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asked. I recalled what Aunt Zipporah had suggested
about his mother and the pastor.
He shook his head. If it was true, he didn't want
to admit to it, I thought.
"Maybe she will," I suggested.
"I doubt it. She should have been a nun. She
lives like one anyway."
I wanted to say I was sorry, but I didn't know if that was right to say. When he talked about her, he didn't sound angry, just resigned. This was his mother; this was his life. There was nothing more to do about
it.
I looked at the time and saw we had been
working for hours and hours.
"I have to make something for dinner or my
aunt will be angry. Can you stay for dinner?" He looked at me with an expression of
confusion, as if such a possibility not only never
occurred to him but also didn't exist in the real world.
He revealed why.
"I never ate in anyone else's home but my
own."
"Never?"
"Well, no one else's except our pastor's, but
when and if we're there, Mother does most of the
cooking anyway. She doesn't like going to the homes
of the other church people," he said. "My mother isn't
comfortable eating at someone else's table, and she
always complains about the way some of the other
women cook and bake for the church."
"Well, do you want to have dinner with me?" "Yes," he said. "Yes," he repeated more firmly,
as if he had been arguing about it with himself. I had
to laugh. "What?" he asked.
"You didn't even ask what we'll have to eat."
