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Sophie
Dallas and I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up. It’s strange how all the years and all the miles apart seem to just melt away. I thought I’d have to grovel for her forgiveness or that maybe we would be too different now and the friendship of the little girls we’d once been wouldn’t translate into one for the adults we now are, but it’s easy. I guess that’s just how it goes with true friendship. No matter how long you’re apart, you can pick back up the second you find your way back to each other. No anger. No resentment. No explanations or apologies needed.
I hate to see her drive away as I wave to Mrs. Henderson, who came by to pick her up. She felt like an ally in this hostile environment.
Okay, maybe not hostile per se, but I definitely feel like an outsider, and it’s uncomfortable, to say the least.
My stomach growls, and I venture inside to find Aunt Doreen and Aunt Ria in the kitchen, kneading what looks like enough dough to make biscuits for the entire town.
“What are you two doing?”
“Starting supper,” Aunt Ria answers.
I look at the clock above the stove, and it says 2:04 p.m.
“Isn’t it awfully early for that? And how many people are you cooking for anyway?”
“The family and some of the staff. That’s Jefferson and Madeline, Braxton and Elle, Pop, Emmett, the two of us, Walker and Silas, two of the boys who work for us … and you, dear. Those men get up and start working at the break of dawn, and they’re starving by four p.m. That’s when they end their day. So, we try to have supper on the table by four thirty p.m. sharp.”
Di “No one is home until well after six p.m. in the city. We don’t even think about di “Eight p.m.?” Aunt Ria gasps in question. They both laugh. “That’s bedtime around here. We’re usually up and at it by four a.m. So, nine p.m. is a stretch for us. If we tried to feed those boys that late, there would be a riot,” she informs. “It’s like you guys live on a different planet,” I accuse. “I seem to remember a little girl who woke with us and helped gather eggs to make breakfast well before it was time to catch her school bus,” Aunt Doreen muses. “Well, now, she is an adult who still gets up way too early to fight Midtown traffic, and coffee is usually her only breakfast.” “Sounds like you need more rest and better food to fuel your day, Sophia Doreen.” Aunt Ria has her hands on her hips and is giving me her stern, disapproving look. I forgot what it felt like to have her focus on me. It’s quite intimidating. “I’ll get there. One day. I just opened my own jewelry design business a few months ago, and everything has been happening so fast.” “Life needs balance. It can’t be all work. And the good Lord only gave us one body. We have to take care of it. You don’t want to wear it out too early, do you?” Aunt Ria gently scolds, and they both turn their motherly stares on me. This is laughable, coming from the two women who work harder than most people I know in Manhattan. I start to argue, but my good ma “No, ma’am,” I quickly agree. I grab a banana from a bowl on the kitchen table and watch them continue to work. “Can I help?” I effectively change the subject. Aunt Doreen’s eyes light up at my offer, and she moves down the counter as Aunt Ria hands me an apron. “What are we making?” “Dumplings. Here, just knead it like this and then take and sprinkle a little flour on the counter. Pinch off about this much and place it in the center.” I watch as Aunt Doreen takes a batch the size of a softball and uses a rolling pin to roll it out in a thin sheet. “Then, cut it into strips about this thick.” She picks up a strip to show me. “And lay it over here.” She places it on a pan to her right. “Got it?” “Yes, ma’am.” The three of us work in peaceful silence until two pans are overloaded with dumplings. Then, we set to shredding the chicken, which was boiling in the large cast iron pots on the stove. Once that’s done and the chicken and dumplings are back simmering in the stock, we start stripping the Silver Queen corn and shucking peas. Back in New York, we have a small community garden for Chelsea residents, and I’ve had the best intentions of contributing to and taking advantage of the fresh vegetables, but I never seem to get around to it. If I’m not eating at restaurants or ordering takeout, the closest I come to fresh, homemade food is heating up steamed veggies in the microwave and baking a chicken breast for one. I forgot how much I enjoy being in the kitchen and how rewarding it feels to make food to feed your family with your own two hands. Just as I finish the last of the peas and get up to discard the pods, the back door swings open, and Daddy walks into the kitchen. “Ladies.” He nods his head in our direction and scoots to the sink to fill a canteen with water. Then, he turns and leans against it. He focuses on me as he takes a drink. “You pla “Yes,” I answer him, but I keep my eyes on the bowl in my hands. “Good. It was rude of you not to show up at the table last night after Madeline and your aunts prepared a meal and held supper just for you.” I lift my head and look him in the eyes as anger flares. “I didn’t ask anyone to hold anything for me,” I snap. “I don’t know how they do it up there in New York, but around here, when people go out of their way to accommodate you, you show a little appreciation.” I set the bowl down on the counter hard. “Are you going to try to parent me now, Jefferson? Teach me how to behave? Because, by my calculations, you’re about two decades too late. I’m already grown, and you don’t get to raise me now. I was tired and overwhelmed last night. I couldn’t have eaten if I tried, especially with everyone looking at me like I was some kind of sideshow freak.” “No one thinks you’re a freak, Sophie,” Aunt Doreen interjects. Daddy just looks at me for a few minutes and doesn’t say a word. Then, he stands to his full height and says, “All right. See you gals at supper.” He takes his canteen and heads back out the door. That’s it. I guess having a real and candid conversation about the last twenty years is off the table. I shouldn’t have wasted my time coming here, thinking I might get any answers or the closure I need. Sunday and my flight back to my real life can’t come fast enough. “He’s not good with words. Never has been,” Aunt Ria explains as she watches him retreat through the backyard. “I need the words,” I whisper into the kitchen. She turns, looks at me, and nods. “You deserve them. Give him time. He’ll come around.” “He’s had a lot of time, Aunt Ria. Not sure I can give him much more.” With that, I take off the apron and head to my—Aunt Doreen’s room to grab my sketchpad. Then, I poke my head back in and ask them if there is anywhere with decent shade besides the front porch. “Yes, there’s a huge boo-hoo tree in the backyard, and it gives great shade. Just grab a quilt out of the living room,” Aunt Doreen answers over her shoulder as she washes a pan in the sink. “Okay, thanks,” I say as I start to head to the living room. Then, I stop. “Wait, what? What’s a boo-hoo tree?” I ask in confusion.