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

when he could probably have taken his time. As you might know, summer is the busiest time of year for dairy farmers. But do you think the St. Jameses thought of that? In California, they probably never ate their supper until eight or nine.
    Before anyone could pass him the fried chicken, Mr. Rance reached out and stuck his fork in the biggest piece. He commenced to whoop and holler about how good it looked. Pretty soon, the food made the rounds with folks serving themselves. Except for Isabel, who took nothing. Myra Sue held out the bowl of potatoes to her, and the woman curled back as if it was full of worms. Ian finally reached across the table, grabbed the bowl, and served himself a little.
    I thought Isabel would scream when the gravy reached her. Ian took it from Myra Sue and dabbed a bit on his potatoes.
    â€œIsabel,” Mama said, looking concerned, “you don’t have a thing on your plate. Aren’t you hungry? Are you feeling poorly?”
    Isabel’s long blade of a nose curled as her skinny lips puckered into a tiny, wrinkled circle. Boy, could she make herself any uglier?
    â€œI cannot eat this,” she said.
    All of us looked at the big bunch of food Mama had worked all afternoon to prepare.
    â€œWe eat very little fat,” Ian said.
    â€œAnd everything here is swimming in grease,” added his lovely wife.
    â€œSwimming in grease?” Mama repeated weakly.
    â€œButter, gravy, fried,” Isabel said. “In California, we don’t eat any of it.”
    Ian shook his head. “Never.”
    I figured there were plenty of folks out there who ate fatty foods—they have McDonald’s out there, don’t they?—so I didn’t believe them. Mama looked as if someone had slapped her. I glared at Isabel and wanted to hit her in the head with one of her crutches, then smack Ian with the other one. Not that I’m violent, but boy, oh boy. Being nice doesn’t seem to work with some people.
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry,” Mama said. “I never even thought . . . I’m so used to my way of cooking . . .”
    â€œYour way of cooking is the best in the whole world,” I declared. Daddy patted her hand. Grandma had pulled in the corners of her mouth, aiming a sour expression at some of our company.
    â€œWell, I meant no offense,” Isabel sniffed. She blinked rapidly about twelve times. “I just don’t want to develop that corn-fed look you country people have. I guess you can’t help it, Lucy, if you always eat like this. I simply refuse to put on the extra pounds. Sorry.”
    â€œI understand,” Mama said quietly. “Here’s a nice salad.”
    â€œHer name is Lily,” I told that nasty woman. But she acted like I wasn’t at the table. She brightened as the salad reached her. I guess she’d rather look like a hollowed-out scarecrow than soft and pretty like Mama.
    Mr. Rance had been wolfing down his supper like he was the only one in the room. He looked up and saw that everyone watched Isabel put salad on her plate.
    â€œTry some of this here chicken,” he yelled, shoving it her direction. “It’s larrupin’.”
    Boy, do I hate that word. It sounds like a disease. Couldn’t he just have said the chicken was tasty?
    Ian pushed it back, and Mr. Rance shoved it toward them again.
    â€œFeed that poor woman!” he hollered. “She looks half-starved.”
    The platter tipped, and a great big chicken breast slid off to land smack-dab on top of Ian’s wee blob of mashed potatoes and gravy.
    Ian looked down at his plate and back up at Mr. Rance. “My wife does not eat fried foods,” he responded.
    No way the deaf old man heard that, and his next words proved it.
    â€œGive ’er some of this here chicken. You’d be surprised how much better she’ll look with a little meat on ’er bones.”
    After the chicken fell onto his plate, I reckon Ian must