Free In Front of God and Everybody by KD McCrite Page A

Myra Sue came next. Lucky for her, she got to sit on Isabel’s left. She patted the empty chair between her and Mama.
    â€œHere, sis,” she said happily.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” I asked her as I sat down.
    She smiled as if I’d given her a compliment; then she turned that dopey grin to Isabel, dazzling the woman with all her braces-covered teeth, including the lower ones.
    â€œTime to give thanks,” Daddy said. “Mr. St. James, as our guest tonight, would you?”
    Ian looked at him. “Would I what?”
    â€œAsk the blessing?”
    The man’s eyes bugged, then settled back in his head.
    â€œOh, well, I—”
    â€œWe are not religious,” Isabel piped up in a tone of voice that said they weren’t cannibals, either. Then she plucked up a fork and looked at it as if she’d never seen one before.
    â€œAlmighty God!” yelled Mr. Rance, and everyone but him jumped about three feet. Isabel’s fork clattered to the table. I saw the old man had his eyes closed and realized he was hollering a prayer, not swearing. He thanked the Lord for everything from summer rain and good food to paved roads and high-steppin’ horses. Then he asked for a blessing on the world, the United States, Texas, the “group gathered here today to eat of the bounty which looked fit,” and “Miz Grace, who is one of yer own dear angels, dear Lord.” I thought he was done, but he kept rambling, and I like to have passed out from starvation.
    As Mr. Rance droned on, I breathed in the wonderful smell of Mama’s crispy fried chicken. I opened my eyes while the old man prayed without ceasing and eyeballed the platter of corn on the cob in front of me. Butter dripped off every piece. I imagined biting into it, how it would taste all sweet and smooth and salty. Next to the roasting ears, a bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes sat like a snowy mountain, and there was thick, creamy gravy right next to it. There was big salad with everything taken from our garden that day and a bowl of seasoned, fresh green beans with pieces of bacon and onion. The fried okra came next, then a platter of red tomatoes, sliced thick and fresh, with long slabs of cucumbers and little green onions around them.
    I heartily wished God would tell Mr. Rance, “Enough, already.”
    I cut a glance from the food to see if anyone else were dying of hunger and over-blessedness, but they all had their eyes closed—except Isabel. She was staring at the fried chicken like she thought it might roost on her plate at any minute. Then her eyes darted nervously from the bowl of gravy to the fried okra to the heaping basket of Grandma’s hot, homemade yeast rolls, for which she is famous.
    I looked at Mr. Rance to see if he were about finished, and what do you think I saw? He was talking all that big prayer to God, but he was looking around the dining room to beat the band. He even picked up the serving fork next to the chicken, flipped it over and studied the writing on the back, all without taking a pause in all that thanksgiving. He never did see me looking at him ’cause I closed my eyes again before he had the chance.
    When he finally yelled, “Amen!” there was silence. Nobody moved for a minute. I wanted to say something about the total inappropriateness of looking around during prayers, but I supposed I was a bit guilty myself. Anyway, I was too hungry to get sent from the table for speaking out of turn.
    â€œWell, dig in, folks,” Daddy said. “If you don’t see it on the table, just ask for it. Lily, my sweet, it all looks mighty fine, as usual.”
    â€œApple cobbler for dessert,” Mama told him. They gave each other that gooey look, which I dearly hoped didn’t lead to a kiss. Mr. Rance might think kissing at the table was a habit in our house, and he might decide to lay one on Grandma again.
    My daddy looked tired. He had rushed his chores