’re a writer, Mr. Wate. What kind of books do you write?”
My dad looked up at her, but didn’t say anything. He probably didn’t even realize Lena was talking to him.
“Mitchell’s workin’ on a new book. It’s a big one. Maybe the most important one he’s ever written. And Mitchell’s written a mess a books. How many is it now, Mitchell?” Amma asked, like she was talking to a child. She knew how many books my dad had published.
“Thirteen,” he mumbled.
Lena wasn’t discouraged by my dad’s frightening social skills, even though I was. I looked at him, hair uncombed, black circles under his eyes. When had it gotten this bad?
Lena pressed on. “What’s your book about?”
My dad came back to life, animated for the first time this evening. “It’s a love story. It’s really been a journey, this book. The great American novel. Some might say The Sound and the Fury of my career, but I can’t really talk about the plot. Not really. Not at this point. Not when I’m so close… to…” He was rambling. Then he just stopped talking, like someone had flipped a switch in his back. He stared at my mom’s empty chair as he drifted away.