Chapter Ten
June Nineteenth
Hadley
It’s another Sunday afternoon, and I’m stuck in the kitchen with my mother-in-law. I love that Major comes over to share dinner with us each Sunday. I’ll like it even better when Gunnar comes up from Tennessee at the end of the summer. It’s nice to have the whole family together, but I hate that I’m forced to spend the afternoon with Doris.
For the last few days, we’ve pretty much ignored each other. She tells me my chores for the day, as if I’m her employee and not her daughter-in-law. Other than a snide comment here or there about how I’m not doing something right, she just pretends I don’t exist.
She is chopping apples on the butcher block, bringing the knife down with a snap each time she cuts through a piece. She has ignored me since she walked into the room, other than to say that she was making Tucker’s favorite, Dutch apple pie. I don’t care what she is making as long as she leaves me alone.
“Aren’t you done with that yet?” she barks, ending our silence. “You’ve been mixing it for nearly twenty minutes. It should have been put in the oven by now.”
I nod, pulling my hands out of the meatloaf mix. “Yeah, I just wanted to make sure the onions were mixed in good.”
She snarls her nose and asks, “You didn’t invite that little friend of yours over for supper again, did you?”
A couple of days ago, Willow stopped by while I was setting the table. It seemed rude not to invite her, so I did. I thought it went well. In fact, it was the one and only time Doris had ever complimented me on my food. The next day, I realized it was just an act for Willow’s benefit. She spent the entire day complaining about me inviting company to her house.
Washing off my hands, I grab a dish towel and quickly dry them. “No, I didn’t invite anyone. As far as I know, it will just be family.”
“And you,” she adds, just for spite.
I pretend I didn’t hear her remark and head over to the other side of the kitchen. Opening one of the lower cabinets, I pull out a loaf pan and turn around. I nearly drop it when I see Doris standing over the bowl the meatloaf mix is in. A box of salt is in her hand, and she is pouring the grains in.
“I’ve already put salt in it,” I shout, rushing across the room.
I literally jerk the bowl from her hand. Looking down, I see at least a cup of salt sitting on the top of the mixture. It takes all of my willpower not to pour the bowl over her head. Instead, I take it over to the sink and attempt to get as much of the salt off as I can.
“Your food is always under seasoned,” she states with a sneer spread over her lips. “A little salt may give it some flavor.”
“My food is fine, Doris,” I force out, still attempting to scoop out the extra salt. “Tucker and Major seem to enjoy it.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and glares in my direction. “I’ve told you to call me Mrs. Brady.”
She has, repeatedly. However, anytime Tucker hears me call her that, he gets upset. He says we’re family. According to him, family calls each other by their first names. Either way I go, I end up aggravating someone.
“Of course, Mrs. Brady,” I reply, giving up on salvaging the meatloaf.
She keeps talking, but I ignore her and walk to the fridge. Searching it thoroughly, I realize there is nothing that can be made quickly. Considering dinner is supposed to be on the table in less than an hour, I have no choice but to attempt to make the meatloaf.
Still ignoring Doris, I walk back to the pantry and grab two potatoes. After a quick wash, I cut them in half and carry them to the bowl of meatloaf mix. Using a trick my Grandma taught me, I place the flesh of the potatoes over the salted meat. Giving them a second to absorb the salt, I take them back to the sink and give them a good rinse.
During my third trip, Doris comes over and looks into the bowl. “What in the world are you doing?”
“You ruined my meatloaf,” I say, making sure she can hear my anger. “I’m attempting to get enough salt off it so it will at least be edible.”
She gives me one of her grunts, walks over, and picks up the lid on the potatoes I put to boil. “These don’t have enough water in them.”
Before she can do anything to ruin them, too, I rush over and take the lid from her hand. “They’re fine. The water is a little low because they’re almost done.”
“Don’t you know anything, girl?” She laughs, stepping away from the stove. “You don’t finish your potatoes until your meatloaf is almost done.”
She’d be right if I was making regular mashed potatoes, but I’m not. Tonight, I’m making garlic mashed potatoes with a cheesy cracker crust. You mash them like normal, adding the ground garlic right at the end. Then, you cover it with the crust. You place it in the oven right before being served, so the cheese and crackers can form a crunchy crust on top. I don’t try to explain any of that, knowing it will just make her complain more.
“I think they’ll be okay,” I reply with a forced smile.
She shakes her head, leaning against the counter. “Are you an idiot, girl? You need to start those potatoes over.”
I ignore her, putting the lid back on the pot. I spend another minute or two removing all the visible salt from the meatloaf mixture. I end up throwing away part of the meat in an attempt to avoid a dinner that is too salty to eat. Finally, I stick what is left in the loaf pan and slide it into the oven. Once that’s done, I pick up the corn cobs off the end of the counter and start shucking them over the trash can.
“I would like for you to dress appropriately for dinner tonight,” she says, drawing my attention back to her.
I have to force myself to not roll my eyes at her tone. “What do you mean, dress appropriately?”
“I do not want to see you in jeans or shorts at my table,” she states, tilting her head to the side. “I’m willing to put up with it during the week, but on Sundays, I want you dressing like a lady, not some two-bit….”
I talk over her, not wanting to hear what else she has to say. “There is nothing wrong with the way I dress.”
Granted, I don’t get dressed up for supper. No one here does, not even Doris. Yes, I wear jeans and sometimes shorts to the dining room table. Most of the week, I wear a t-shirt or whatever shirt I had been wearing during the day. On Sundays, I do try to look a little nicer. I fix my hair, freshen up my makeup, and always wear one of my nicer blouses.
“You either wear a dress or stay up in your room,” she orders, tapping her fingernails on the granite of the counter.
Every bit of patience I have flies out the window. “If I’m not eating this meal, then neither is anyone else. I’ll throw every bit of it in the garbage can before I let you take even one bite.”
A smile breaks over her face, and it sends a chill down my spine. “I wonder what Tucker would think if he knew you were talking to his mother that way.”
I know exactly what he’d think; he’d think she deserved it. He would also be moving her out of the house in the blink of the eye. As much as I can’t stand being around her, I know Tucker loves her with all his heart. I care enough about him to not want to cause a problem between him and his mother.
Forcing back my anger, I nod my head in her direction. “You’re right. I will try to choose my words more carefully from now on.”
“Finally, you are starting to show me the respect I deserve,” she states, seeming pleased with my words. “If you could learn to do as you’re told, I might allow my son to keep you around for a little while longer.”
Unable to filter the words coming out of my mouth, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You do realize that Tucker is twenty-seven. Don’t you?”
She shakes her head, clicking her tongue against the top of her mouth. “There’s that attitude again. When are you gonna learn to keep your mouth in check?”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble an undeserved apology, biting my bottom lip so hard the taste of coppery blood hits my tongue.
Before she can say anything else, I get back to shucking the corn. She watches me a second more before going back to making Tucker’s favorite dessert. I’m just rinsing off the ears of corn when she comes over to the stove and places the pie into the small double oven that is mounted to the ceiling.
“Take that pie out of the oven in forty minutes. Don’t let it burn,” she orders as she stalks to the doorway and looks back over her shoulder. “Remember what I said. Wear a dress or stay in your room.”
I don’t have the energy to respond, so I just nod my head. I wait until she is gone from my sight before I let the first tear fall. As the anger seeps from my body, I wonder how much longer I can put up with this. Then, I remember the smile on Tucker’s face when he and his mother were talking about his childhood antics. The memory of that smile is enough to make me realize I will put up with it for as long as I have to.