A Place at the Table: A Novel

by Susan Rebecca White

  If I ever meet Amit Patel I’m going to ask him if he’s ever heard of a tiger running so fast it turned into butter. I don’t think that could really happen, but then again, there are mysterious and wonderful things that occur every single day. Least that’s what Mr. Morgan says. And I sure don’t think a tiger turning into butter is any stranger than Jonah living inside the belly of a whale.

  • • •

  Everyone has a best friend but me. Even Mama. Daddy says that Mama and Betsy Meadows are “glued at the hip.” They are so close that we boys call her Aunt Betsy, even though she’s not kin. Aunt Betsy lives down the street, but she and Mama met long before they were neighbors. They knew each other even before they were married. They were both at the University of Georgia together, where they were members of Alpha Delta Pi sorority, which Daddy said had all of the prettiest girls. Aunt Betsy has two boys, identical twins, a year younger than Troy. She says they are double trouble, but they’ve never given me any. And I guess Aunt Betsy’s going to have another baby soon; at least that’s what she was talking about the other day.

  It was midafternoon and Mama had finished all her chores, so she telephoned Aunt Betsy and told her to come visit. Aunt Betsy was there in a flash and a minute later the two of them were relaxing on the screened-in back porch, each lounging on one of the two white wicker chairs made extra comfortable by thick pillows covered in a pretty fabric with big flowers all over it, their feet propped up on matching ottomans. Mama had put two Tabs in the freezer before calling Aunt Betsy, so they’d be good and cold. Aunt Betsy sipped from hers while Mama’s rested by her side. I could see Mama’s handprint in the bottle’s condensation.

  I stood behind Mama, scratching her head while she and Aunt Betsy talked. Mama is not a fan of the new “wash-and-wear” hairstyles. She says at five foot two she needs all the lift she can get. The puffed hair on top of Mama’s head is hard from all the hairspray she uses, but you just push through and you can get to her scalp.

  “All I’m saying is, after what those boys put me through, I’m praying for a girl. I’m serious, Edie; you pray for me, too.”

  “You think you had it bad? You don’t remember Hunter? Mercy! I was on my knees each night praying the next one would be a girl.”

  “You were?” I asked.

  Mama reached her soft hand around to pat me on the arm. “But I was wrong, sweetheart. The only reason I prayed for a girl was I thought a girl would be easier. But you were an angel, weren’t you, doll? Slept through the night almost as soon as you arrived, only fussed when you were hungry or had a dirty diaper, didn’t mind sitting on the kitchen floor and just playing with Play-Doh all morning, while I did my work.”

  “I remember,” said Betsy. “I was jealous. You were a dream baby for sure, sweetheart. While Hunter was wild.”

  “Was?”

  “Is,” said Betsy.

  “He just came out that way. Fast and fearless. Once when he was three or four I left him alone in the living room for half a second, and next thing you know there was Hunter on top of the Mission bookshelf. To this day I don’t know how he got up there. It’s got a glass-fronted case. He must have scaled the sides.”

  “Good Lord,” said Betsy.

  “Well, he’s on top of that thing and he’s got his little red cape on around his neck and he’s holding his arms out in front of him like he was at the pool and about to dive off the board. I heard myself saying the three words I said most often to him, ‘Hunter, no sir!’ but I was too late. He was already plummeting toward me. I managed to catch him, but I twisted my ankle doing so.”

  “Mercy.”

  “But honestly, Betsy, don’t worry too much about this next one. The surprise babies are a gift from God. That’s what everyone says. Certainly was the case for Bobby. Not that I love any of you better than the rest, you hear, son? But you were an easy baby.”

  Mama is always checking her words, trying to make sure she doesn’t play favorites, but I know she loves me best. Probably has something to do with how much I love her, too. She just smells so good, on account of how often she rubs her hands with Jergens lotion, which is scented with almonds and cherries. She is prettier than most other mothers, too, so pretty she was runner-up in the Miss Georgia contest back before she married Daddy, and she flat-out won a contest for her face to be on the side of the Greenfield Pralines N’ Cream ice-cream box. She almost always wears a skirt and heels—except when she is doing her “fitness walks” or gardening or deep cleaning the house—so she just clicks along the kitchen floor like a dancer. And she is the best cook in the world, well, except for Meemaw, whose pound cakes are so good ladies buy them straight out of her kitchen. Meemaw sells them for five dollars a cake, taking a maximum of ten orders a week, which always get filled. She says the steady baking is no problem now that she no longer has her job working in the lingerie department at Davison’s Department Store.

