Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “For an engine to start, you need air, fuel, and spark. The spark plug is part of the ignition. It creates an explosion to drive the piston back down.”

  “Piston?”

  John’s chest visibly inflated before he let out a long sigh. “The big cylindrical thing in your catalog. It’s . . . um . . . an injector.” Motioning with both hands, John looked like he was about to strike a pool ball. “You push the plunger down in the hole and it forces the fluid down. You have to think of your hand on the plunger as the spark plug pushing that piston back down. Got it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Robert said, hoping there wouldn’t be a quiz at the end.

  CHAPTER 7

  From the cab of her truck, Missy watched Betty carry one bag of groceries toward her pale yellow bungalow, neatly trimmed in white. When she reached the front porch, the elderly woman turned and waved. Another Tuesday down the tube due to Daddy’s spontaneous planning. At this rate, she was never going to look like Farrah.

  Missy waved and drove out of the circular drive and headed home on 41st Avenue. Summers were always busy with flat tires, overheated engines, and little old ladies. The little old ladies were the best part; they were always sweet.

  When she turned into their gravel drive, she realized that she hadn’t taken any meat out to thaw that morning. Too bad she hadn’t thought of grabbing a fryer while they’d been at Ziegler’s in Vancouver. Tonight’s dinner was going to be scrambled eggs; there was no other choice, and she’d so wanted to impress Gary. As she drove near the house, Robert Schoening’s white station wagon came into view.

  A salesman stopping by always put Daddy in a sour mood.

  She slammed the truck door behind her and headed into the first bay. The Impala was gone. She wondered if Daddy was able to Windex the mirrors before Willy Blankenship drove it home. Clean mirrors and floor mats always seemed to mean a lot to their customers.

  Daddy and Robert sat in the office, looking at what was most likely a Columbia Auto Parts catalog. Hopefully, Daddy wasn’t really thinking of buying something.

  The shop was too quiet. Douglas’s radio wasn’t blaring. He was either fishing or roofing. She reached for the push broom she kept in the gap between the filing cabinet and the wall.

  “How’s Betty?” Daddy glanced up from the catalog.

  “Pure sweetness, herself.”

  “Did she invite you for supper?”

  “No.”

  “If she ever does, find a way to decline. I went in her house once.” Daddy looked at Robert. “Place smelled so much of cat, I had to lift my shirt above my nose to breathe.”

  “I hope she didn’t see you,” Missy said.

  “I don’t think she did. I’m hungry.” Daddy moistened his index finger before turning the page. “Too hungry to wait while you clean up shop and fix dinner. Bobby, what do you think about sweeping tonight? After dinner, we could flip through this here catalog and find the right filter for your Chevy wagon.”

  Missy paused from sweeping. What was Daddy thinking, inviting a solicitor to dinner?

  “Sure, I’ll sweep.”

  Her mouth hung open. Why in the world?

  “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything planned for dinner,” Daddy said. “You just went to the store.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about us. I was thinking about getting Mrs. Heiner down three aisles and getting home.”

  “Next time you need to think about four aisles and making us dinner.”

  Missy turned on her heel, and strode toward the house. Daddy had never invited any salesman but Baker to stay for dinner before. Why, of all people, did it have to be Jerry Boy?

  Crab! He wouldn’t know what to do. She turned in her tracks, and sauntered back.

  “Dinner’s always a surprise,” Daddy’s voice carried to the doorway.

  It stung to hear her father talk bad about her cooking. “Make sure Jerry Boy uses Floor Dry, otherwise, he’ll just make a mess.”

  Wide-eyed, Daddy nodded.

  “Floor Dry?” Robert asked.

  “It’s like kitty litter, but better. We buy a couple bags a month from Baker.” She locked eyes with her father, trying to remind him of his best friend.

  Missy pulled down the oven door and checked on the buttermilk biscuits. They were fun to make; just bonk the package on the counter, and toss them on a pan. Daddy always liked them with honey. The biscuits still needed another minute or two. The scrambled eggs were starting to set. What vegetable could she make? She only had two choices.

  “Green beans or corn?” Missy said aloud.

  “Corn,” Martha said.

