A Place at the Table: A Novel

by Susan Rebecca White

  “It’s not mine,” I say, my mouth so dry it’s hard to get out the words. “Why would I want to look at that? And I didn’t take your underwear. Hunter did. He must have stolen it from your drawer and put it in mine. That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

  Mama and I both look at Hunter. He speaks as if it is painful to do so. “I walked in on him, Mama. I should have told you after I did, but it was just so weird I didn’t know what to do. It was a couple of weeks ago. He must have thought he was alone in the house. He was standing in front of the mirror on our closet door, wearing your stuff—your bra and underwear. Not this one, a different one. I think he’s been doing this for a long time, Mama. I think he’s really sick.”

  I spring, like a dog attacking an intruder. Mama holds her arm out to the side, blocking the path, and I think of the many times she has made that exact same motion while driving, when she comes to a sudden stop and worries I’ll go flying through the window. Except this time she isn’t protecting me. This time she’s protecting Hunter from me.

  “Don’t,” she says, her voice gritty. She is looking at me in a way she never has before. It’s as if behind each eye someone has switched off a lamp.

  She believes him.

  Yes, the dirty picture is mine, but the rest of what Hunter said is a lie. I have never dressed in my mama’s underthings. I would never dream of doing such a thing. I don’t want to do such a thing. And yet I know I’m guilty. That picture from the magazine. I cannot believe I am standing in the kitchen with Mama, that picture between us.

  Mama looks exhausted. The corners of Hunter’s mouth show the faintest smile. He is loving this.

  “He’s lying,” I say meekly.

  “Son,” she says. “Please don’t make things worse.”

  We stand there for a moment, looking at each other sadly. And then she straightens her shoulders, glances at the clock above the stove, sees that it is 10:30 a.m., stuffs the picture into one pocket, the bra into the other, and rotates her body so that she can address us both.

  “My guests arrive in an hour,” she says. “Bobby, you are to put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, and then make sure there’s a clean monogrammed towel in the guest bathroom. Yes, I have checked twice already, but for my peace of mind I need you to do it again. After that, I want you to shower and put on khakis and a polo shirt. I don’t care how hot it is, I want you boys in long pants for Mrs. Lovehart.

  “Hunter, you shower now, and both of you, make sure to wipe up any water that gets on the sink and on the floor. I expect you boys to be seated in the living room, shirts tucked in, by eleven-twenty sharp, ready to greet my guests. When they arrive, Bobby, you are to offer lemonade, and Hunter, you are to pass around the hot crab dip. And then I want you two to say good-bye and I want you out of the house. And I swear to my sweet Lord Jesus, if you come home having so much as touched each other I will have your daddy tear you apart. I don’t care how old you are. And if he doesn’t do it to my satisfaction I will do it myself, and don’t think I don’t mean it. And don’t even think about showing up at this house again until six-thirty p.m., at which point you better be here sharp for dinner with Daddy, during which none of us will say a word about what Hunter found in Bobby’s drawer until I figure out what to do.”

  “But Mom,” Hunter protests. “He’s sick.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” she asks.

  • • •

  I am dutiful, doing everything Mama asked of me. I shower, dress in long pants, check to make sure there is a clean hand towel in the guest bedroom. I sit on the couch in the living room with Hunter, waiting for her guests to arrive, two polished silver trays on the coffee table before us, one filled with glasses of lemonade, the other with crab dip, Club Crackers, and Mama’s monogrammed linen napkins. Sitting next to Hunter is pure h-e-l-l. My throat hurts just being near him, aches and tightens so that breathing feels like work. Which is helpful, in a way, because it keeps my mind off the tears pushing at my eyes, tears that I will not let fall. Will not. But then they do. Pool over and run down my face, landing on my khaki pants. Hunter glances at me, his eyes showing disgust. But he does not say a word. He’s as scared of Mama as I am.

  The doorbell rings and Mama strides out of the kitchen, stopping short of the door to take a breath and say a quick prayer. In Gracious Servings this is something she advises all hostesses to do in that second before greeting their guests. Ask the Lord to calm your nerves and open your heart to the festivities ahead.

