The Painted Table(47)
Joann is not used to being refuted. She looks confused as if unable to comprehend the show of strength. She struggles to stand, adjusts the crutch, and rapidly drags herself across the room. Going down the hall, she shouts, “Sapphira! You are an astonishment! You have lied to God and man!”
Her mother’s irrational theatrics have left Saffee weak, her face drained of color. She slumps into a chair and looks at her dad. His shoulders droop, his head is bent. For the first time in her life she is sympathetic for the burden he carries. She leans forward and says quietly, “Daddy, Mother needs help. She’s sick.”
Nels raises his head. Struggling for composure, he counters, “She has good days and bad. Today’s a bad one, but she’ll be okay.”
It baffles Saffee that he continues to deny the obvious.
“I’m so sorry . . . ,” he says. “I’m so sorry you had to see her this way. But there’s nuttin’ to worry about.”
“But, Daddy, what about the crutch? Her ankle is just fine, don’t you think? And you know the crazy way she paints that stupid table all the time—that’s not normal, Dad. You know it isn’t. Isn’t there someplace you could take her to get some—”
“No! Those places are terrible. She’ll be okay,” he insists. “I’m thinkin’ of buyin’ a trailer in the spring. Maybe we can travel some on weekends. It’ll do her a world of good to get outta the house more. She’ll be okay.” He seems to believe it. “Don’ worry about it. When you’re home at Thanksgivin’, things’ll be better.”
Saffee studies him as he drums his fingers on the armrests of the chair.
“You wanna go back to school on the noon bus?” he asks. The question sounds like an apology. “I’ll take you to the station.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
THANKSGIVING
Nels sits at the Formica table sharpening knives, a task he has perfected to an art. He deftly circles each blade against the whetstone. “It’s all in the angle of the knife against the stone,” he says. He holds up a sheet of newspaper to test the butcher knife. When the blade slices razor-perfect, without so much as fluttering the paper, he is satisfied. He will use this knife on the turkey; he has no use for fancy carving sets.
He glances up at Joann, standing at the sink scrubbing the turkey with such vigor it may be in danger of losing skin. “Quill tips,” she says, patting the naked bird dry with a clean towel. “Never know when they’ll get stuck in a person’s throat.”
Even though she is stressed over the task of preparing a holiday meal, and has even asked for assistance from her girls, overall she has a little more buoyancy than Nels has seen recently. She did not criticize the produce he bought for the Thanksgiving meal (he has purchased all the groceries for some time), not even the size of the turkey (she had requested sixteen pounds, not seventeen). She limps with determination between stove, sink, and refrigerator, giving instructions to Saffee about making cranberry sauce and April peeling potatoes. Nels notices that her crutch leans against the pantry door, handy but unused. He drums his fingers and clears his throat.
“Joann.” At his stern tone, Saffee glances at him over her shoulder. “Joann,” Nels repeats, “you’ve gotta tear them newspapers off them windows before we eat Thanksgivin’ dinner.”
Joann’s demeanor changes. She throws him a scathing look. “What? And let those snoops next door press their blue nosey faces against the window to watch us? Let them criticize how we carve turkey? Spread lies all over town that we blow our noses on our napkins? No sirree, Nels, not on your life.”
“Joann, hush! The way you talk. They’re nice folks, those Petersons, nice as all get-out. You should meet ’em.”
“Nice?” Joann fans her irritation, grips the edge of the counter-top, and glares at him. “How can you say they’re nice? I’ve heard all about them. Don’t you ever bring them over here, Nels.”
Grimacing, Saffee wipes her hands on her apron and hopes the exchange is not a preview of things to come. She finds it curious that neither parent has mentioned her recent summons to come home. As for her mother meeting neighbors? Fantasy. Joann’s disordered thinking has made her unable, or unwilling, to do that since they lived on Second Street. She’s heard “all about” the Petersons? From whom? She can’t possibly be privy to any information that warrants her mind-set. Nels sits, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. There is nothing more to say.
Saffee has avoided looking into the dining room since she came home from school yesterday afternoon. But if the family is going to eat Thanksgiving dinner around the Norway table, as they always do, she had better assess its condition and deal with whatever she finds before the time to set it.