Free Homebody by Orson Scott Card Page A

“Miss Judy” was definitely a name for only her housemate to use. She’d be either Miz Crawley or Miz Judea to him. He took a guess, deciding on the more affectionate title. “I’m honored, Miz Judea. I’m Don Lark.”
    “And this is Miz Evelyn Tyler,” said Miz Judea.
    No correction, so his use of her first name had been acceptable. He smiled at the white woman and said, “Honored to meet you, Miz Evelyn.”
    “Don Lark,” said Miz Evelyn. “What a lovelyname. Like the first birdsong of morning. Dawn. Lark.”
    She said the words as if they were music. Don found it disconcerting. What had been a source of schoolyard teasing now sounded charming. Maybe he had finally grown into his name.
    “I got to say, you ladies take neighborliness farther than I ever saw before.”
    “Then it’s a sad world,” said Miz Evelyn, “because we’ve hardly done a thing.”
    “Folks can’t be too neighborly,” said Miz Judea.
    That was a philosophy that Don knew wasn’t true, at least not for him. And while he knew it was ungrateful of him, for the sake of the next year’s work, he had to lay down some boundaries. “I got to tell you, ladies, I’m not a very neighborly kind of guy. I’m sort of . . . standoffish.”
    They glanced at each other. “That’s all right,” said Miz Judea. “Standoffish is fine.”
    Miz Evelyn chimed in cheerfully. “In fact, that’s sort of what we—”
    “Hush, Miss Evvie,” said Miz Judea. “That’s for later.”
    For the first time it occurred to Don that maybe there was more here than gregarious old ladies giving a lesson in kindness and manners to the whippersnapper working next door.
    Miz Judea lifted the lid off the tureen and steam rose up into her face. She sat a little straighter, closed her eyes and breathed it in. “You smell that?” she asked.
    Oh, yes, he smelled it.
    “What does that smell like?” she demanded.
    He didn’t even have to search for an answer. “Like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
    “Don’t just smell it, Miss Judy. Serve it!”
    Don would never have said anything, but he felt the same impatience. Even after a hard day’s work, food always seemed like just another duty, shoveling in something out of a grease-spotted paper sack. Today was a day of unexpected pleasures. And in this case, it wasn’t even a forgotten pleasure. Nobody in Don’s family was really much of a cook, and certainly nobody on his wife’s side. That wasn’t just sour grapes after she left him, either. She managed to simultaneously undercook and scorch Kraft macaroni and cheese, and once he opened up a lunch she packed for him and found potato-chip-and-mayonnaise sandwiches. He’d almost gagged. It made him appreciate his mother’s very, very plain cooking. His mother always acted as if Chef Boyardee spaghetti was maybe a little too spicy.
    The stew heaped high on the ladle and Miz Judea served it without spilling a drop. She passed him his bowl. He waited as the other two bowls were served, while steam and the smell of pepper and beef and spices he’d never heard of rose around his face. Finally they each were served, and since nobody was taking a bite they must be waiting for him, as the guest, to begin. He picked up his spoon and dug in.
    Miz Judea laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t forget to give thanks.”
    He almost thanked them again, before he realized what they meant. It made him feel stupid, since he’d said grace every day as he was growing up, and he and his wife had seen to it that they raised their daughter with prayers at meals and every night before bed. But for the past couple of years, there’d been nobody to pray with and, more importantly, nobody he much wanted to pray to.
    The ladies bowed their heads. “Dear Lord, for this food we give thanks,” said Miz Evelyn, “and for this strong young hardworking man who earns his bread by the sweat of his face. Bless him to be smart enough to get the hell out of that house before it eats him