  After her pause, Mama throws open the door. “Well, hello! Welcome! I am so delighted to have y’all!”

  And in spill the ladies, along with a scent of mixed floral perfumes. The last one to enter is Mrs. Lacy Lovehart herself, so luminous I stand as if at attention. I have seen her on television before, but in person she is brighter, magnetic. And tall—at least five foot ten in flats, which I recognize from Vogue as Jack Rogers Navajo sandals, the ones Jackie O made famous when she wore them in Palm Beach.

  Lacy’s hairstyle is much more modern than Mama’s, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wears a sleeveless shift in her signature color of peach, her arms toned and tanned as if she plays a lot of tennis. She wears a necklace of big, round silver beads, and on her arm is a silver bracelet weighted with charms. But it is her face, her glowing skin, her wide eyes, that suck me right in.

  Mama turns and smiles at Hunter and me. Her smile means it is time for us to come forward with our offerings for the ladies. I lift the tray of lemonade off the coffee table; Hunter hoists the tray with the crab dip and crackers.

  I make my way to the buzzing hive of pastels and perfume, offering them the lemonade, which Mama has poured over cubes of frozen lemonade, so when the ice melts it won’t weaken the drink. For the occasion she has pulled out her crystal tumblers, “EBM” etched into the glass. Hunter follows behind, offering the dip and a napkin to each lady. He doesn’t speak so much as he grunts, but they get the message and ooh and ahh as they put the dip in their mouths.

  Lacy does not take a lemonade off the tray. “Aren’t you precious,” she says. “But might you happen to have a peach iced tea?”

  I glance at Mama, worried.

  “Oh, Lacy, I’m so sorry. I have Coca-Cola, sweet tea, and coffee, but I don’t have any peaches. Man ate the last one this morning.”

  Well, that’s a flat-out lie. Mama hasn’t bought any peaches at all this summer. She says none of the ones at the grocery store have looked any good.

  Mrs. Lovehart lifts a glass of lemonade off of my tray. “This will suit me just fine,” she says. “Though you should try peach iced tea one day. It’s simply wonderful!”

  It is as if Mrs. Lovehart is in a commercial. I glance at Mama to see her reaction. She looks irritated.

  “I could run over and see if they have any peaches at the Seven-Eleven,” I volunteer.

  “A boy with initiative will become a man with leadership skills!” says Mrs. Lovehart, touching my forearm with her manicured hand. “Very impressive.”

  She winks at me, a wink I’ve seen her give before on television.

  “Thank you, Bobby, but I think we’ll be fine,” says Mama, her lips tight. “Now please, ladies, have more crab dip and lemonade, and then these boys are going to say their good-byes so we can get down to business before we enjoy our lunch.”

  A moment later and we are dismissed.

  • • •

  Hunter takes off down the driveway, probably on his way to Dixon’s. I make my way into the woods behind our house. The air is softer here. Walking beneath tree limbs, bright with green leaves, I am able to distract myself, a little, by listening to the noises of the birds and the tree frogs. I breathe slowly, trying to slow down my heart. I inhale and smell the dirt. Know that it smells loamy, which is one of the words we learned in Wordly Wise and which I immediately matched with this soft place of greens and browns. I make my way down to the creek, sit on a rock beside the running water. I dip my hand in. The wate
r is cold and a little dirty. I think of my mama’s dimming eyes, the crumpled picture she threw on the kitchen table, my secret brought to light. I’d rather be dead than for Mama to have seen that picture.

  Maybe I could die.

  Maybe I could just take off my shoes and walk down the middle of the creek, balancing myself on the rocks until I step on a slippery one. Fall face forward and drown in six inches of water. It could happen. It did happen last year, to a kid from Decatur High. He was on a camping trip with his family, and he left the campsite early in the morning, probably just to hike around, and ended up falling and drowning in shallow water.

  I imagine a boy’s body lying face-first in the water. I try to picture my own body, found by Mama and Daddy. I try to imagine the grief they would feel. But all I can see is Hunter, Hunter drowned.

  Hunter dead.

