19
Easter morning dawned bright and clear. The overnight chill off the water had been swept away by mid-morning, routed by the brilliant sun and a warm breeze out of the southwest.
The night before, Bridge and Lil had pushed hard for them to attend the sunrise service held on a high dune in the National Seashore. “If God is anywhere,” Bridge had claimed, “He’ll be in all that water and sky,” adding after an appropriate pause and with a touch of awe, “Only place big enough to hold Him.” Brooke had frowned but held her silence; Onion, home for once and sober, had gently resisted. “Mighty early, Dad, even for Jodie let alone late-sleeper Brookie!” He’d pinched her under the table and she’d kicked him back but was secretly glad he’d left them an out from the ritual that last year, eight months pregnant and fighting off a cold, was pure torture, standing in the fog singing hymns to a sun that didn’t appear that day till after noon.
So when Bridge rapped loudly on their door in the gray pre-dawn and Onion yelled back “You go on ahead. We might meet you later,” Brooke breathed an audible sigh of relief and rolled over to return to sleep. But Onion had another plan. His hand eased its way downward over her nightgown and found its way past the hiked up hem and to her panties. “If God is anywhere, he’ll be right here,” he whispered as he gently ran his finger back and forth on the cotton fabric. She purred in agreement, then reached her hand behind her and found unerring what was waiting at the center of his nakedness (he always slept naked, even in the coldest weather). “Or maybe he’s here,” she said as she stroked back and forth. He rolled her toward him. “Maybe we should bring your god and my god together.” She giggled and said, “Or maybe not.” She quickly rose above him and straddled his chest, deftly removed her underwear, then turned around atop him, lifted the covers over her head, and bent over so that her face was at his groin, slid her knees upward till they were at either side of his head. “Keep our gods apart?” he asked. “Safer that way,” she said. He briefly wondered what she meant before his mind surrendered to the pleasure of her ministrations and his returning the gift in kind.
Later that morning they slid into the pew beside Bridge and Lil and Daphne just as the organist began playing the opening hymn. The small white clapboard Methodist church was packed. There were only two churches on Shawnituck, Methodist and Baptist; and fortunately for Brooke, who was raised Methodist and had the denomination’s requisite disdain for the overly energetic Baptists, the Howards were all Methodists, far back as John Wesley’s conversion.
Daphne had all but sprawled across the pew to save their seats against repeated attempts at appropriation. When Brooke finally slid into the pew holding Jodie on her shoulder and followed by Onion, Daphne lifted her eyes and raised her arms as if ready to launch into the Hallelujah chorus. Behind her, Bridge, seated nearest the center aisle, silently shook his head and Lil rolled her eyes above a tight smile of nearly audible relief. Her son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter might have missed the sunrise service; but at least they’d made it to Easter morning worship, and at a moment when everybody in the church couldn’t fail to notice.
Just when Brooke had finally settled into the pew and almost caught her breath from the jog while toting Jodie through two backyards and down Gospel Lane, everybody stood for the hymn. She thought she might sit this one out, fussing over Jodie’s bonnet as an excuse; but Onion nudged her on the shoulder and gestured with his eyes for her to stand with the rest. She uttered a groan that was inaudible beneath all the singing, slid Jodie off her lap, and slowly stood. Onion offered her half his hymnal, which she took with her right hand while gently patting Jodie’s shoulder with her left. By the end of the hymn, her racing heart had slowed, her breaths had calmed, and she felt almost like she belonged there, wedged between her husband and her daughter in this assemblage of islanders.
