Nonfiction by Debra Davis Hinkle
Mom is blessed with four daughters. Some women in our church don’t have any children. So, Mom loans out her two older kids for the annual mother-daughter luncheon
I am the third child, and Mom doesn’t loan me or my little sister out.
I hate these functions because the food is weird. You can’t tell what something is because it’s mixed with a bunch of other stuff. The ladies seem proud of this food, and each dish seems to be a salad or casserole. Yuck. I like my plain peanut butter sandwiches, but I might be happy if I could see some meat without gravy.
After a few of these functions, I finally get smart and figure out how to get rid of the awful food before I’m forced to put it in my mouth. I practice my plan at home. I think I’m pretty good at scooping this pretend food into my imaginary purse. My last chore is to find the right purse, wide as a plate. My older sister lets me borrow hers.
The dreaded day arrives. All four girls in my family are in our church just a few blocks south of our house on the same street.
“Good afternoon, Betty,” Mrs. Harriet says.
“Afternoon,” Mom says. “My two oldest are sitting over there if you’d like to pick one for today and my two youngest are my guests.”
“Who’s going to borrow the other one?” Mrs. Harriet asked.
“Well, I promised Mrs. Otis one, too,” Mom says. “But you’re here now, so you get first choice.” I like Mrs. Otis. She’s the recess teacher at our school, and her son, Tony, is in my class.
“Betty, you might want to keep an eye on that one running …”
“Where are you going?” Mom asks.
“Bathroom!” I yell back up the stairs to Mom.
Ever since I was a little girl, the church bathroom has reeked like those strange toilets at campsites. It doesn’t just stink, it makes me feel my Sunday dress is going to smell like a dirty diaper.
I usually hold my nose in the bathroom, but today I need both hands. The last thing I do is line my sister’s purse with those dirty looking paper towels from the dispenser. I’m ready for the dreaded luncheon.
Mom stops my skipping in the hallway just outside the boy’s bathroom and takes my hand and my little sister’s and guides us to our places.
The meal is served in the large room downstairs. The big beige, plastic curtain that divides the room into two is pulled back. Our luncheon tables are in the center and the Sunday School classes occupy two of the three outside walls. Five or six rectangular tables are placed end to end, with bright white tablecloths on each. It looks sort of pretty, but the white linens will be covered in chunks of food soon enough. I wonder if I could accidently on purpose spill some food.
There aren’t any pretty amber windows here like upstairs in the chapel or carved double doors or even beautiful wood doors. Just plain glass windows and three ugly, heavy, white doors with lots of dirty fingerprints on both sides and a metal bar across the middle on the inside. Two doors leading out to the asphalt parking lot, and one in a tiny Sunday school room that exits to the front side of the church.
The room is smelly from the food and the ladies’ perfume. It’s hot, too. The bathroom might smell better, and I know it’s not as hot. Do I like smelly food mixed with gagging perfume or a dirty diaper smell? I always forget how horrible the chemical toilet smell is.
Here I go. I wonder if hell has bad food, too.
The chairs are brown, cold metal ones without padded seats. We are at the first table very near the second table. I’m sitting two places down from Mom. My little sister is between Mom and me. My two older sisters are sitting at the second table on the other side. They are just a hop, skip, and jump from us.
The food is served to me on a huge white plate. I feel like I’m going to gag, which happens to me when food is smelly or when I remember it tasted terrible the last time.
I know Mom talked to the lady who served my plate because I have only three things on it: meat of some kind, potatoes, and beans. I don’t like gravy on my food, except for biscuits. Maybe Mom forgot to tell the lady no greasy gravy because my plate is oozing it. I put my head down to smell the food. Thank God, it’s not quite as bad as the overall room smell. Maybe I can even force some down.
I take a bite of the mystery meat and it remains an unknown. A dry, overcooked piece of meat covered in greasy gravy. Out comes my savior, the purse.
