Free June by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

sputtered, more than half of his eggs already on the bib Apatha had sewn from oilcloth. June wished she could feed him. But she wouldn’t try it, not today.
    “The nine o’clock from Columbus,” Cheryl Ann repeated. This information had been relayed nearly a dozen times in the day before, a pleasing fact plucked from the simple, folded letter which now sat beside Cheryl Ann’s grapefruit spoon.
    June could vaguely remember a time when Cheryl Ann had been beautiful; it might not have even been that long ago. But since Marvin’s death and the loss of everything she held dear, the woman’s lustrous hair had grown thin and her face had been swallowed by a conspiracy of chins. Her back hurt and she made sure June knew it. She often passed wind and rarely excused herself. June didn’t begrudge her mother the genuine heartache she’d endured, but it was the way Cheryl Ann kissed her disappointments full on the mouth that appalled June, though she’d never have admitted as much to even Lindie.
    June watched her mother shove a sausage into her mouth while she prattled on about changing the floral arrangement in the front hall especially for Artie’s return. She asked, without really asking, what recipe June thought Apatha should use to make the roast on Sunday: “I’d prefer her to use Mother’s recipe, but not if she ruins it again. What gives her the idea she knows best?” June knew Apatha could hear through the pantry door. Cheryl Ann knocked on the mahogany tabletop, pleased with her intolerance. “She’d be sitting right beside me if she had her way.”
    Most of Lemon’s eggs had made their way to the floor. But Cheryl Ann dished up another pile for him as though it hadn’t been torture to watch him wrestle with the last batch. “I’ll confirm the church with Reverend Crane, and ask Clyde again about the reception hall. We have plenty to do, now that we know the date is firm and the rooster has come home to roost—what do we have, thirty-some-odd days? Hmm? June? June! Stop mooning.”
    “Yes, Mother, thirty-three days.” June watched her mother crest the next speculative wave, fluttering through seating charts and the menu and what flowers they might use and having June fitted again with Mrs. Jamison, because June had gotten nice and fat in her happy engagement, hadn’t she?
    June pushed her eggs around her plate. The wedding, she reminded herself—the wedding would be wonderful. Artie’s big brother, Clyde, was paying, and he’d promised she could have any kind of cake she wanted. No expense spared! Clyde was a rich and handsome bachelor. June supposed he must feel protective of her and Cheryl Ann, must believe that marrying them into his own family would be a way to help out the family of his wayward war buddy, like saving the two women left on a sinking ship. Not to mention that Clyde obviously loved his younger brother, Artie, because why else would he be going to all this trouble? Clyde Danvers was the man who got things done; June supposed she liked the feeling of being a necessary aspect of one of those things. She hadn’t felt necessary in so long. And so what if the prospect of the wedding filled her with pleasure, and thinking of Artie himself made her feel, well, a hollow unknowingness? She believed that her simply taking the leap of faith that she could be a good wife to tall, quiet Artie Danvers might be enough to get them both through the first year or so, and by then she’d probably love him anyway, because that was how it worked.
    The grandfather clock chimed the half hour. Cheryl Ann jumped, her hand fluttering over her heart. She frowned at June’s full plate and shook her head, wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin. “Time to go, time to go.”
    “But the bus isn’t until nine,” June objected, then, wondering why on earth she was complaining about getting free of her mother early, stood. “No, you’re right, I should leave extra.”
    June watched Cheryl Ann ring for