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said, “I’d love to do the cooking while I’m here, Fay. Do you
have a stove-top grill?”
Mom’s nostrils opened and closed like an angry bull’s.
“We like plain food. Don’t we, Ruthie?”
I gulped. What could I say? Aunt Marty was right. The
chicken was tasty enough. If you liked chewing rubber
bands. And creamed corn was a lot like eating oatmeal. I’d
been bugging my mom to buy a George Foreman grill, but
all she’d said was, “What does a boxer know about cooking?”
“Ruthie?”
“My room is your old room, right, Aunt Marty?” I
quickly changed the subject.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “My years in solitary confinement.”
Over-laughing, I ignored the maternal glare boring into
the side of my head and asked, “How is Uncle Richard?”
Aunt Marty inhaled extravagantly. “What can I say?
Richard is exactly like Richard.”
I exploded in giggles, though it wasn’t that funny. I
tossed my head back and enhanced my real laugh with a
fake howl.
“It’s not like we can afford a private chef!” Mom banged
her fist on the table. The water in my glass leaped up in a
little wave. I swallowed my phony laugh with an embarrassing,
burplike gulp.
“Georgia stole all our thunder as the Peach State,” Mr.
Arthur said. “How do you like them apples?”
Aunt Marty genuinely laughed. Before my eyes, Mr.
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