Passing through Perfect (Wyattsville #3)(10)
“It’s sneaking around when you don’t come calling at the house.”
With no argument to come back with, Benjamin said, “I’m sorry, sir, it wasn’t my intent—”
“Perhaps not, but appearances are what they are.” Finch picked up his newspaper, then laid it back down again. “Delia claims you’re a farmer. That true, son?”
“Yes. Me and Daddy have a—”
“Daddy and I,” Finch corrected, then he went on to ask why a farmer was wearing an army uniform. The questions came one on top of another, and he didn’t allow time for answers. Ever since Delia told him she was in love with Benjamin, a barrage of angry thoughts had been banging against George’s head and once let loose they rumbled with an antagonistic roar.
“Delia’s mama and I didn’t raise her to be the type of girl who goes sneaking around behind her parents back and—”
When Delia walked into the room she heard George’s words and angrily stamped her foot. “Stop it, Daddy!”
The sound of Delia’s yell brought Mary Finch to the parlor. “George, are you still carrying on about—”
“Yes, Mama, he is,” Delia answered. “He’s embarrassed Benjamin no end.”
Mary gave a sad little shake of her head, then announced dinner was ready.
“Fried chicken will make everyone feel better,” she said, looking pointedly at George.
As it turned out their dinner conversation was only marginally better than the earlier one. Delia’s daddy kept pounding out questions, and before asking about Benjamin’s education he made a point of saying Delia had attended a private school and he’d graduated from Howard University.
About as uncomfortable as he could get, Benjamin had to admit that high school was the best he’d done. “When I signed up for the army, I figured fighting for our country was more important.”
His reasoning sounded honorable enough, but the truth was he’d signed up before the war started. The pay was good, and it was easier than working in the fields.
Once George moved past the issue of education, he focused on the negative aspects of being a farmer.
“Grinder’s Corner. That’s not much of a town, is it?”
“No, sir,” Benjamin answered. “It’s mostly farms, but nice enough countryside and less than an hour’s drive from Twin Pines.”
Benjamin had come to the house believing he was hungry, but he barely finished a drumstick and even that was aggravating his stomach. He nervously answered George’s questions one after another, and always with a deferential Yes, sir, or No, sir.
The one time Benjamin found courage enough to talk about how fond he was of Delia, George cut him off before he even got started.
“Do you know my daughter’s only sixteen?” he asked. Without giving time for an answer, he added that such an age was too young to be considering anything other than college.
Delia gasped. “Daddy! Mama married you when she was only fifteen!”
“Things were different then,” George said and went back to chewing on a piece of chicken.
After dinner they all moved to the front parlor. Delia and Benjamin played several games of checkers, and Mary told stories of how they’d moved from place to place.
“Being settled in one place for all your life sounds lovely,” she said. “I’ll bet your mama loves living in Grinder’s Corner.”
It was obvious that no one in the Finch family had ever been to Grinder’s Corner; it wasn’t a place a person could love.
“Mama passed on two years ago,” Benjamin explained and skipped past answering the question.
Benjamin had planned to ask George for his daughter’s hand in marriage, but the opportunity never arose. Whenever anything came up that linked him and Delia, George managed to dredge up some sort of unpleasantry.
At ten o’clock Benjamin stood to leave, and Delia stood with him.
“I’ll walk you out,” she said, hoping they could at least steal a goodnight kiss on the porch.
When George made a move to stand, Mary said firmly, “Sit down, George. I think Delia can handle this by herself.”
George fell back into his seat with no argument.
Benjamin
Delia warned me her daddy was uppity, and she sure enough told the truth. When he got to talking about how he studied at a fine college in Washington, D.C., I knew he was working his way ’round to asking what I done.
I said, Me and Daddy is farmers, which to my mind ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, but he curled up his nose like he was smelling sour milk. Preachers has got their own kind of uppity; it’s a holier-than-thou look that would have you believe you sinned even if you ain’t done nothing wrong. All preachers ain’t that way, but Mister Finch surely is.
I think it was ’cause I wore that uniform. I figured Delia’s daddy would be impressed with knowing I’d been a soldier, but he saw right through me. Mama always said a person shouldn’t let on like they’re more ’n what they are; I reckon she was right.
When I was on my way out the door Delia whispered she’d meet me by the movie house Tuesday evening. I’m real glad she ain’t letting her daddy’s dislike come between us. Thanks be to God.