Free Bittersweet by Cathy Marie Hake Page A

a-gonna manage Pa?
    “Hey.”
    Ivy wheeled around and spied her brother over several rows of corn. “Ishy! What’re you doin’ home?” He didn’t look sad in the least, but Ivy couldn’t help blurting out, “Yore s’posed to be working for that O’Sullivan feller. Did he—” “Stop frettin’.” Ishmael carefully weaseled his way toward her. “His kin came home. I’ll work a full day tomorrow ’stead of today.
    And lookee what I got here.”
    Ivy tilted her head to the side. “A box?”
    “A box from a real diner. This is store-bought food!”
    “Cain’t be. Nobody’s fool ’nuff to put vittles in a paper box.”
    Ishmael chortled softly. “Depends on what kind of vittles, but the gal in town at the diner don’t have much horse sense. Took Mr. O’Sullivan’s ma and three other gals a chunk of time and work to fix it up afore we et.”
    “Don’t make no sense. Why’d anybody pay lots of cash money for food they had to take home and cook up again?”
    “No explainin’ the peculiarities of others.” Ishmael lifted the lid on the box.
    Ivy looked inside and resisted the urge to poke at the contents. “What is it?”
    “Taters and fur-ick-a-seed chicken.”
    “I don’t see no seeds on the chicken.”
    “Me, neither, but I didn’t ask. Miz O’Sullivan mixed up a batch of white gravy and we poured it o’er the chicken and a mess of noodles.”
    “Why’d they leave the eyes in the mashed—” Ishmael chuckled again. “Those ain’t the tater peels or eyes. Part of the box stuck. They picked off the pasteboard, mixed eggs and cheese with the taters, and fried ’em up.”
    Ivy’s mouth started to water.
    “Tasted right fine. Miz O’Sullivan said she was too tuckered out from travelin’ to have to do the same all o’er again with this box. The other gals—they’re from the ranch next door—they said they was plumb wore out, too. The McCain gals—one’s Joshua McCain’s wife and t’other’s his sis—well, when Mr. O’Sullivan tole them how good yore breakfasts was, they asked if you’d be willin’ to take this on. Elsewise, they was gonna jist drop the box into the pig sty!”
    “They couldn’t!” Ivy glanced back at the box. “Then again, cain’t say as I blame ’em if ’n they’re dead on their feet. That food’s a rare mess.”
    “Miz O’Sullivan stuck a hunk of cheese in my pocket.” He shook his head. “Niver woulda thunk I’d do it, but I fed the cake to the pigs, sis.”
    Ivy gawked at him. “A cake?”
    “If you could call it that. ’Twas burnt on the outside and mushy like muddy grits on the inside. Soon as Boss’s ma cut into it, it run all over. Ever’body started a-roarin’ like ’twas a grand joke. One of the boys stuck his finger in it to sample it. Grabbed for a cup of water to wash out the taste.”
    “That’s a cryin’ shame.”
    “Sis, if that gal cain get herself a job in a diner cookin’ sommat that sorry, I’m shore one of these days when—” He stopped and shoved the box into her hands. “You got a future, Ivy. Yore a fine cook. Someday, you’ll be a-cookin’ in one of them fancy town diners and folks’ll come from far and wide to get a taste.”
    He picked up the bucket and scanned the field. “I’ll get up early tomorrow and water afore I hie on over to the O’Sullivans’.”
    “You don’t need to.”
    They walked back toward the fire pit. Pa sat there, scowling at a curl of oak and going on the second round of cusswords.
    “That’s a powerful lot of oak.” Ishmael’s voice took on an edge. “Thunk you finished doin’ the shavin’s yesternoon.”
    Pa shook his head. “Didn’t hardly sleep a wink last night. Couldn’t figger out why. This mornin’ it all come to me. East of the Mississip, I did branches growin’ west. We’re clean on the west coast. I reckon that means the shavin’s ought to come from a eastgrowin’ branch. The one I did yesternoon went the wrong way. Had to put that matter to rights