Everyone was attired in their Easter finest. Brooke and Jodie had on matching lemon-colored dresses with white lace collars that Brooke had sewn over the winter with guidance and advice from Lori Erskine, a Yankee import who now served as the island’s seamstress since Belle Argent’s arthritis and subsequent dementia. Brooke had also managed to find matching white bonnets with lemon sashes in a catalogue of upscale outfits that Momma had sent her. Though Momma had offered to buy her and Jodie’s Easter outfits, Brooke had declined the offer and ordered the bonnets herself. She’d kept the box and all the shipping materials and planned to return the bonnets tomorrow, checking the box marked wrong size. But today they fit fine, and Brooke and Jodie were radiant twins between Daphne in her white sleeveless mini-dress and open-toed platform heels and Onion in his black suit, white starched shirt, and burgundy tie. Brooke had found a lemon-colored tie and begged him to wear it for church and the family portrait later this morning, but he had declined with the convenient excuse that he didn’t know how to knot a tie and therefore could only use the burgundy one, with its knot preserved from when Miss Polly had tied it before his high school graduation three years ago. Brooke had shrieked in frustration but had no recourse. Though Father could knot a tie in his sleep and she’d often watched him execute the spell-binding sequence during her childhood, she’d never asked to learn the skill.
Jodie was remarkably well-behaved throughout the long service that included two infant baptisms at the small silver font on the white wooden pedestal on wheels that was rolled to the middle aisle prior to the baptisms and rolled away just after. She didn’t cry at all and only shrieked once at some hidden delight, a sound that unfortunately came during the prayers and brought muffled giggles from beneath the bowed heads of many of the parishioners. Brooke spent most of the service trying to turn her daughter’s attention to the colorful and active surroundings—the church’s stained glass side windows, the flickering candles on the altar, the babies being baptized, Aunt Betty Sue’s bouncing beehive one pew in front. But all Jodie wanted to do was play with the sash on Brooke’s bonnet and poke at the holes in her lace collar. Finally Brooke distracted her by braiding the multi-colored marking ribbons of her hymnal. She’d braid it all the way to the end and tie it off with a knot, then undo the knot and slowly untie the braid, only to begin again when finished. Jodie never tired of watching Brooke’s fingers work the bright, thin ribbons in orderly sequence, a rapt attention that recalled Brooke’s fascination with her father’s knotting his ties.
As they stood for the last hymn, Onion leaned over and whispered, “I’m going to check on the Buffet.”
Brooke said, “Don’t stain your shirt before the picture!”
“Don’t you worry, my Little Brookie.” He pinched her waist just above where their thighs touched.
Brooke felt dizzy but quickly recovered.
Onion slid out of the pew. He was headed to the restaurant to check on preparations for the annual Easter Brunch—free and open to all on the island. It was Miss Polly’s brainchild dating back since before Onion was born, and his grandmother oversaw the preparations with typical imperious rigor and attention to detail. Earlier in the week when Onion had offered to help, Miss Polly had dismissed the offer with a wave of her hand and a stern command, “Spend the day with that pretty wife of yours and my little Peach Pie.” Onion had shrugged in response, to which Polly responded, “I mean it! Pay attention to your family! They are all you’ve got.” Onion reflexively nodded—no one on the island challenged that tone and voice. But now immersed in the commanded task, he couldn’t resist slipping away to check on the restaurant that had become his refuge and solace.
After the service Brooke stood outside the church in the warm sun with Daphne while Lil paraded Jodie around like a trophy for all to see.
“She’s in Heaven,” Daphne said in a whimsical tone that seemed odd for the day or the setting.
“Granddaughter or grandmother?” Brooke asked.
“I meant Mom. She’s made for this. But Jodie seems pretty happy too.”
Brooke stared at her sister-in-law, trying to gauge her meaning. Unlike herself, who always spoke without thi
nking, Daphne rarely made such pronouncements without some deeper reflection. But today she couldn’t guess what that reflection might be, and the milling crowd kept her from asking outright. Finally she said, “I suppose.”
Daphne looked at her with a big smile. “The two of you looked darling. I can’t believe you made the dresses. They’re perfect! And the bonnets put us all to shame.”
