These ruminations fly away like dust the instant she catches sight of her children. Her lurching heart pauses and her mind goes blank as she meets their eyes and sees a sparkle of gladness there, undermining the slow indifference of their gaits, their hooded sweatshirts with dangling strings.
In the car, Cheryl cannot stop talking. Without pause, she finds herself itemizing the menu for Christmas dinner. It isn’t remotely authentic to prepare a holiday feast, of course, but the children expect it, and she harbors a private enjoyment in making it. She imagines what Comfort might have cooked for her own children—the three who remained, whom she must have loved with violent passion.
The meal begins with an appetizer of Indian pudding, then roast turkey with onion, stewed pumpkin, and skillet cranberries. Cheryl and Roger alone have dressed for the occasion, Cheryl in her red satin Brunswick gown, and Roger in waistcoat and cravat. Rebekah wears another floppy sweatshirt, her hair cropped at the ears in blunt waves. Amos hunches in a tight black T-shirt, dark bangs fringing his eyes. He resembles a sprite of the woods more than a man, but Cheryl knows better than to comment.
Instead, she talks. She tells them about the Slater house, rolls out a diatribe against the commission.
“But how do you know for sure, Mom?” Rebekah asks. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? You haven’t even met the new neighbors.”
“I know enough about the kind of people they are,” Cheryl answers. “And I know exactly how the house was marketed. The listing was shameless. Gorgeous two-acre property with house. It actually said that. With house. I truly doubt these people bought the Ezekiel Slater house for its historical importance. I know the type. They don’t want small, they don’t want charm.” Cheryl hears the venom rising in her voice. “They want open floor plans, kitchen islands, Viking ranges. They want two-car garages and gunite swimming pools in the backyard.”
Rebekah is silent. Amos pokes the turkey bones on his plate. After a moment, Roger lifts his flagon of ale.
“How are your classes going, Rebekah?”
Their daughter, eased by the release of tension, speaks at length, telling more than she normally might.
“I’ve decided to major in history,” she announces, and Cheryl feels her head lift like a balloon. “With a focus on colonial Africa.”
“Colonial Africa?” Cheryl echoes. “What about American history?”
“There’s a requirement for that, of course.” Rebekah grins.
“A requirement.”
“And I’ll be taking French, too, so I can read primary source documents. And I might audit a course in Afrikaans, if they offer it next year.”
The word Afrikaans hovers in the air for a long moment.
“Well, that does sound interesting,” Cheryl makes herself say. “I have to admit, though, I’m surprised they offer classes on the subject. Not to offend, but the African nations don’t seem to have done much with their independence. Not compared to the United States. It seems to me that a real revolutionary success story is right here in front of us.”
Rebekah stares. “I can’t believe you just said that, Mom. That’s cultural hegemony, pure and simple. Not to mention racist.”
“Cultural hegemony?” Cheryl blinks her eyes and lays her silverware gently on her plate. “Whatever does that mean?”
Roger sets his flagon down. “Cheryl.”
“I’m only asking. I’ve never heard of this term, this cultural hegemony.”
“What it means,” Rebekah says, “is that your definition of success doesn’t apply to the whole world.”
“Oh.” Cheryl nods. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Coming back here, it just reminds me how insidious nationalism always is. This place especially, with its fetishization of history and patriotism, is unbelievable. So much pride, but in what? This great country was founded on murder. Do you know how many Native Americans were massacred in the colonies?”
“Well, aren’t you a fount of knowledge.”
“Why don’t we talk about something else,” Roger says.
“Wouldn’t that be convenient,” Rebekah mutters, but does not continue.
Cheryl rises from her chair and collects the dinner dishes. She carries them into the kitchen, her shoes marking a slow, hollow beat on the floorboards. Alone in the buttery, she breathes in and feels the pressure of the stays at her ribs. Comfort Cook, she is certain, would never have suffered such insult. No child of her day would have dreamed of challenging her elders in this way. Comfort may have faced terrible trials, but this aspect of Cheryl’s work is undeniably harder. She imagines Comfort watching her, sympathizing. Strengthened by her commiseration, she retrieves the Marlborough pie for dessert.
When she returns to the table, Roger is straining to listen to Amos talk about core requirements.