  Missy laughed. “Sounds like Martha likes corn.”

  “Martha likes corn.”

  “Three words in a row, Martha. You’re amazing.”

  Missy dumped two cans of S&W corn in a saucepan. Maybe it was too nice of a meal; maybe Robert Schoening would think she was trying to impress him. She hoped not.

  The phone rang. The caller was Doug’s girlfriend, Gloria. “Doug’s not home yet.” The obnoxious rev of Gary’s muffler entered the driveway. Missy looked out the window above the sink and saw a flash of primer gray. “Oh, they’re pulling in right now. Do you want me to get Doug for you or have him call you back?”

  “I’d love to talk to him now,” Gloria said.

  “Okay, hold on.”

  Missy swung the screen door open and jogged through the gravel to Gary’s El Camino.

  “Gloria’s on the phone.” She paused near Douglas’s open window.

  “House or shop?”

  “House.”

  “Is that the new rep’s car?” Douglas nodded toward the station wagon.

  “Yes, and Daddy invited him to supper.”

  “You’re kidding.” He glanced at Gary.

  Gary leaned toward the dash to look at Missy. “What’s he thinking?”

  “I think he’s a little mad. We’re out of oil filters and low on a few other things, and your dad’s not returning his calls.”

  Gary wore a stumped look.

  “You guys catch any?” she asked.

  “No, and don’t bring it up again,” Douglas said.

  On the way back to the house, Missy smelled burnt biscuits, and the eggs!

  She rushed into the kitchen, slid the skillet off the heat, flung open the oven door and grabbed the nearest hot pads.

  “Crab! Crab! Crab!” She dumped the pan of burnt biscuits onto the gold flecked white Formica counter.

  “Crab! Crab! Crab!” Martha said.

  They were dark, but still consumable. Next, she flipped the scrambled eggs; a thick brown skin had formed. Something else smelled like it was burning. Crab! It was the hot pads. She’d flung them right on the vacant burner.

  The screen door bounced closed before Douglas entered the kitchen, grimy in appearance, wearing a dirty shop rag T-shirt.

  “What’d ya burn?” He picked the phone up off the counter.

  “Crab!” Martha said.

  “Hi, Gloria.” He chuckled. “Missy’s watching Baker’s parrot, while he’s out of town. Hmm... I’ll have to tell Gary. Yeah,” he whispered, “backatcha, baby.”

  “Tell Gary what?” Missy asked when he was off the phone.

  “I’ll tell you later.” Douglas washed up and sat in his usual chair at the end of the table near Martha’s cage. “What’d ya burn?”

  “The biscuits.” If she hurried, she’d have time to get out of her coveralls and brush her hair. Missy dished out five plates and set them on the table. She poured glasses of milk, folded peach-colored paper napkins in half, added an extra chair at the table, and set the silverware. Lastly, she remembered to make a dish of corn for Martha.

  “Were you really fishing?” She slid a yellow Gold ‘n Soft Margarine lid with a quarter cup of corn on it beneath the cage door.

  “Sh!” Douglas leaned back in his chair.

  The screen door squeaked open, and then Daddy, followed by Gary and then Robert, strolled into the kitchen. Afte
r washing and drying his hands, Daddy flung the dish towel over Robert’s shoulder.

  “Robert, have you met Douglas?”

  “I spoke to you briefly on the phone today.” Robert nodded Douglas’s direction.

  “What were you doing answering the phone, anyways?” Douglas asked.

  “While you were fishing,” Daddy pointed at Douglas, “Missy was out helping Mrs. Heiner. I was on a wild goose chase to change a tire that had already been changed. And in the meantime, Robert was kind enough to step in.”

  Douglas’s cheeks bunched as he studied Robert. “Anyone ever tell you—”

  “A hundred times.”

  Jerry Boy definitely had a pat response

  “So that’s Martha?” Robert nodded toward her cage in the corner of the kitchen. “A friend of mine has a grey African parrot. They’re quite a bit larger.” He dried his hands on the towel. “What kind of parrot is she?”

  “Quaker,” Martha said, looking up between bites of corn. She flew up to her post and said it again, “Quaker.”

  Douglas laughed. “She thinks you’re one of those Quaker people.”

