For a brief period George Bibb landed a sales job that took him on the road every Wednesday. Life actually eased in his absence and, other than the temporary excitement over pop-beads for me and a pecan log for George, it resumed its normal tension upon his Friday return. In his absence, when the lights were doused and the children had settled into their beds, flourishing secrets drifted from the crevices to begin their nightly brouhaha. A myriad of mysterious sounds floated through the halls punctuating the nights. Occasional whispers swirled from downstairs echoing long into the night.
French glass doors divided the hall and the small kitchen, Deane’s cave, her hideaway. With fervor and diligence she conjured fine meals, night after night. After working all day, kitchen duty could have been shared or delegated, but she opted for the solitude. Alone she could recant the day, sigh over the spaghetti, and have more frequent and potent sips of sauce. Most nights, she served dinner to the children, four in count by that time with the addition of little Charles, twelve years younger than I. After serving the children, Mamma added ice and a pinch of water to her bourbon and went to the den ostensibly out of ear range to complete the round of nightly drinks and disparaging words with George Bibb.
My tentative yet frequent offers to help with the dishes were answered by a shattering clamor from the French doors making the panes and me tremble. Lucky for the inanimate objects, they took no personal claim or offense over her ritualistic slam.
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