The Gotham writing assignment was to
create a dialogue where one of the characters was keeping a secret from the
other character... Back to my Southern roots in this one.
Babe
"How was your trip to Chicago?" Samuel asked
between mouthfuls.
"No luck, but at least I had two interviews," Paul
answered avoiding eye contact. He was late for breakfast as usual, and he had
no good news to share. He would have rather stayed in bed.
"Shall I get the pliers to pull more information out of
you, or are you going to tell us who you interviewed with?"
"Let the boy be," Willamette said, unusually
protective. "He's been gone for a week."
"Bacon?" She asked Paul, turning away from the
stove, shielding the gas burners with her sizable girth.
"Both," Paul answered, wondering why his mother
hadn't offered the sausage. The smell of the heavily spiced, newly ground, pork
sausage patties filled the kitchen. He knew they were present. He could hear the
hamburger-sized patties sizzling in the black iron frying pan.
She smiled, hesitated uncharacteristically, nodded okay, and
got back to making breakfast with her usual flourish. She turned up the
transistor radio just a tad, signaling not wanting to participate in any more
conversation. A minute later, she plopped a large plate in front of her son.
"The Ford parts plant, and Bloomingdale's," Paul
replied.
"Ford sounds good," Samuel said, forking a large grits
and gravy covered bite of sausage into his mouth. "Don't know what the
hell you'd do at Bloomingdale's. Okra needs pickin' today, and I need some help
with the truck."
"What about the mill?" Paul asked, slapping
several mouthfuls down without taking a breath. "Hmmm, good," he said
in the general direction of his mother.
Samuel grunted, "No change, still just twenty hours a
week. Willa, some more of that sausage patty..." he said, pointing to his
plate. "Please... and more grits and gravy would be good," he added,
bowing his head when Willamette glared at him.
Paul saw the glare, and more importantly, he saw his
father's bowed sunburned neck. His father rarely lowered his head to anyone for
any reason. Something was up. His father was in the doghouse for something. He
never said please at the kitchen
table; and Paul had breakfasted with his father at least ten thousand times,
and not once had his father lathered grits and gravy over fresh sausage.
"Should I apply at the mill?
"Nah, wouldn't do any good both of us pulling part-time
wages," his father replied. "Damn sure good we had plenty of rain
this summer, a good crop of soybean and the hogs are fat..." His voice
faded at the end as he placed another large piece of sausage on his fork.
Paul looked up from his plate. Suddenly, it dawned on him.
"Dad, not Babe...," Paul said, looking at his
father.
When Samuel stood up and left the table without saying a
word, Paul vomited.
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