I start to rearrange the “food” on my plate. I want it to look like I’m eating it. I scoot forward and place my purse on my knees at the edge of the table. I open my purse, and, as fast as I can, I slide the crap into it. I feel elated and oh-so-clever. I excuse myself and head for the bathroom, once again skipping but only the last twenty feet. I’m ready: garbage down the toilet and I reline the rescue purse.
Back at the table, I take my place, at ease for the first time. I look around and no one seems to be watching me. I smile at everyone like I’m happy to be here.
Refill time. This is going great. I’ll probably only need three pursefuls. I’m a happy little girl.
I check to see if anyone is watching me. Coast clear; I excuse myself again and repeat the process only this time I put the icky food in the trash just in case the toilets stop working. I cover the food with more light brown paper towels. The towels are running low. But I know where the extra ones are in the cupboard just under the stairs next to the restroom. Purse lined, I’m skipping along the first hallway again. I slow down to a walk like nothing is wrong once I turn left into the short hallway that leads to the big room.
I take my seat for the third time. Too bad our seats are at the end of the first table. It sure would be easier to leave and sneak back if I was nearer the hallway. One more trip and my plate will be clean enough to get dessert.
I look around at the ladies and their daughters, real or borrowed, and they seem happy. They are eating this stuff and not complaining. I don’t understand.
“Very good, Honey,” Mom says. “Now just eat a little more.”
I smile and nod at Mom. She seems proud of me; I sit up a little taller.
I eat a few very small bits of unidentified meat. The ritual begins—then I start moving the remaining food around and once again get closer to the table and open my purse. I scoop most of the remaining goop into my dump truck of a liberator, hoping to sneak away one last time.
Suddenly, I hear whispering voices and commotion. I dread looking up, and as I do, I lower my false savior and my head, looking out through my dark curly hair. I snap my purse shut.
I see my older sisters covering their laughter and some of the women elbowing their neighbors. Unfortunately, Mom sees and hears the commotion, too. She doesn’t have to look left; she knows the problem is two chairs to the right of her. And she doesn’t need the lady directly across from her to point at me. I don’t either.
Mom’s cheeks are turning red. I know she is embarrassed by my behavior, and I haven’t gotten rid of all the food. Now I’m sitting in the middle of the commotion I caused. I wish I could disappear. What do I do now?
“What is that stuff in your purse?” Mom says in a soft, controlled voice.
“It’s the awful food,” I respond, honest to a fault. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t throw food away. Don’t do it again, Honey.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
I’m sure my mom thought she had averted any disaster that she could imagine. Now she probably wishes that I had sat in the chair next to her and my little sister in the one I was in.
I guess I won’t be getting any dessert.
As it turns out, Mom knew better than to loan me out, but she let me get too far from her. I know Mom won’t hurt me even if it was wrong to throw my food away. Mommy is never mean. It’s enough punishment to know that I embarrassed her.
I’m keenly aware of the people, and it feels like everyone is still talking about me. Being “Christian ladies,” they whisper and try not to point. Yeah. I don’t feel elated or clever anymore. Now I feel fear.
Thank God it’s a mother-daughter function, not a father-daughter one. He would have dragged me out of the church and beat the hell out of me and continued the beating after he drove the half mile to our house. I tremble at my next thought. What if one of the ladies tells him or their husbands? Oh, no. I still might get a beating with his belt.
I sure hope Mom knows how to fix this one. Maybe, I should consider where I am and pray. It can’t hurt.
Dear God, I made a big booboo … and now I need your help. Please don’t let Daddy hurt me again.
At bedtime, Mom brings a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in a paper napkin and a glass of milk to my room. She says, “Honey, after you finish the sandwich put the napkin in the glass and then put the glass under the bed, so your father won’t see it. I love you, Debby.”
Learn more about Debra Davis Hinkle at DebraDavisHinkle.FridayNightWritersGroup.com.