The Painted Table(93)
Saffee removes the lily and folds away an embroidered runner she made, thanks to Joann, who years ago insisted she learn to embroider dish towels. The tabletop reveals accumulated blemishes. Among them, a phone number carelessly impressed through a piece of paper, irregular printing that spells “Daniel,” a divot from a slip of an X-ACTO knife, and at least two white rings from sweating water glasses.
When she notices the flaws, which she rarely does, she thinks of the maxim “Love me for my imperfections.” The layered paint of years ago, and these more recent scars, are mere neutral reminders of where life has been. She needn’t go back to them emotionally. Long ago she decided this.
She spreads a white paper tablecloth, coaxes its stiff edges to drape downward, and places a gumdrop tree, made from a brambly branch, at the center. One more thing. She puts boxes of crayons handy on the buffet.
It is eight o’clock; the hot cross buns go into a pan to warm; she hears Nels puttering in his bedroom. The children will be waking soon. Anticipating the impending merriment, she rearranges the cellophane grass nestled in straw baskets. Any moment her tribe will fill the house with glee as they scamper to hunt for eggs. There will be just enough time for breakfast before the eleven o’clock church service.
Saffee hears Benjamin’s infectious laughter as he comes scooting down the hall from his bedroom. “I found a egg! I found a egg! Grandpa Nels! Get up, get up!” He appears, one hand clutching his slipping pajama bottoms, the other holding aloft a blue and yellow egg. “My first one! It was under my pillow!”
Jack returns from walking Skye, their Scottish terrier, leaving him in the backyard. “Look, Daddy!”
“Good find, Benji,” his father says. “Mom’s got a basket here for you to collect more,” he says, bending to tousle Benjamin’s hair.
Grace appears. “Mom! Me too, where’s my basket?” She’s closely followed by the oldest pajama-clad child.
“I’m gonna find the most, cuz I’m the tallest and can reach the highest,” Daniel boasts.
“Daddy! Daddy! I found the one with my name on it. See how nice I wrote it?”
“Good going, Amazing Grace,” Jack says.
Nels, unshaven, joins the happy throng. Benjamin crawls under the rocker, although it’s clearly not a hiding place that Saffee and Jack selected.
“Benji, you’re gettin’ warmer,” Nels hints. “In fact, you might get burned around that there rocker.” The little boy wriggles backward and quickly snatches a yellow egg from under the rocker cushion.
“Thanks, Grandpa!” He races elsewhere.
The hunt is in full swing. Saffee watches the hurry and scurry, joins in the banter, lives the moment.
When no more eggs can be found, Saffee pours orange juice, puts the hot cross buns on a platter, and summons her family to the table. “Mommy, I’m so hungry!” Daniel rubs his stomach. “Can I have three hot cross buns and three eggs this year?”
“Me too,” says Benjamin. “Grandpa Nels, can I sit on your lap?”
“Right here, Benji, up you go. Say. You’re gettin’ heavy.”
Saffee makes a mental note that they’ll need four additional chairs for the dinner guests. They won’t match, but so be it. Years ago, when she and Jack bought six ladder-back chairs, she couldn’t imagine they would ever need that many.
They join hands and Jack prays.
He thanks Jesus, the Christ, for His sacrifice of death on the cross and His resurrection from the grave. He thanks Him for promising and providing eternal life. He thanks Him for the family gathered around the table and those who will arrive later. They all chorus, “Amen!”
The children tap-tap-tap eggs against their plates, breaking and scattering shells. The youngest licks frosting from the top of his hot cross bun.
Grace asks if they can decorate the paper tablecloth like they had at Christmas.
“That’s why I brought the crayons,” their mother says, reaching for the boxes.
“One of the best things I like about Easter is getting gumdrops for breakfast,” says Daniel, his teeth sticking together as he speaks. Saffee smiles as she refills Jack’s and Nels’s coffee mugs. Someday she’ll tell her children about the gumdrop bush of her own childhood.
The crayon boxes are passed and everyone, young and old, selects a handful. Between bites of food they scribble and draw, with no regard for lack of artistic talent. It isn’t long before mostly recognizable brown bunnies, yellow chicks, and lengthy daisy chains abound across the paper. Together, Daniel and Grandpa Nels draw a large cross. It is yellow, outlined in brown.