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WHILE GRANDMA SCRAMBLES eggs, Mama begins running the bread through the toaster. It’ll burn if left to its own, so she stands with one finger on the toaster’s lever, ready to flip it up at the first scent of charred crust. Caroline busies herself by rinsing the grounds from the coffeepot and pouring the orange juice, and Annie sits at the table with Daddy and Abraham Pace because it’s her special day and Mama says no chores on a young lady’s day of ascension. She also says that’s why they’ll be skipping church this morning. That and it’s setting day, though Annie thinks it’s mostly because the last Baine is dead and that will have folks talking.
Abraham will eat in a hurry today. Normally, every other year on this day, Daddy would too. The dry weather early last month meant easy work for the plows, and the rains earlier in the week softened the soil. It’s all made for a perfect day. Annie can smell it this year. The rich soil. She can smell it like she never before has. It’ll be black, cool to the touch, silken if rubbed between two fingers. The men will walk in straight rows that have been cut through Abraham Pace’s land. They’ll drop the tender plants, being careful of their green leaves and feathery roots. Some will feed the machine that drops the seedlings. Others will tend the dirt, pat it down just so. Others still will drop water. Abraham inherited all his daddy’s land, so says Grandma, and every year, he buys up more and more as other fellows find the going too tough. It’s Abraham’s best day, Daddy’s worst.
As Grandma whisks her eggs, she occasionally glances over a shoulder to see if Annie is still in her seat and hasn’t yet been taken by whatever put that empty rocking chair in motion. When Annie catches her staring, Grandma makes like she’s looking out the window beyond Annie’s shoulder or checking the clock over the door. Grandma, with hair that isn’t pinned quite as neatly this morning and apron strings that are twisted, is worried because when an empty rocking chair rocks, someone dies. She is fearing that the someone to die is going to be Annie. But someone already did die: Mrs. Baine. All that’s left is for someone to come home.
“You’ll be staying close to the house today, won’t you, Annie?” Grandma asks the third time Annie catches her staring. “Could use your help with the cake and such. You’re better with the icing than me. You whip it so nice and smooth. She should stay close to home, don’t you think, Sarah?”
Mama nods but never turns away from her toaster. “Wouldn’t hurt,” she says. “Yes, close to home.”
Mama would normally scold Grandma for encouraging the know-how in that way, but Mrs. Baine dying has weighed heavy on Mama and she can’t think about much more than that toast and keeping it from burning.
And while Mama is intent on keeping that toaster from burning her toast, Daddy is intent on watching Mama. As Mama stands, one hand resting on the toaster’s lever, the other wrapped around her waist, Daddy leans back in his chair, eyes heavy from being tired or from too much whiskey, and sighs every so often as if he’s feeling sad.
“Buell’ll be coming out this morning,” Daddy says, studying the back of Mama’s head. When Mama doesn’t turn or answer him, he stands, walks up behind her, and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Probably want to talk to you.”
Mama shifts a half step to the right, away from Daddy. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for the hand that had been on her shoulder, but before she can get ahold of him, Daddy slips back into his chair.
“I’m sorry, John,” Mama says again. “I’m not myself this morning.”
“It’s no wonder,” Grandma says, wrapping one of her crocheted hot pads around the skillet’s handle and taking up her eggs. “You let her be, John.”
“What makes you think he’ll want to talk with me?” Mama says, turning back to her toast.
“Trying to figure what happened to Cora, I suppose,” Daddy says.
Grandma dumps eggs first on Abraham’s plate, scraping them from the bottom of the cast-iron skillet with a fork, and dumps the rest on Daddy’s.
“I can sure enough tell Buell Fulkerson what happened,” she says, sliding the salt to Abraham.
He holds up a hand and pats his stomach. “Abigail says too much salt is causing me difficulty.”
Grandma picks up the glass shaker, gives two shakes directly over Abraham’s plate, and starts another batch of eggs.