Bittersweet (5 page)

“I didn’t know. ’Sides,” Dale said, giving his newly won pig an assessing look, “I’m a farmer and I’m s’posed to grow things up to be food.”

Crack!
The eggshell shattered, half of the pieces sliding into the skillet with part of the egg. The other half glued themselves to Galen’s slime-coated fingers as the other portion of the egg oozed down the outside of the skillet.

The rooster crowed as someone knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Galen shouted as he tried to figure out how to clean his hand enough to use something to flip the measly half egg before it burned.

The door creaked open. “Good mornin’, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“Ishmael.” He grabbed a dish towel and began to wipe his hand. “And the morning’s not starting out so well. Do you know how to cook?”

“Not really. Sis usually sees to that. Your breakfast’s startin’ to smoke.”

Galen grabbed the nearest implement and tried to flip the egg. The tines of the fork poked through and shredded it. “Scrambled eggs,” he muttered to himself as he started to stir the blackening mess. Most of it clung to the skillet and smoked more. In desperation, he flipped the skillet over a plate and two stinking pea-sized blobs fell onto it.

“Must’ve been quail eggs.” Ishmael didn’t sound as if he was joking.

Galen stared at the mess inside the skillet. “The sad truth is, it was a chicken egg. Looks like you’re the only Grubb I’ll have today.”

Laughter rippled out of Ishmael. “I don’t mean to make fun of you, Boss, but you’ve got a right clever mind to come up with a joke like that.”

“If I’m so clever, why can’t I fry an egg?”

“Thought you was trying to scramble it.”

Galen glanced at the pathetic plate and then held the castiron skillet for the new farmhand to inspect. “I was trying to salvage it.”

Ishmael cleared his throat. “From the looks of your land, you’re a fine farmer.”

“But a more miserable cook you’ll never find.”
Ma’s teased me
about how I need a wife to take care of me. For the first time, I’m thinkin’
that’s not so much of a joke
. “Cooking makes no sense to me. Ma always cracks the eggs straight into the pan, and they slide out perfectly. What I wouldn’t give for a good plate of her bacon and eggs.”

Ishmael swallowed.

Here I am moaning about wanting bacon and eggs, and this man is truly
hungry
. “Get on over here, Ishmael. Two grown men can’t let a bunch of eggs get the better of them!”

Three eggs and a huge mess later, Galen yanked the plate of charred blobs from Ishmael and dumped them into the swill bucket. “Those aren’t fit to eat.”

“They were tolerable.”

“Maybe I could put water on to boil, and we can just drop in the eggs.”

“Sometimes when we have eggs, Ivy puts ’em in the pot and boils ’em at the same time as she’s a-boilin’ the coffee.”

“We can do that!” Galen pumped water into the coffeepot. He thought for a minute. “Hand me that kettle there, will you?”

“This one?”

“Yeah.” Galen filled it with water, too. “If I’m making eggs, I’m making enough to last for tomorrow.” He started to gingerly place eggs in the kettle and had to dip out some of the water when he’d put in a dozen. With the extra room, Galen popped in the rest from the egg basket.

“Want me to make the coffee anyway?”

“Better. Otherwise, I’ll be surly the whole day long.” Galen put the eggs on to boil and sheepishly admitted, “I drank stonecold leftover coffee for the past two mornings.”

“Coffee niver lasted long ’nuff for me to try it cold.” Ishmael squinted at the cupboard. “Where d’ya keep the beans?”

“Blue canister. Bottom shelf.”

“Here, found it. I’ll scour that skillet so’s I can roast—” “No need to roast the coffee beans. Ma’s started buying this new stuff. Osborn’s Celebrated Prepared Java Coffee. Just toss some into the grinder, and we’ll be set.”

Ishmael whistled under his breath and opened the canister. “A name like that makes a feller feel like he’s getting sommat extry special. How many cups d’ya wanna brew?”

“The pot holds eight.”

“You wanna make a whole pot?” When Galen nodded, Ishmael grinned. “Reckon on drinkin’ it cold again for a few days?”

“We’ll polish it off by noon. I’m planning on getting a lot done today.” Galen pretended not to notice how Ishmael painstakingly counted out seventeen beans and put them in the grinder. “Tell you what: why don’t you go gather eggs while I finish the coffee and eggs?”

“Shore.” Ishmael took the empty egg basket from the table and left.

Galen shook the coffee beans out of the grinder and into the scoop Ma used to measure them. They filled the scoop only halfway. He added more, quickly spun the handle on the grinder, and dumped the grounds into the coffeepot.

A short time later the men sat down to breakfast. Looking across the table, Galen stated, “I’ll ask grace.”

Ishmael’s brow furrowed as he glanced around the cabin and squinted at the loft. “I thought you was on your lonesome. Is Grace up thar, abed?”

“Saying grace is the same thing as asking a blessing or praying before a meal.”

“I ain’t niver been churched. Whaddya want me to do whilst you tend to grace?”

“Just bow your head and close your eyes. When I say amen, that means the prayer is over.” Galen rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands.

“That’s a good notion—keeps a body from wantin’ to swipe a mouthful since nobody’s looking.” Ishmael promptly thumped his elbows onto the table and clenched his hands so tightly together his nails went white.

Lord, this man doesn’t just lack his daily bread; he knows nothing about
the Living Water. Is that why you brought him here?

“Dear heavenly Father, we thank you for providing this meal. Bless it to our bodies and be with us as we work today. We’d like to ask you to keep watch over our loved ones and keep them safe. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Galen reached for his coffee.

Ishmael gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you Christian folks prayed to God. Didn’t know you talked to the departed. Bet your pa’s pleased you ain’t forgot him.”

