Page 5 of Home Body
Following the heavenly aroma, she landed in a large kitchen at the back of the farmhouse and was surprised at what she saw. She knew she shouldn’t be, being from a blended family herself, but she was. An older black woman with whimsical, curly, silver hair stood at the stove flipping something that sizzled in a cast iron skillet. Although not slim and wearing a housedress and flowery bib apron, her bearing revealed life-long elegance. Was this black woman Grammy to the white girl? Rose solved the quandary.
“Grammy, she’s here.” Rose, who sat at the wood kitchen table, pointed at Kenyon. The cook turned away from the stove, spatula midair.
“Well, good morning, dear. Breakfast is almost ready, and the coffee is hot. Pour yourself a cup if you’d like.” “Grammy” gestured toward a mug that sat on the counter by the stove where an old-fashioned coffee pot percolated next to the frying pan. The woman’s voice was hearty and warm, welcomingKenyon as if they’d been friends forever. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Why are these people being so nice to me?The lure of coffee overrode Kenyon’s concern. She said she felt fine and thanked the woman as she used a potholder for the hot handle on the pot and poured herself a generous cup. After doctoring it up with the sugar and milk that sat on the counter, she took a long sip of what seemed like the nectar of the gods.
“How do you like your scrapple?” The woman dished up three fat slices of the fried cornmeal mush and sausage and held it out to Kenyon. “Butter or maple syrup or both?”
Kenyon held her coffee mug in one hand and took the plate. “Oh my, thank you! I’m a purist. Butter only.”
“Ah, I see you know your scrapple. Everything you need is on the table.” The woman handed a loaded plate to Rose, too, and then placed five more slabs in the pan. It sizzled loudly in response.
“My MoMo – my grandma – makes it, too. I love it. I’m Kenyon, by the way.” She sat down and Rose shoved the butter dish and a plate of bacon toward her. She took some bacon, slathered her scrapple with butter, and took a giant bite of each.
Rose pointed to a bowl that sat in the middle of the table. “You need some o’ that, too. It’s good for you. We picked ‘em from our garden.”
Kenyon thanked her and scooped up some of the strawberries and blackberries.
“I’m Mamie,” the grandmother said. “I hear you’ve met Rose and Rover. Dalia is out minding the sheep and chickens. She’ll be in soon.”
Kenyon didn’t know what to say. A hundred questions popped into her head but it wouldn’t be fitting to ask them in front of a child. So she figured she may as well chow down.
Mamie flipped the scrapple slices until they turned a perfect crispy brown.
Rose ate enthusiastically, staring Kenyon down all the while. Rover sat at the girl’s side, also homed in on the intruder. He licked his lips, ready in case the stranger dropped a morsel of the good stuff.
Kenyon noticed half a dozen pies, eight loaves of bread, and a cake on shelves in a hutch on the other side of the room. When Mamie sat down to eat, Kenyon asked about the baked goods and learned that Mamie baked as a business. Her customers usually came to the farm to pick up their goods.
“I do mostly pies and Dalia does the cakes. See that chocolate one?” She pointed at a cake with her fork.
Kenyon nodded. “It looks yummy.”
“We call it our ‘Divorce Cake.’ It’s two layers of moist triple chocolate cake infused with dark chocolate chips and with chocolate fudge frosting in-between the layers and on the outside.” She pinched a thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate the half-inch thickness of the icing. “We’ve become known for our wedding cakes, but a woman called one day wanting a divorce cake to share with her friends. We’d done her wedding cake only three months earlier.”
“No way!”
“Way. So we started putting them on our menu and voila! We sell a lot of them.” Mamie chuckled and got up to make more scrapple.
By the time the door flew open and the young woman who’d been outside came in, Kenyon had been served two more slices of scrapple and Rose had opted for one more. Rover still focused on the interloper, ever hopeful.
“Boo, our guest is doing fine, eating and everything.” Mamie’s comment revealed that they’d feared Kenyon wouldn’t be doing fine this morning.
“Hi.” Kenyon put down her fork and addressed the young woman. “I can’t thank you all enough for helping me. I mean, this is all so kind. The bed, the clothes, the breakfast. You’re more than generous. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I finish eating and make a call for someone to come get me.”
She became unnerved when the young woman didn’t respond, instead staring at her. She was a pretty thing with long, brown hair; flawless skin unfettered by makeup; and a strong, lithe shape beneath her tattered jeans and “Farmer’s Market” tee shirt. Kenyon worked out in a gym to try to stay in that kind of shape. She wondered if farm-work did the trick for this woman. She was a natural beauty if ever there was one. Kenyon didn’t recall seeing her at the strip club.
But the eyes – that lake-blue of the stripper’s eyes. The realization struck as if a spotlight had snapped on in her brain. This was the dancer in the red wig who’d been on stage and glanced at her with such pity when her life came crashing down. She would never forget that look.
“Hi. I’m Dalia.” The stripper with the bodacious body – homebody-farmer-mother in this house – let loose with a dazzling smile. “And I’m starved!”
The ice broken, Dalia joined them and the entire loaf of scrapple and every slice of bacon disappeared in no time. Rover’s greatest wish came true when Rose gave Kenyon permission to feed him a bite of bacon, reinforcing his devotion to his girl and initiating a love affair with the stranger.
Kenyon marveled at this odd situation. The juxtaposition of Dalia the stripper and Dalia the homebody struck her as astounding. Strippers were aimless, ignorant, prostituting dames – even drug addicts. Right?
Obviously wrong.
However, with all that was going on in her own sorry-ass life, she didn’t have the time or brain power to mull over someoneelse’s life. Before long there would be two hundred people in a church waiting for her to walk down the aisle. What in hell was she going to do about that? Would she forgive Chad – because she felt certain he would beg to be forgiven – and go through with the wedding or cancel the damned thing?