“Thanks. But there’s no upstaging you, girlfriend. You’re positively radiant!” It was true. Daphne, who had always been a lanky and homely tomboy, seemed to have grown up and found an unassuming natural beauty overnight. The short and simple dress, stylish on the mainland but not out here, might have caught the eye and drawn the most attention; but it was the poised, almost serene, young woman inside it that riveted Brooke’s gaze. When had that happened?
“Did you see Tommy drop his program so he could look under the pew?” Tommy was a Howard cousin, Betty Sue and Link’s fourteen-year-old surly son.
Brooke nodded. “Par for the course.”
“I thought of giving him a peek.”
“You didn’t?” Brooke said, feigning shock. “Would have made his day.”
Daphne laughed. “I kept my legs crossed. He’ll have to use his imagination.”
“Running wild.”
Daphne nodded. “But not with my help.”
Brooke thought, He doesn’t need any help, but said nothing. Then she thought suddenly, Everyone is watching, all the time, but didn’t know what she meant. Were they all watching their private parts, or just watching in general? If the latter, then why? At the moment, no one was watching the two of them standing off to one side in the church’s sandy front yard, least far as she could tell.
They waited for Bridge and Lil to finish greeting every single person in the lingering crowd, then walked along the packed sand paths to the restaurant. By the time they got there, it was already jammed with people coming out with brimming plates to find a seat on the front porch or at one of the picnic tables borrowed from the nearby motel and set up in the parking lot. Everybody was in a cheerful mood and said, “Happy Easter!” as they passed. A few said, “He is risen!” but they were all Baptists.
Inside was even more crowded with a line snaking from the buffet table inside the restaurant out into the wide entry foyer.
Miss Polly, seated on her throne that was the stool behind the cash register, spotted them and waved them forward. She grabbed Jodie out of Lil’s arms. “Look at my little Peach Pie, dressed up as an Easter princess. Your momma should dress you up more often. You’re just cute as a button!” Polly rubbed noses with her great-granddaughter then used her bonnet to play peekaboo.
Bridge and Lil and Daphne and Brooke stood wedged against the register counter smiling indulgently and waiting patiently.
Polly put the bonnet back on Jodie’s head and tied the sash under her chin though Jodie didn’t like that and tried to untie the knot. “Now you leave that alone,” Polly said and pulled Jodie’s hands away from the sash. “Let me show you what the Easter Bunny left.” She slid off the stool and walked into the dining room through a side door that also led to the kitchen, holding Jodie on her shoulder but paying no heed to the others.
Bridge looked back at the other three, shrugged, then sidled around the end of the counter and followed his mother, with Lil, Daphne, and Brooke trailing behind.
Every table in the restaurant was full except for a long table just outside the two-way swinging doors leading into the kitchen. This was Miss Polly’s table and reserved for immediate family. Though it wasn’t in any way marked as reserved, everyone on the island knew not to sit at it—unless of course you were Howard kin, and close Howards at that (none of the widely scattered riff-raff). Today at one end of the table was a high chair with a colorful Easter basket sitting in front of it, with lots of sparkling foil-wrapped bunnies and eggs sitting in a nest of green faux grass.
“Look at what the Easter Bunny brought my little Peach Pie!” Polly exclaimed as she carried Jodie to the head of the table. She set her great-granddaughter in the high chair then from under the chair pulled out one of Malcolm’s helium balloons, this one a special order of a smiling Easter bunny. Polly then stood back to marvel at her handiwork.
Jodie was in Heaven, overwhelmed with visual and auditory stimuli (the low-ceilinged restaurant was noisy with chatter and laughter and Handel’s Messiah playing over the speakers). She looked to the bunny balloon bobbing over her head, to the foil candies in the basket, to the pink pastel paper table cloth and the colorful jellybeans strewn about like marbles, to Polly with her hands clutched under her chin in joyful satisfaction. Jodie looked about with wide-eyed wonder and glee, everywhere except to her mother.
