I decided to tell him, as I couldn’t think of any way to avoid it. “Jennings and Lee asked Tom if he wanted to go back down with them to talk to that mayor. Tom’s going to go, and he wants to take us along!”
Steve let the churn fall to the grass. “Take us along? You and me?” I nodded. “Wow! Why off we go!” He leaped over the churn, wiggled his arms in his victory shimmy dance. Suddenly he stopped and turned to examine me. “How long will we be gone?”
“About a week, Tom says.”
His eyes narrowed, and his wide mobile mouth became straight and tight.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just hope he’ll let me go, that’s all. Damn it! I’ll just go anyway, no matter what he says.” He picked up the churn again, and thumped the last chips out of it.
Soon Mrs. Nicolin called us all into the dining room, and got us seated around the big oak table: John and her at the head, her grandmother Marie, who was ninety-five and simple-minded, Tom, Steve and Teddy and Emilia, who was thirteen, and very quiet and shy; then me, and then the kids, Virginia and Joe the twins, and Carol and Judith, the babies of the family, back around the table next to Mrs. N. John lit the lamps, and faint reflections of us all sprang to in the big west window.
Emilia and Mrs. N. brought out plate after plate, until the tabletop was nearly invisible under them. Tom and I kicked each other under the table. Several of the plates were covered, and when John took off their tops steam puffed out, fragrant with the smell of chicken bubbling in a red sauce. There was a cabbage salad in a large wooden bowl, and soup in a porcelain tureen. There were plates of bread and tortillas, and plates covered with sliced tomatoes and eggs. There were jugs of goat’s milk and water.
All of the smells made me drunk, and I said, “Mrs. N., this here’s a feast, a banquet.”
The Nicolins laughed at me, and Tom said, “He’s right, Christy. The Irish would sing songs about this one.” We passed the plates around following Mrs. Nicolin’s orders, and when our plates were piled high we started eating, and it was quiet for a time, except for the clink of cutlery on plates and bowls. Soon enough Marie wanted to talk to Tom, for she just picked at her chicken and greens. Tom bolted his food so quickly—never stopping to chew, it seemed—that he had time to talk between bites. Marie was pleased to see Tom, who was one of the few people outside the family she regularly recognized. “Thomas,” she piped loudly, “seen any good movies lately?”
Virginia and Joe giggled. Tom snapped down a chunk of chicken like it was bread, leaned over and spoke directly into Marie’s nearly deaf ear: “Not lately, Marie.” Marie blinked wisely and nodded.
“But Tom, Gran’s wrong, Gran’s wrong, there aren’t no movies—”
“Aren’t any movies,” Mrs. N. said automatically.
“Aren’t any movies.”
“Well, Virginia—” Tom gobbled down some of the fish soup. “Here, try this.”
“Yooks, no!”
“Marie was talking about the old time.”
“She gets the old time mixed up with now.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“What?” Marie cried, sensing the talk concerned her.
“Nothing, Marie,” Tom said in her ear.
“Why does she do that, Tom?”
“Virginia,” Mrs. N. warned.
“It’s okay, Christy. You see, Virginia, that’s an easy thing for us old folks to do, mixing things up like that. I do it all the time.”
“You do not, but why?”
“We’ve got so much old time in our heads, you see. It crowds into the now and we mix it up.” He swallowed some more chicken, licking the sauce out of his moustache luxuriously. “Here, try this; chicken’s a special treat cooked in this wonderful way your mother cooks it.”
“Yooks, no.”
“Virginia.”
“Maw-ummmmmmm.”
“Eat your food,” John growled, looking up from his plate. I saw Steve wince a little. He hadn’t said a word since we came inside, even when his mother talked directly at him. It made me a little apprehensive, but to tell the truth I was distracted by the food. There were so many different flavors, aromas, textures; each forkful of food had a different taste to it. I was getting full, but I couldn’t stop. John began to slow down, and talked to no one in particular about the warm current that had hit the coast with the previous day’s rain. Tom was still tossing it down, and Virginia said “No one’s going to steal your plate, Tom.” He heard that one a lot, but he smiled at Virginia all the same, and the kids laughed. “Have some more chicken,” Mrs. N. urged me, “have more milk.” “Twist my arm,” I replied. Little Carol started to cry, and Emilia got up to sit by her and spoon some soup into her mouth, or try to. It was getting pretty noisy, and Marie noticed and cried, “Turn on the tee vee!” which she knew would get her a laugh. Meanwhile Steve continued to eat silently, and I saw John notice it. I took another swallow of milk to reassure myself that everything would go all right.
Over the remains of the meal we talked and nibbled equally. When Carol was calmed Emilia got up and started taking out dishes to the kitchen. “It’s your night too,” Mrs. N. reminded Steve. Without a word he got up and carried plates away. When the table was almost cleared they brought out berries and cream, and another jug of milk. Tom kicked me, and flapped his eyebrows like wings. “Looks wonderful, Christy,” he said piously.
After we had feasted on berries and cream the kids were allowed to take Gran and scamper off, and John and Mrs. N., Steve and Emilia and Tom and I sat back in our chairs, shifting them around to face the window. John got a bottle of brandy from a cabinet, and we contemplated our reflections as we sipped. We made a funny picture. Steve wasn’t talking tonight, and Emilia never talked, so the conversation was left to Tom and John, mostly, with an occasional word from Mrs. N. or me. John speculated some more about the current. “Seems the warm currents bring the coldest cloud. Cold rain, and sometimes snow, when the water is forty degrees warmer than that. Now why should that be?”
None of us ventured a theory. Mrs. N. began to knit, and Emilia wordlessly moved over to hold the yarn. Suddenly John knocked back the rest of his brandy.
“So what do you think these southerners want?” he asked Tom.
The old man sipped his brandy. “I don’t know, John. I guess I’ll find out when I go down there.”
“Maybe they just want to see something new,” Steve said darkly.
“Maybe,” Tom replied. “Or it could be they want to see what they can do, test their power. Or trade with us, or go farther north. I don’t know. They’re not saying, at least not up here they’re not saying. That’s why I want to go down there and talk to this mayor of theirs.”
John shook his head. “I’m still not sure you should go.”
The corners of Steve’s mouth went white. Tom said casually, “Can’t do any harm, and in fact we need to do it, to know what’s going on. Speaking of that, I’ll need to take a couple people along with me, and I figure the young ones are easiest spared, so I wondered if Steve could be one of them. He’s the kind I need along—”
“Steve?” John glared at the old man. “No.” He glanced at Steve, looked back at Tom. “No, he’s needed here, you know that.”
“You could spare me for a week,” Steve burst out. “I’m not needed here all that much. I’d work double time when I got back, please—”
“No,” John said in his on-the-water voice. In the next room the sounds of the kids playing abruptly died. Steve had stood up, and now he jerked toward his father, who was still leaning back in his chair; Steve’s hands were balled into fists, and his face was twisted up. “Steve,” Mrs. Nicolin said quietly. John shifted in his chair to better stare up at Steve.