  “Amish, you mean Amish. Now, Martha,” Daddy said, taking his seat. “Robert’s awful clean cut, but he’s not a Quaker or a Shaker.”

  Gary occupied the folding chair at the end of the table, which put Missy right next to Jerry Boy. She sat down and took a sip of milk. For some reason, everyone was dead quiet at the table. Maybe Robert was praying. Nope, like the others, he just sat there—hands in his lap—staring at the plate in front of him. The meal might be a little overcooked, but it was still edible.

  One bite into the scrambled eggs, Douglas looked at Missy and said, “Ketchup.”

  Because Robert was seated where she usually sat, she couldn’t just tip her chair back and open the fridge; she actually had to stand up from the table, and like a trained beagle, fetch the ketchup. With a slight huff, she placed the bottle on the table.

  “Ain’t restaurant fare.” Daddy glanced at Robert.

  “Ain’t venison steaks.” Douglas grinned.

  Robert was the last to pick up his fork. Maybe he’d been waiting to see if they were a prayer-saying family, or maybe he was saying a prayer himself about her cooking being downable.

  “What happened to the biscuits?” Douglas asked. Using a butter knife, he sawed the dark disc into two rounds.

  “Gloria called.” Missy shrugged.

  “You can’t blame Gloria. You’re the one who forgot to take ‘em out of the oven, not Gloria.”

  “Gloria called, and I went outside to get you.”

  “You could of got the biscuits out of the oven before you came out to get me.”

  “Enough complaining,” Daddy said. “You keep complaining, you’ll be cooking soon, and I’ll give Missy the day off to do as she pleases.” Daddy sighed. “Sorry, Bobby Boy, my kids aren’t ready for company yet.”

  “The name’s Robert. No problem. Reminds me of when my older sister was learning to cook. Makes me feel at home.”

  Daddy whispered to her across the table, “What happened to the eggs?”

  “Gloria called.”

  “That reminds me . . .” Douglas looked down the length of the table at Gary. “When I talked to Gloria, she said she saw Trudy waitressing at Spudder’s. Guess she’s home for the summer.”

  Missy bit her bottom lip, and watched Gary’s reaction. Since his sophomore year in high school, he’d had a crush on Trudy Tibbits, a brown-eyed cheerleader with big hair like Farrah’s.

  “Did she get to talk to her?” Gary’s dimples popped out on both sides of his smile.

  “No.”

  “Did she say anything else?” Gary studied Douglas.

  “Nope.”

  Missy sighed. Her whole life would now be put on hold because of Trudy Tibbits. She had to take action. She had to get her hair done—and soon, since it was just a matter of time before Trudy noticed Gary.

  “Remember, Missy,” Daddy’s voice made her realize she’d been staring at Gary. “There’s supposed to be three things on the plate.”

  “Gloria says that bright colors on the plate increase a person’s appetite.” Douglas looked at Missy. “All I see is black.”

  “Corn’s yellow.” She’d had enough of their complaining.

  “My corn’s all gone,” he said.

  She glanced at Gary. He flicked his last bite of brown-skinned egg across his plate. Lastly, she looked at Jerry Boy. Seated to her right with his head bowed, he thickly buttered the outside of a biscuit.

  “At our church, there’s a group of older ladies who teach the younger women how to cook.” Robert said it in such a smooth, serene voice that it took Missy a few seconds to realize it was a bomb.

  “What religion are you?” Daddy asked.

  “Conservative Christian.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Daddy strummed his lower lip and looked across the table at Missy.

  “What do they learn to cook?” Douglas downed his glass of milk and ran his forearm across his mouth.

  “My sister Cassandra took the course.” Robert appeared thoughtful as he looked up at the popcorn textured ceiling. “After the last class, she made the family an entire meal. There was lasagna, French bread that she’d made from scratch, a tossed salad, and dessert. I want to say it was an apple pie, but it’s been awhile.”

  “Sounds like Home Ec,” Douglas said. “Missy took Shop instead.”

  Missy stared at the table. It was enough for Daddy and Douglas to make comments about her cooking, but it was quite another for a solicitor to do so.