Brooke saw that her baby was well-tended. She thought she should be happy to be relieved of her responsibility if only for a few minutes. She turned toward the buffet table, where the family had immediate backside access, and contemplated all that food. Only then did she realize she was starving, as only Jodie had gotten breakfast before they’d had to rush off to church (and still almost late!). She went and loaded up a plate and found a space only a few seats removed from Miss Polly’s glowing Easter princess.
Forty-five minutes later Brooke sat in that same chair in the slightly dazed fog of that huge breakfast atop all the morning’s activities. She was now alone at the table as Miss Polly was out front greeting departing guests and Bridge and Lil were once again parading Jodie around the slowly thinning crowd of diners and Daphne had disappeared without eating and the rest of the Howard clan that had so recently packed their table had all dispersed. And who knows where Onion was? He’d stopped by the table halfway through her meal, shed of his suitcoat and with the lower half of his tie tucked into his shirt between two buttons. He’d given her a hug and pinched Jodie’s nose before rushing back into the kitchen. At least his shirt was still unstained.
Brooke felt a sudden wave of nausea, promptly stirring her from her daze. She covered her mouth to hold in what might soon be coming out and rushed to the restaurant’s only public bathroom. Jock Barr was just emerging from that restroom and gave her a big smile before seeing her urgency and jumping aside. She slammed the door behind, dropped to her knees on the slimy floor (raising her dress hem before she did), then dropped her hand from her mouth and regurgitated the entire mass of eggs, sausage, biscuits, gravy, and coffee into the toilet’s bowl. She closed her eyes against the gross sight but couldn’t ward off the awful stink of vomit mixed with urine and poop smells. This combination of odors produced another spasm in her gut, then another. This third was dry but worse than the first two for the wrenching in her gut that radiated into her throat. She lay her head on her arm on the toilet seat in exhaustion.
She reached up with her free hand and pulled the lever. The bowl roared as its contents swirled then slowly emptied and refilled with clean water flecked with a few floating pieces of egg and biscuit. She pulled the lever again. The unique odor combined with the sound of flushing recalled a memory from one morning her first week working at the restaurant two summers ago. Miss Polly had handed her a mop and pointed at the bathroom and said, “Go clean up Mary’s mess.” One of their customers, a free-spirited and single islander named Mary Pickett, had lost her breakfast in this very bathroom. But she had missed the bowl; and newcomer Brooke, low girl in the pecking order, was left with the task of cleaning it up. Halfway through the unpleasant chore, Onion, whom she’d only just met, came up behind with a bucket of Lysol and helped out, bending low and getting the pieces she’d missed under the bowl and behind the tank. As they’d finished, he’d given her the air freshener to spray then picked up the bucket of dirty liquid to dump outside the kitchen. He’d bent close to her ear and whispered, “Guess Mary’s knocked up. Wonder who the father is?” He’d grinned that silly grin she’d grow to adore, winked, then headed off with the bucket.
At the time she didn’t get the connection. Six months later, Mary gave birth to a baby boy. By then, Brooke hers
elf was three months pregnant and understood all too well the connection Onion had spotted. There’s only one reason otherwise healthy young women lose their breakfast.
When Brooke emerged from the bathroom, after checking her dress and washing her hands and rinsing her mouth and splashing a little cold water on her face, she was relieved to see no one waiting. And apparently none had noted her absence. The dining room was empty. Everyone was in the entry or outside. Only Jock had witnessed the incident and he didn’t gossip. She again checked her dress and shoes, grabbed a jellybean off the table to cover the foul taste in her mouth, then headed outside to join the others.
In the family photo taken in front of the restaurant fifteen minutes later, Onion’s shirt is unstained, burgundy tie trimly knotted, suitcoat buttoned; Jodie’s brown curls cascade out from under her bonnet, its sash primly but loosely tied under her chin; and Brooke has a stiff smile pasted on her face, her bonnet missing, her skin a little pale despite the bright day.