By the time Nat got back inside — because he’d purposely taken as much time as he could — the broken vase was gone, and the lace cloth had been replaced by a plain dark blue one.
“Dinner is served,” the old woman said. Her voice sounded unreal. Stiff.
Nat sat at the table and watched Eleanor and the old man carry out platter after platter of food. The baked ham, which looked honey-glazed, and which sizzled on top the way food does in television commercials. Green bean casserole. Yam casserole. Homemade biscuits. Green salad. Some kind of fruit pie.
“I’m really sorry about that little accident,” Nat said.
Eleanor missed a step on her way back to the kitchen. The old man shot Nat a glance and a little shake of his head. As if to say, no. Don’t. It’s better not mentioned.
Nat waited quietly for them to sit down.
When they did, a silence fell. A difficult pause. Nat wanted to reach for a slice of ham, but wasn’t sure if they were supposed to say grace. Or if the man of the house was supposed to reach first. Or some other rule Nat didn’t know, but probably should.
He could hear Feathers whimpering from the dog run, still wanting to play. He wondered if the dog had been complaining the whole time, and he had only just now noticed.
“Well, go ahead and dig in,” Eleanor said.
Nat grabbed the big serving fork and speared three slices of ham all at once.
He started eating the ham without even waiting for side dishes to be passed.
“Salad?” the old man asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Green beans.”
“Not a huge green bean fan.”
“You should try Eleanor’s. Don’t make up your mind until you try. She makes them with cream of chicken soup and those French-fried onion strips on top.”
“OK. I’ll try some.”
Nat wished Eleanor would say something. But she didn’t.
The old man put a dab of green beans on Nat’s plate, and he poked at them cautiously. Tried a bite.
“Hey. Wow. You’re right. These are really good.”
A tiny smile from Eleanor. But no words.
“And I’ll have a biscuit, please. And those yams look good.”
The old man passed him the yams. Anything with marshmallows on top had to be OK. He dished a mountain on to his plate and took a bite.
“Mmm. Orange. Tastes like orange. I wouldn’t have guessed orange. But it’s really good.”
Another tiny smile.
“You know, it was really nice of you to cook all this. I haven’t had a meal like this in years. Last really good meal I had was that night we went hunting. Well,” he said, turning to the old man. “You went hunting. And we had that roast duck and mashed potatoes and applesauce. I never forgot that meal. The whole three years I was inside. It’s like I could still taste it. Not all the time, but every now and then. If I tried. Or sometimes even if I wasn’t trying. When I wasn’t even thinking about it. Wasn’t even thinking about food. But then I would just taste it. Course, you did bring me that nice half a roast duck every birthday,” he said, looking again at the old man, who was looking down at his plate.
Silence. Either Nat talked or there was silence.
A cold feeling gripped Nat’s stomach. How bad was this, really? Worse than he had realized?
“And I guess the only reason I’m not counting that is because I didn’t get to heat it up, and there were no mashed potatoes. Or applesauce. But it was still good. But this, this is the best meal I’ve had in years. Literally. The food in there was so incredibly bad. You just can’t believe how bad it was. There were times when I’d fast for three days on just water and apples, because I couldn’t stand to eat it. But the apples were terrible, too. All full of spots and bruises. I think the fruit got given to them by farmers because it was too bad to sell. Or maybe they just bought it really cheap. But it was stuff too awful to take to the supermarket. Believe me.”
He paused. Hoping someone else would talk. Silence. So he plunged on.
“Every day at lunch there’d be this box of oranges at the end of the food line. But they weren’t even orange. They were almost all green. And I’d be plowing through this box trying to find a good one. But this guard who watched the food line, Gerry, he would always say, ‘Just take one. They’re all the same. Just take one.’ It was hard for me to believe that was true. Because they looked so bad. But really, he was right. They were all the same. Every day. All completely gross.”
Silence.
In the echo of it, Nat heard his words repeating back to him. As if hearing himself for the first time. As if standing outside of himself, watching and listening. It struck him hard that he sounded like a fool. Even to himself.
“I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. Aren’t I? I never seem to get that right. I either don’t talk enough or I talk too much. There must be a right amount to talk. But I can never seem to find it.”
Another tight, tiny smile from the old woman.
Nat looked down at the ham on his plate and realized he could be eating rather than talking. And yet, somehow — no matter how good the food, no matter how much he had missed eating like this — his appetite was running out on him fast.
He began eating slowly. Small, cautious bites.
Little else was said.
? ? ?
Nat lay under the covers, feeling small in the big bed. The girly, flowery quilt had been replaced with one a more boy-suitable plain hunter green. The room had been stripped of wall decorations and most furnishings, as though to invite Nat to fill it with himself.
He was able to absorb the fact that it reflected a great deal of thoughtfulness on his behalf. But it couldn’t make him feel any less hopeless.
The old guy came in to say goodnight, and Nat sat up in bed.
“I could buy her another vase,” Nat said. “I mean, not right now I couldn’t. But after I find work. You know, when I get my first paycheck. Whenever that is. Then I could.”
The old man pulled up a plain, cane-back chair and sat by Nat’s bed. The way he had on his first night here. So long ago now.
“It belonged to her late grandmother. That’s why she got a little emotional. She only has a few things from her grandmother’s house, because she has eight brothers and sisters and there was only just so much to go around.”
“Oh. Will you tell her I’m sorry?”
“She knows you’re sorry. And she knows anybody can have an accident. She just needs time to feel whatever she’s going to feel about it.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Then Nat said, “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
Nat laughed. “I got news for you. Lots of people don’t like me. And when they get to know me better? Well, that doesn’t exactly solve the problem. If you know what I mean.”
The old man smiled sadly. Patted Nat on the knee through the new quilt.
Nat was hoping he would say something. But instead he just rose to let himself out.
As the old man slid the chair back into the corner, Nat asked, “Do you even like me?”
A long silence. Too long.
The old man crossed to the bedroom door. Stood a moment with his hand on the light switch. “I see value in you,” he said softly.
“Is it inherent?”
The old man laughed, as if Nat had intended the question as a joke. But it had actually been a serious question.
“Yes. It’s inherent.”
“Does that mean yes or no?”
Nat watched the old man’s face for a moment. It was almost like watching someone think.
“Get some sleep,” the old man said. “You’ll be wanting to go out and look for a job in the morning.”
He snapped off the light and left Nat alone.
4 October 1978