  3

  The Firefly Jar

  (Decatur, Georgia, 1975)

  At night I dream of killing my brother. I dream I choke the life out of him, my thumbs wrapped around his neck. I dream I hold one of Daddy’s rifles, only a few feet away from Hunter’s heart, while he teases me, tells me I am too much of a fag to pull the trigger, until I feel my pointer finger bend at the joint and I see the look of surprise on his face just before his expression shifts from shock to pain. I dream I straddle him, a brick in one hand, bringing it down upon his head until what once was stubborn and hard becomes soft and broken.

  • • •

  During the day I ignore him. Try to pretend he doesn’t exist. Summer stretches long and hot. After I finish whatever chores Mama asks me to do, I go to the woods behind the house. The woods are my only place of peace. I stand beneath a white oak and scratch a line on my arm with the point of the pocketknife Daddy gave me on my fourteenth birthday, along with his twice-rehearsed speech (first given to Troy, then to Hunter) about how every man ought to carry a good, sharp knife. The clean sting of the blade distracts me temporarily from the tangled knots that twist in my stomach, knots of shame and fear, guilt and rage. Blood springs to the surface of the cut and I lean against the textured bark of the tree, exhaling.

  It is so green in these woods, the light from the sun cutting through the trees’ leaves, casting speckled shadows all around. The birds call to each other from branch to branch. Overhead I spot a bright blue bird. I lose myself for a moment watching its quick, nervous movements.

  One thing I know: Mama has not told Daddy about the underwear Hunter hid in my drawer, because Daddy continues to act jolly around me as always. But Mama herself treats me with more and more distance, like I’m an injured cat found under the front porch, history unknown, possibly diseased. An animal she feels obligated to feed, though is afraid to pick up.

  A bee buzzes near my ear, and without thinking I capture it, cupping it in my hand. I open my hand quickly, and the bee shoots out without stinging me. Ears alert, I listen. Just a little ways off I hear a low hum, a steady buzz. Energy. I walk toward the hum. It grows louder. Another bee flies by, and I know what I have found even before I see the hive in a hollowed-out space in the trunk of the tree. I am looking at the buzzing hive, but I am seeing Hunter, years before, on the ground at the church picnic, red faced and choking. I am seeing the firefly jar Daddy made for me when I was a kid, nothing more than a Bell canning jar with ventilation holes punched into its metal lid. There was a net, too, with a long pole. I would capture the fireflies and deposit them in the jar, transforming it into a handmade night-light, a temporary wonder.

  I head toward the house with purpose.

  • • •

  There’s a chance the net and jar have been lost or given away, but if they are still around they are in one of two places, the basement or the garage. I check the garage first, since I can get to it without anyone else even knowing I’m home. Daddy keeps the garage, which is his domain, shipshape. Our bikes hang in descending order of size on hooks from the ceiling. The space where Daddy parks his car is empty and spotless, swept clean. Mama’s wood-paneled wagon is parked in a precisely determined spot, the front fender aligned with a Ping-Pong ball suspended on fishing wire from a hook in the ceiling. Daddy constructed the Ping-Pong ball plumb line for her so she would know exactly where to stop. If she pulls up any farther, it’s hard to get around the car, any farther back and she can’t shut the garage door. Stored against the side of the garage is a lawn mower, with a cover on it. Hanging from nails on the wall are several different sizes of saws. Near those are shelving units, the highest two shelves storing cans of WD-40, a couple of toolboxes, a handsaw, and a drill. The only thing on the next shelf down is a box of mousetraps, left over from an infestation that occurred in the kitchen last spring.

  The remaining shelves are empty, no firefly jar or net stored on them. Maybe they’re in the basement. Entering the house through the back door, I am relieved to see that no one is in the kitchen. I hear the sound of a hair dryer coming from Mama and Daddy’s room. Hunter isn’t in the den watching television, and the door to our room is closed, meaning he must be in there. Probably flexing in front of the mirror above his dresser. That or jacking off, which I have heard him do in the middle of the night, when he thinks I am asleep.