  I love to help Meemaw and Mama cook. By the time I was two I could crack an egg without getting any shell in the bowl. Mama swears to this, even though Christians aren’t supposed to swear. Most afternoons I’m in the kitchen with Mama, snapping beans or peeling potatoes or husking corn or mixing meat loaf, while Troy studies in his room or is off meeting with the Fellowship of Christian Athletes and Hunter plays sports outside.

  There are two rules Hunter has to follow when he goes outside to play. He has to always have a friend with him, and he has to wear a whistle on a string around his neck. If a bee stings him, he’s supposed to blow and blow and blow on that whistle until an adult comes running. Or have his friend blow the whistle for him, depending on how bad off he is. He’s only been stung once in his life, but he swelled up all over. It was during the annual Fourth of July church picnic supper at Clairmont Avenue Baptist. We all ate on the lawn, on blankets. After the desserts were served, but before the fireworks began, the kids started playing Red Light, Green Light. Hunter was the caller, so I stayed with Meemaw on the blanket, who brought one of her pound cakes to the potluck even though she goes to her own church and not ours. The reason I stayed with Meemaw was because Hunter didn’t play fair. He always said I moved even when I didn’t, and he would send me back to the starting line.

  Plus, I just love spending time with my meemaw.

  Suddenly Hunter threw his arms up in the air like someone being saved on television, then fell to the ground. And before I could even wonder what had happened Daddy was rushing toward him like a football player charging the goalpost. Daddy scooped Hunter up in his arms and raced to the parking lot where our station wagon was parked. Mama followed, yelling along the way for someone to tell Meemaw that Troy and I were to go home with her and wait for them to call. Later Mama told us that Daddy drove pell-mell to the hospital, breaking about a dozen traffic laws along the way. Turned out Hunter fell over on the field cause he got stung by a bee and was allergic. At the hospital they shot Hunter up with this stuff called epinephrine and Benadryl, and sent him home with a bunch of it, that and a boxful of needles. And they gave Hunter a pair of dog tags like Mr. Morgan has from Vietnam, only Hunter’s tags say that he is allergic to bees.

  It probably doesn’t even matter whether or not Hunter wears those dog tags; everyone at church and school knows about his allergy, and every grown-up is prepared. There is epinephrine and a needle in the nurse’s office at school, put aside especially for Hunter, and there is some in the RAs’ meeting room, and in Mama and Daddy’s bedroom at our house, and at Meemaw’s house, and at the home of Hunter’s best friend, Dixon, who doesn’t seem to be so much a friend as he is a person for Hunter to trade punches in the arm with.

  Still, it bothers me that Hunter has a best friend and I do not.

  • • •

  I guess he doesn’t count as an actual friend, but I love spending time with Mr. Morgan. Unlike the other RA leaders, Mr. Morgan has all of his hair and he wears jeans to meetings instead of pleated khakis or Sansabelt slacks. And Mr. Morgan has green eyes and a dimple in each cheek
when he smiles. He was in ROTC in college, just like my daddy. Later, Mr. Morgan served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He still does push-ups and sit-ups each morning. When he flexes his biceps it looks like there’s a tennis ball beneath his skin. He tells us it is important to remember that our bodies are our temples and we are to honor them by doing stuff like eating our vegetables, brushing our teeth, hugging our mamas, and exercising every single day.

  I always try to stand next to him during the closing prayer, when we gather in a circle. Sometimes I can’t help but grab his hand if it happens to be hanging by his side, idle. He’ll give my hand a little squeeze, but then he’ll pull away. But he never pulls away meanly. It’s just that his hands are busy: He has to clap to get our attention, or point to one of our craft projects hanging on the wall, or dig a Certs out of his pocket. Once Hunter noticed me reaching for Mr. Morgan’s hand and he started pointing and laughing all wild like a hyena. “Look at the little girl!” Hunter said, and I dropped Mr. Morgan’s hand, fast. But Mr. Morgan scolded Hunter, not me. “I’m ashamed of you,” he said. “Bobby is not only your brother by blood; he’s your brother in Christ. And we don’t make fun of our brothers in Christ, not here and not anywhere. Now who’s up for a game of Go Fish?”

