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“We have several freshwater lakes and rivers, not to mention a few hundred miles of coastland. When you come to see us, you’ll find as much hunting and fishing as you can stand. We have an excellent gamekeeper who can help you sort out anything you would like to do.”
He adds politely, “And of course, you’re welcome to come stay as often and as long as you like.”
“Got any bowling alleys?”
“No. But when I’m king, I’ll have one built in the palace.”
That’s all he had to say to win Papaw over.
Memaw, meanwhile, wants to know all about the language, the customs, the traditions, the clothes, the food, and the wine.
Toad pipes up with, “All I know is they make good ass beer,” he says, guzzling half his bottle.
Papaw turns and looks at Toad pointedly. “You don’t need more beer; you need less.”
Memaw pats Papaw on the arm, and I don’t know if it’s to settle him down or if she’s in agreement.
Toad frowns and says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mama looks at me, Toad, then at each of her parents. “Papaw doesn’t drink because of your daddy. You know that.”
“Well, you sure didn’t bat an eye when sis poured herself a glass of wine. You sure don’t seem to have a problem that she’s marrying somebody who makes beer.“
Torben leans forward across the table. “Well, I don’t actually make the beer myself. We own the land. But the grower and the beer maker have complete control over the business, and we share profits.”
Toad chortles. “So, as long as someone is successful around alcohol, that’s okay. But we better keep an eye on my habits because I’m a regular nobody who enjoys a beer or two after work. Got it.”
Papaw maybe shouldn’t have said anything, but he also doesn’t deserve this. My brother knows as well as I do that Papaw’s ancestors were teetotaling Baptist preachers from way back.
Papa doesn’t harass anyone about drinking unless he thinks it’s a problem, especially after seeing how Mama suffered due to Daddy’s drinking.
I can’t take it anymore. “Brother, calm yourself down.” I slide my eyes over to Mama and back to Toad.
He gets the message. Then he takes his beer, stands up, and leaves.
“I’m sorry, everyone. Didn’t see that coming,” I say.
Although I really should have. Toad is hell-bent on picking a fight with me today.
* * *
I don’t know if she does this to smooth things over, but something magical happens to Mama at sunset.
When my grandparents, Torben, and I transition outside to the porch after dessert, Mama emerges minutes later to join us with her fiddle tucked under her arm.
Papaw, Memaw, and I exchange a look.
I don’t want to spook Mama by getting excited about this, nor do her parents. We are frozen to our spots: my grandparents in their rocking chairs and me and my prince on the steps, watching.
The porch swing creaks as Mama sits down, tuning her freshly-dusted instrument. I’m so happy to see her do this again that I could squeal, but I don’t make a sound.
As we listen and watch in rapt attention, it feels like she never put it down. The bowstring and her are one unit again, playing one of Memaw’s favorite songs, the low, sweet notes echoing off the hillside.
When Mama finishes playing, no one says a word. She looks at us all like we’re certifiable for staring at her.
“Well, don’t sit there catching flies with your mouths open. You’re free to talk amongst yourselves while I try to remember how to play.”
“Susan, if this is you trying to remember how to play, I can only imagine what you’ve forgotten,” Torben says.