  I open the door leading to the basement, flicking on the light as I go down the stairs. It’s not a scary basement, not a dungeon. Daddy painted the concrete floor barn red and finished it with a glaze that keeps the paint from chipping. It’s chilly down here and as well organized as the garage, only there’s a lot more stuff. Lots of boxes. There is my Little People Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant and my Little People castle. I used to love making the Little People fall through its trapdoor. There are a bunch of cardboard boxes with my name marked on them in black marker. I open one. It contains all of the G.I. Joe figures Daddy and Troy gave me, plus a stuffed dog—Ruff Ruff—that was a Christmas gift from Meemaw. I don’t want to say how old I was when I finally stopped sleeping with Ruff Ruff. Even now, at fourteen, I feel guilty leaving Ruff Ruff in the box with the G.I. Joe men. It’s stupid, I know, but I worry his feelings are hurt that he’s stored with toys I care nothing about. Still, I close the box with him in it and open another. Inside are books, dozens of Golden Books, an illustrated Children’s Bible, Where the Wild Things Are, Goodnight Moon, The Runaway Bunny. I put the lid back on. In another box is an old baby blanket of mine, yellow with alphabet blocks stitched onto it. Aunt Betsy gave it to Mama when Mama was pregnant with me, before anyone knew whether I’d be a boy or a girl, because yellow could go either way.

  Seeing that blanket takes me back. I remember how the other side was made of satin and how cool it felt to the touch. It’s dumb, I know, but I want to feel it against my cheek again. I lift it from the box, and there, underneath, is the firefly jar, along with a Fisher-Price doctor’s kit and an old, old bottle of blowing bubbles.

  Here it is, not even dusty.

  I continue looking for the net, but I can’t find it anywhere. I decide this is okay. It might actually be easier to catch the bees in my hands. Except for the worry of getting stung. I already cupped one without getting hurt, but that was just dumb luck. If I’m going to catch a bunch of them without a net, I need protection. I think of the rubber gloves Mama wears when she washes dishes by hand, so she won’t mess up her nails. She keeps a whole box of them underneath the sink in the kitchen.

  I put the firefly jar down on the floor and return everything else to its original box, its original space. I pick up the jar and walk back upstairs, turning off the light before I close the door at the top of the stairwell. I can still hear the sound of Mama’s hair dryer coming from the bedroom. I walk into the kitchen. Draped over the faucet is a pair of rubber gloves, drying from their last use.

  I snatch the gloves, but then pause, putting them back. Mama might notice if they’re missing. I look under the sink and find a box of them. I pull a pair out. As I stand I hear someone enter the kitchen. Startled, I turn around, holding the rubber gloves in my hand.

 
It’s Hunter. He looks me up and down. “Planning to stick your hand up your ass?” he asks.

  I ignore him. The only other choice is to fight, to become a ball of bodies whirling around, blood and hair flinging from the fury. Mama would hear the commotion, and she would come and break us up, and this I will not allow. Never again will I let Mama get between us, now that I know whose side she is on.

  I carry the gloves and jar out of the kitchen, glancing back at Hunter to see if he’s still watching me. He’s at the refrigerator, pulling out bologna and mayonnaise, fixing himself a sandwich, I guess, though it’s five o’clock in the afternoon, only an hour before dinner. Hunter’s appetite is the butt of many Banks family jokes. Mama swears he has a tapeworm.

  I know there’s something nasty inside of him.

  • • •

  This is what I tell myself: that if I trip over a branch on my way out to the woods, or I cannot find the hive again, or I get stung—even once—while trying to steal the bees, I will know that God does not want me to do this. But I complete my bee-gathering mission easily and without any fuss. I return to the hive, put on the gloves, pull out one, then another, and finally a third, and deposit each into the jar. An arsenal for the war I’ve been fighting with my brother for years.

  • • •

  I have been lying in bed for over an hour, needing to know for certain that Hunter is asleep. He’s been snoring lightly for the last half hour. Before I rise, I say a silent prayer: God, if this is wrong, let the bees have died in their jar. Let one of them sting me when I try to release it. Do something to show me that this is not your way.

  I lean over and retrieve the flashlight hidden under my bunk. I tiptoe to the bedroom door, making sure it is soundly closed. I walk to the closet, pull the blanket off the jar, and shine the flashlight on it. The bees rest still and motionless on its bottom. My chest tightens at the realization that they are dead, at the realization that God has intervened, that he does not want me to do this.