  He wasn’t talking about Go Fish the card game. We were fishing for Bible verses. In the center of the room Mr. Morgan put a kiddie pool filled with water. In the pool were a bunch of sealed plastic Baggies, each with a Bible verse typed on a sheet of paper and a weight inside. On the outside of each Baggie was a bunch of metal paper clips. We took turns with a fishing pole made of bamboo with a magnet attached to the end of the line. We’d dip our line in the water, and whichever Baggie it pulled up, that was the verse we were to memorize for the week. Everybody was always hoping to get “Jesus wept,” but no one ever did. I figured Mr. Morgan didn’t even put that one in there—it was just too easy.

  To join the RAs you have to memorize 2 Corinthians 5:20: “We are Ambassadors for Christ.” And that is just the start of all the scripture you have to learn. Each year we get medals depending on how many Bible verses we memorize: Twenty-five gets you a bronze medal, fifty gets you silver, and seventy-five gets you gold. Troy received a gold medal and the RA Bible Award during his final year, when he was not only a Crusader but also a Knight. I am a good memorizer, like Troy, but Hunter is terrible at it. He can’t see his letters right. He’ll just stare and stare at the little slip of white paper until Mr. Morgan comes over and reads it for him. Then Hunter tries to repeat whatever Mr. Morgan said. Usually he gets the words wrong. Like the time his quote was “Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.” Hunter said, “Iron sharpens man and one man irons another.” Everybody got a good laugh out of that and Hunter’s face turned red, but Mr. Morgan gave him his M&M anyway and said weren’t we lucky that we all had mamas at home to do the ironing for us.

  • • •

  My favorite part of RAs is making craft projects for Christ. Today we are making testimonial license plates for our bikes. Mr. Morgan gives us all rectangles made out of plywood with two holes punched out of the top. On the crafts table, covered in old newspapers, he spreads out smelly markers and little cups of paint and paintbrushes and glue and glitter. Then he passes around a sheet of animal stickers and tells us we can each choose two. I choose a giraffe and a zebra. Mama has a zebra print top that she wore on her anniversary date with Daddy, which made Daddy widen his eyes and say Mama looked wild! Mr. Morgan tells us to mark “JLMTIK” on our pieces of plywood. Once our tags are decorated, we’ll attach them to the fronts of our bikes with two pipe cleaners each. Then when our unsaved friends ask, “What do those letters on your bike stand for?” we can witness just by answering their question. “Why, they stand for ‘Jesus Loves Me This I Know.’ ”

  The official colors of the RAs are gold and blue. I paint my tag all over with the darkest blue I can find. Hunter glances at it and snorts. “How you gonna write on top of that?” he asks. I don’t tell him, but I have a plan. Instead of writing my letters with markers, I form them with Elmer’s glue, then shake glitter all over them so that the letters sparkle and shine. I figure this will attract attention from miles away, plus I just love the way those sparkly letters look, all gold and glittery. When I finish, Mr. Morgan is so impressed he holds my tag up for everyone to see. He wants to know where on the tag I am planning to put the animal stickers and I tell him I think I might save them for something else, cause I don’t want to mess up the color scheme. Mr. Morgan says he guesses that will be okay.

  After we clean up everything, Mr. Morgan gives us a “straight talk” about witnessing. When witnessing, he says, you have to make sure not to act all superior and know-it-all-y. “God loves every single one of us,” Mr. Morgan says. “Even the lost. Especially the lost. And it is our job to coax lost souls to us, so they too can know God’s love. Think about the smell that comes out of the kitchen when your mama is baking cookies. Makes you want to go in there, doesn’t it? Well, that’s exactly how we need to present God’s love, as something warm and sweet and inviting. So when your friends ask about your license tag, tell them what it stands for, yes, but also make sure to tell them that you made it at this really neat club where you get to build race cars and have turkey shoots and play Go Fish and eat M&M’s.