Peeling the shell from an egg, Galen carefully considered his words. “My da passed on about two months back.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “We’re all missing him something fierce, but I wasn’t speaking to him when I prayed. God is my heavenly Father.”

“So who’s your heavenly mother?”

The question stunned him.
It’s logical. I’ve never thought of that
before, though
. “God created us. Because He is the Creator, we call Him our father.”

Ishmael wolfed down an egg. “Guess that makes sense.”

Galen bit into an egg and shoved the kettle full of them toward Ishmael.

“Thanks.”

They’d both eaten two, and Galen took a third. “Keep going. I was serious when I said I’d work you hard.”

“I’d rather set one aside and take it home to my sis if you don’t mind.”

Galen plucked three eggs from the kettle and put them on his new hand’s plate, then took two more for himself. He lifted another from the kettle and turned it so a big crack faced Ishmael. “I must’ve done something wrong, because most of the eggs are cracked. They won’t keep, so I figured on sending them back home with you.”

Color flooded Ishmael’s face.

“I came from Ireland,” Galen said in a pensive tone. “Probably didn’t need to tell you so. I’ve never lost the accent. Anyway, times were hard. Potato famine. Ma and Da both did without more often than not so us kids could eat—but even then, two of my brothers were so weak, the cholera killed them. I don’t have much money, Ishmael, but God’s blessed my family with an abundance of food. I couldn’t look myself in the mirror each morning if I hoarded something someone else needed.”

“I’m beholden to you.”

“Nonsense. With Ma and the boys gone, I’m not using up the eggs, and I’m not taking them to town for the mercantile to sell. They’d spoil.”

“When’ll your kin come back?”

“Two or three more days.” Galen tapped his foot on the floor as a thought flashed through his mind. “Your dad and sister have a lot to do, especially since you’re working here, but I’d dearly love to surprise Ma and have some stuff done. What are the chances that I could have Ivy come over for the morning the next two days? It’d be only half the day, and she could take home some truck like tomatoes and pears as payment.”

“Boss, you ain’t got no idea what kind of deal you jist made.”

CHAPTER FOUR

G
alen opened the door to leave as the cock crowed. Ishmael stood there with the pail full of milk, and his sister cradled something in her skirt, which pulled the hem higher, baring her shins and ankles. Galen quickly jerked his focus back onto Ishmael. “The two of you got an early start.”

Ivy barged in and filled the wire basket with eggs from her skirt. “You got yourself a goodly flock of layin’ hens. Ishy tole me ’bout yore eggs yestermorn. I cain cook ’em any way you fancy.” “Over easy?”

Her wispy pale blond braid bobbed above and below her waist as she nodded her head. “Jist tell me whar yore lard is.”

Lard!
Galen turned toward Ishmael.

Recognition of the ignorance they’d shared yesterday twinkled in Ishmael’s eyes. He pressed his forefinger to his lips and turned away.

“Ma keeps the lard beneath the sink. Says it stays cooler there.”

“Don’t mean to horn in on another woman’s kitchen, but as your mama’s away, I could whip up a batch of drop biscuits to go with the eggs.”

“That would be great!”

“Niver seed me such a fine stove. Oven on it’s huge. Could handle a pan of corn bread, too.” Ivy pulled out the lard, then opened the jar next to it She sniffed and let out a loud sneeze. “Thunk ’twas flour, but ’tisn’t.”

Ishmael moseyed over and read the label. “Bo-ric acid.” He pointed at a cupboard shelf. “Coffee’s in the blue thang. Already roasted, no less. Reckon that’s whar the missus stores her edibles. Boss, I’ll go muck the stable whilst we wait for vittles, ’less thar’s sommat else you planned for me.”

Galen didn’t want to leave a strange woman alone in the house—but it wasn’t right to be alone with her, either. He thought for a moment. “Go ahead and muck. Ma’s knives are getting dull. I’ll sit out on the porch and sharpen them till breakfast’s ready.” He pulled the whetstone from the back of a drawer and set to work.

Soon aromas wafted from the cabin out onto the porch. Galen tried to concentrate on the blades, but Miss Grubb kept singing snatches of tunes he’d never heard. Her voice could curdle milk.

“Cuckolds all in a row,” she warbled. A second later, she stood in the doorway. “Mr. O’Sullivan, sir, vittles are ’bout ready. D’ya like your biscuits dry, or would you have me plop a dollop of lard in their middles?”

“There’s butter in the springhouse. I’ll fetch a block.”

As he returned with the butter, Galen heard Ishmael through the open window and door. “Boss prayed afore we et t’other morn. Jist close your eyes and fold your hands like so. Onc’t he says amen, that’s the sign ’tis time to dig in.”

“I recollect them colored folks sangin’ that word whilst out apickin’ cotton. Member? ‘Amen. Amen. A-a-men, amen, amen.”’

Her voice and timing were both off, but Galen knew the spiritual she meant.

“Don’t make no sense,” Ivy mused. “Them slaves wasn’t ’bout to git their fill of vittles. They was prickin’ their fingers on them pickery cotton bolls.”

“Churched folk got their own notions. Don’t gotta understand it, sis. Jist foller along. This feller is pure hickory. Won’t hurt us none to respect his odd ways.”

Galen waited a few moments before going inside.

Ivy glanced over her shoulder, then grabbed a plate. “Perfect timin’. Eggs are done.” She flipped three eggs onto his plate. “Here you be.”

“Thank you.” Galen accepted the plate and set it on the table along with the butter. He frowned at the other two plates.

“Sommat a-wrong?” Ivy asked.

He lifted the plate that held a solitary egg and slid it onto the other that held two. “My littlest brother is six, and he eats two eggs. Seeing as none of us is six, I expect you’ll need to fry up some more.”