*
The next morning, there were his mother and father sitting at the breakfast table all dressed up, their plates loaded with fried eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy. They were eating just like they had never done anything wrong in their lives. And Michael sitting there, living proof of what they had been up to. And everybody just smiling and acting like nothing in the world was wrong. He might expect it from his father, but he couldn't even look at his mother. His Aunt Martha was standing over the stove watching the last pieces of bacon cook, and Uncle Eugene working at the practically empty jelly jar like it was a gold mine and each one of them knowing that the others have done it. They've been doing it for a long time. Why are they always lying to me when it doesn't even matter to them? And then he wondered if they had all washed their hands before coming to breakfast?
His mother had fixed a plate for him with one egg looking up, one biscuit split open with thin brown gravy poured over, and one biscuit split with a doubled up piece of bacon inside, just like he liked it. He sat staring at the table with the tall glasses of milk and orange juice, the bowl full of gravy and the big platter of ham and the smell of coffee everywhere. Doug and Wayne were eating like they hadn't seen food in a week and talking about going rabbit hunting. Even they had known and hadn't told him. His father was laughing and telling Aunt Martha, his sister, that she should put some more butter on the table. Michael wondered if he does it to her too. It looked to him like there was no trusting them at all anymore.
"What do you need, Michael? Salt and pepper?" his mother asked. How could she be so cheerful after what she's done, he thought.
"No. I'm just not very hungry right now," he said, sliding from the chair and walking away from the table. His head was down, and he was heading back to the bedroom.
She stopped him in the hall.
"You okay, Sweetie?"
"Oh, I just don't feel too good, Mom." His voice was barely audible above the noise from the kitchen. She felt of his forehead, then buried his head in her bosom.
"Michael, honey, I hope you're not getting sick." She walked him back to the bedroom with her hand on his shoulder pulling him close. He put his arm around her waist and held on tight.
"Mom, you're not going to have any more babies, are you?"
Walking That Short Distance, Childhood Enlightenment in the '50s Page 5