  “Now, if you are talking to a friend and he asks specifically about Jesus, by all means keep talking. Let him know that Jesus loves you and will never let you down. Let him know that with Jesus in your life, you don’t ever have to be afraid, because even when you’re scared—especially when you’re scared!—the Lord is right there with you. But if he doesn’t ask about the Lord, just invite him to come to a meeting. Once he’s here, he’ll see what it means to be part of a Christian community, and he’ll want to keep coming back for more!”

  Mr. Morgan tells us that our challenge for the next week is to talk with three unsaved friends about our relationship with Christ. The problem is everyone I know goes to Clairmont Avenue Baptist and is already a Christian.

  I determine to cast my net far and wide and find someone new.

  And then I realize just what I need to do: take my bike over to Meemaw’s this upcoming Friday when I go to her house for a spend-the-night. I spend the night with her once a month, so the two of us can have some QT—which means “quality time.” This Friday is going to be especially fun, because not only will we do the usual stuff—watch animal shows, decorate a cake, pull out the box from her closet that holds the pair of chopped-off braids from when she was a little girl—Meemaw has a new kitten named Moses and I am going to meet him and maybe even hold him if I am extra careful.

  Meemaw lives on the other side of the railroad tracks from us, kind of near Agnes Scott College, where Mama went for two years before transferring to the University of Georgia. In Meemaw’s neighborhood, the houses are older and more run-down and there are a lot of colored families living there. Daddy says the neighborhood was nicer when he was growing up, but times they are a-changing! He just hopes his mama doesn’t lose all the money in her house as the whites move out and the Negroes move in. But Meemaw says there is no way she is moving. No sir. She raised her babies and buried a husband while living in that house and she isn’t about to move away from her memories just because some of her white neighbors aren’t able to see that we are all precious children of God.

  • • •

  I bring my bike, freshly christened with the JLMTIK license tag, to my spend-the-night at Meemaw’s. She is waiting on the front porch swing, dressed in a pair of pink shorts and the T-shirt I gave her last year for her birthday, which says: “World’s Best Grandma.” Her legs are crisscrossed with purple and blue veins.

  “You planning on riding away from me?” she asks as I walk my bike up to the house.

  “I wanted to show you the license tag I made.”

  She makes her way down the front porch steps to get close enough to examine it. “Well, if that ain’t the prettiest thing! What’s
it mean, though, I wonder?”

  I have a feeling she knows, but I answer anyway. “Jesus Loves Me This I Know.”

  “For the Bible tells me so! That’s wonderful, precious. I just love it. And I love the way it glitters! Weren’t you smart to make it all shiny like that so people would take notice. Now why don’t you leave your bike on the porch for now and you can come in and meet my new kitty. And later I’ve got a chocolate cake for us to decorate. I’d already fixed a pound cake, but then I got this fierce hankering for a slice of chocolate cake with milk.”

  Meemaw always ices her chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. It’s my favorite kind because Meemaw and me can dye it whatever color we want. I like pink, but I can only color it that way if it’s just Meemaw and me eating it. One time I brought home a batch of pink cupcakes for my family. Hunter asked, “Why’d you choose that sissy color?” Daddy said he bet I’d tried to make them red for the Georgia Bulldogs but just hadn’t added enough food coloring. “Isn’t that right, son?” Daddy asked, and I answered, “Yes, sir,” knowing that was what he wanted to hear.

  Meemaw’s house is a lot smaller than ours. You walk right into the living room, where there is an old-fashioned fireplace where we sometimes roast marshmallows for s’mores during the winter. You can’t even see the wall over the mantel, it is so covered in pictures of family, including every school picture Troy, Hunter, and me have ever taken and a picture of Meemaw’s husband, Daddy Banks, in uniform. He died a hero, but Daddy always said Meemaw was a hero, too, the way she raised him and his sister, June, all by herself. Meemaw always corrects Daddy when he says that. She says she didn’t do it all by herself, she did it with the help of her church family at Second Avenue Baptist, where Meemaw still goes. Meemaw told Daddy she was mighty proud of him for being senior preacher at Clairmont, but she’d been going to Second Avenue for forty-something years and quitting them now would be like quitting her beloved husband. Daddy pretends to understand, but I know it hurts him that his own mama isn’t a member at our church.