  “They ever teach ‘em how to make . . .” Daddy paused to swallow, “Fried chicken and gravy?”

  “My mom’s a member of the group, and there’s eight to ten complete menus that they cover.” Robert nodded. “I’m almost positive fried chicken and gravy’s one of the dinners.”

  “How much does that class cost?” Douglas glanced from Robert to Daddy.

  “It’s free.”

  “Free?” Daddy threw his wadded up paper napkin to the center of the table.

  “Yes, it’s a ministry.”

  “Min-is-tree?” Douglas whispered like it was a foreign word.

  “Yes. The women teach the class as a ministry, as a service for the Lord.”

  Had they forgotten she was seated at the table? Missy felt so humiliated that she wanted to crawl underneath a car and die.

  “How do I go about signing Missy up?” her father asked.

  “They have a class starting up soon for the summer, but I’m not sure if there’s openings or not. I’ll find out.”

  “Well . . .” Daddy smiled. “If they’re really doing it for the Lord, they should be able to fit in one more. Don’t you think?”

  “I’ll ask my mom about it. She’s fairly involved.”

  Missy tossed her wadded up napkin to the center of the table next to Daddy’s. Rising from her chair, she met his steel-blue eyes. “There’s someone else you need to ask. When am I going to find the time? I’m behind on everything.” Her voice rose while she waved her hands around like a crazy woman. “I’m behind on the laundry and the payables, and I don’t know if I fed the chickens today. And... what if I don’t want to?”

  “Course you want to, darlin’,” Daddy said, in his sweet voice usually reserved for children. “Someday, you’ll have a family, a husband, and children of your own, and I haven’t prepared you. We’ve all just been muddling through trying to make it without her.” Daddy’s Adam’s apple dove as he swallowed a large lump in his throat.

  Tears were close. She took the doorway to her left and blindly made it to her room at the end of the hall. For ten years, Daddy hadn’t talked about Mama. He couldn’t just spring it on her like that in front of everyone. It wasn’t right. She flung herself on her bed, and grabbed her pillow.

  It wasn’t right.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Missy returned to do dishes, she kept her back to Daddy and Robert who were still sea
ted at the table. The Columbia Auto Parts catalog lay open between them. Douglas sat alone in the living room watching television. She was glad Gary had gone home for the evening, as her face was puffy and red from all the crying she’d done.

  “Missy, come in here,” Douglas said from the living room. “Hurry up.”

  She rinsed the jelly roll pan and hurried to the doorway. A Ginsu Knives commercial aired. This is what he wanted her to see? Using the flicker, he upped the volume.

  “It cuts through a nail, tin can, and radiator hose and still cuts a tomato paper thin. Call now. Supplies are limited.”

  “Those are the knives I was telling you about the other day,” Douglas said.

  “My mother’s good friend bought some of those,” Robert said.

  “Does she like ‘em?” Daddy asked.

  “She loves them.”

  Missy opened a lower cupboard and slid the pan inside.

  “Missy, I’ll make you a deal,” Daddy said.

  “What do you mean?” She walked to the sink and slid her hands in the soapy water, her back to the room.

  “You take cooking classes at Bobby Boy’s church. How many weeks do they run for?”

  “The name’s Robert. They run for eight, maybe ten weeks.”

  “You take cooking classes at his church for the whole nine yards, and I’ll buy you a set of those Ginsu Knives.”

  Could they see her reflection in the kitchen window? She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.

  “I bet they’d be great for filleting fish,” Douglas said from the living room.

  “Nobody’s taking my knives out in the boat if I have any say.” Missy lowered her voice and wondered if arguing about the knives meant she’d agreed to Daddy’s deal.

  “I’ll check into the class and let you know,” Robert said.

  “You do that.” There was a definite grin in Daddy’s voice.

  Robert Schoening had weaseled his way to their dinner table, and now on account of him she’d probably have to go to some church and take cooking classes. Baker needed to hurry up and get his rear back here before Daddy and Jerry Boy had her wearing dresses.

  “To save yourself a little money,” Daddy said, “why don’t you go ahead and order your fuel filter. I’ll show you how to install it. But I’ll still have to charge you twenty-five dollars an hour for labor.”