The Almost Sisters(23)

I sneaked a peek around the table, and Wattie was the only person with her eyes closed. Birchie glared disapproval at Lavender’s hand, as if it were the blood-soaked paw of some unclean animal. Lavender stared off sideways, oblivious, not listening. When she saw me watching, she snapped an appropriately holy look onto her face and shut her eyes.

“In the name of Jesus, I pray these things,” Wattie said. Eventually.

We all echoed her “Amen.”

All of us but Birchie, who was now staring openly at Lavender, trouble written in the powdered creases of her forehead.

“I’m really glad you set the table in here,” I said to call her attention.

I wanted to get Birchie talking, but I also meant it. Usually a single extra person was enough for Birchie to declare that we had “company” and move us to the very formal dining room with its massive walnut furniture. There a huge china cabinet loomed against the longest wall, chock-full of silver pieces and Birchie’s mother’s wedding china. My dining room at home featured a gaming table and the built-in china hutch held my Wonder Woman action figures. Eighty-seven mint-in-package versions, dating back from 1966. I did not do formal very well.

Birchie peered at me across the table. “Beg pardon?”

I said, “I meant I enjoy eating here, in the kitchen nook, like folks.”

Birchie looked to Wattie’s place, blinking with myopic suspicion when she found Lavender again instead.

“Pass the salt,” Wattie said, and Birchie located her across the table. She smiled in obvious relief, handing the shaker across. Wattie held Birchie’s gaze, cuing her. “This is a fine place for supper. As Leia’s niece, Lavender counts as family.”

“Yes. Lavender counts as family,” Birchie parroted. I didn’t like the way her words matched Wattie’s so completely.

I said, “It’s much cozier here anyway.”

Birchie turned her bird-eyed gaze on me. “Well, I like a dining room at times. A meal with company should feel like something of an occasion. Still and yet, I do think it aids my digestion when my father isn’t watching every bite I chew. He doesn’t like for me to be so stout.”

She said it as if her actual long-dead father were waiting in the dining room to disapprove of the butter on her cornbread. I hoped she was making a little joke, referencing his oil portrait, hanging on the wall behind the table’s head.

I told her, “If you want me to, I can take your father’s picture down. There’s a ton of other paintings in the attic. I could dig out that pair of ship paintings you always liked. They’re about the same size.”

“You think it would be that easy to take my father out of this house?” Birchie said, amused. “It can’t be done! You could burn that portrait, but he would still be present. My father was born in this house, and his picture has been hanging on that wall for decades. He never was an easy man to shift.” And this was purely, purely Birchie. She was still in there, even if the lying had been going on for longer than I’d hoped. I buttered my cornbread, peeking sideways at Wattie. I found her staring openly at me, as if to say whatever the gramma version of “In your face” might be.

“So the portrait stays,” I said, taking a bite. If Wattie had made this batch of cornbread, she’d done it perfectly. It had crisp edges and a tender middle, like a salty doughnut. It tasted like my childhood.

“I think the portrait must stay, yes,” Birchie agreed, and then she added, “Even though Daddy could be a pluperfect asshole.”

I choked on my bite, and Lavender released a snort of shocked laughter. I did not know which was weirder coming out of Birchie’s mouth, the expletive or the criticism of her revered father.

“Birchie!” I said, when I could swallow. “My niece is here.”

Lavender probably heard that word a minimum of nine times an hour at school, but never from the sweet, pink mouth of a little old Baptist lady.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Leia,” Birchie said lightly, casting her eyes heavenward. “Get off your horse. Everybody has an asshole.”

Lavender was giggling openly now. I realized that, under the table, my treacherous hand had moved to cover Digby’s nascent ears. That put me in danger of catching the giggles as well.

Birchie seemed to realize she’d said something wrong. She was looking at me, but her body canted ever so slightly toward Lavender, no doubt waiting for a whisper. Lav had both hands clapped over her mouth, trying to stifle herself. Birchie turned to look at the place where Wattie should be and was startled anew by my niece.

“Who is this?” she demanded. All at once she sounded querulous and very, very old. “Who is this girl? Why does she keep being here?”

“That’s my niece, Birchie,” I said gently, all laughter gone. “Remember?”

“Well, why is she staring at me like a gigged fish? Was the child not raised to have even one manner?” It was a very Birchie turn of phrase, said in her most imperious voice, which made it so much sadder somehow. She was there. But not all there.

I said, “Lavender was surprised to hear you say . . .” I found I could not repeat the word, not at this childhood table where once I said “poot” and then was stuck for an hourlong lecture about the relationship between my vocabulary choices and the moral decay of the nation. “She’s my niece. Remember?”