Let Them Eat Tea Read online

  Chapter 6 - Dinner at the Farm House

  A rooster crows for the fourteenth time in the farmyard behind the large stately farmhouse a few miles outside Wrights Corner, Indiana, a little west of Cincinnati on the way to Indianapolis.

  And it isn't even ten o'clock yet, Marie reflects. "I thought roosters only crow at dawn," she says aloud, smiling hopefully at her hostess, the farmer's wife Della Peterson.

  "Heh heh," Della laughs a little, as if her celebrity guest has told a deliberate joke. "Oh, Honey, they can crow anytime," she adds and laughs again more heartily. "It's not so bad when they run late. It's when they start early that it's bothersome."

  "Seriously?"

  "Oh, yes. Turn on those outside lights and that's all it takes to get them started. Why, sometimes a tractor or a car headlight is enough." She laughs again, less enthusiastically. "They can keep it up for hours, Honey," she ends decisively, draining the water from a big pot of boiled potatoes. She dumps the cooked potatoes into a cafeteria sized metal bowl, where it joins two previous similar batches of boiled potatoes, waiting to be converted into potato salad for the big Sunday dinner late that afternoon. It will be the biggest gathering she's ever had at the farmhouse, and certainly the only time guests have paid. And so much money! But for a good cause. "Keep that 37th Cannonball rolling," she says aloud. The remark has continuity within her own train of thought, but to the others it just seems like a random change of subject.

  "Amen to that," Marie responds automatically.

  "Amen," the farm woman answers, in her innocent well-meaning way. She has seen very little of the world outside the farm, the small town, and the small church they usually attend. Fortunately the church has more than one service on a Sunday morning, and she attended a very early one. "Was probably us going to church this morning that woke the chickens," she adds.

  Marie finds the abrupt subject switches unnerving. She really is not very bright, and it costs her an uncomfortable effort to adjust her mental state for each change. She doesn't see any connection between the different subjects, so it has the effect of someone with a remote control switching channels aimlessly on a television set she's trying to watch. She moves on to kneading the next lump of bread dough, spreading it out on the floured board, sprinkling a handful of flour over it, folding the dough over itself repeatedly. This she likes. This she understands.

  "Maybe Nick and the guys leaving to go fishing at five a.m. woke the chickens," Marie suggests a possible alternative. "That was before dawn. That big Ford pickup of Nick's certainly has headlights on it."

  Della laughs. "It does at that," she agrees.

  A cat scratches at a litter box in a corner of the giant kitchen, adding the scent of dusty powder and ammonia to the air. It isn't a strong smell, but Marie notices it above the food and cooking smells. The cat does its business, then scratches again. Marie doesn't like having the cats in the kitchen. She doesn't dislike cats as much as she once did, and she understands that farmers often keep cats to control mice. Still, does the cat box have to be in the kitchen? Whether from intuition or from decades of parentally inflicted training and drilling in social skills, she knows enough not to ask. She continues to knead the bread, sprinkling on flour, turning the dough over onto itself in half, stretching it and folding it again.

  Marie sneezes, turning her face into her shoulder to avoid spraying the food. The food is probably contaminated by the sneezing, despite the precaution. It's probably already contaminated by the cat litter dust, she thinks to herself, maybe as self-justification. Real people often live under these conditions, she tells herself; and people had asked for a home-cooked meal, clamored for it in fact. This is what a home-cooked meal is.

 

  Della laughs, and it startles Marie, as if the woman had been reading her mind. "Why, would you look at that," Della marvels, gazing out the window.

  Marie sees nothing outside the window but a silo, a windmill, some reddish dairy barns and chicken sheds in a large dirt farmyard, the dirt populated by a random collection of small farm animals, the scene backed by seemingly infinite rows of tall corn and a vast blue grey sky with gathering clouds.

  "Looks like we're due for rain," Della points out.

  "Not this afternoon I hope," Marie responds, now that the topic of discussion is clear.

  Della laughs under her breath. "Why, no, Dear, it won't spoil your shindig. Not this afternoon. Soon though."

  Marie doesn't care even a little. "Will that be a problem for you?" she asks the other woman, as if concerned.

  "Just means we better start getting that corn in soon, is all," she says, and shakes her head. "A little rain is okay. Too much rain can ruin the whole crop. This shouldn't be too bad tonight. It's just starting, that's all. It'll be coming down hard before long."

  "Well, let's enjoy today then," Marie turns the topic to the bright side.

  "Amen to that," Della says sweetly, and drains steaming water from another large pot of potatoes. "We'll have potato salad soon." She sets down the big pot and takes another oversized chrome steel bowl down from a shelf. "I butter get started baking those cakes," she adds jokingly. "Get it, butter get started," she smiles self-consciously, turning to Marie, hoping for approval of her pun.

 

  Marie smiles at her beneficently, granting the approval, but internally self-congratulatory for the superior nature of her own puns, indeed her own intellectual stature, relatively speaking. That college boy may think he's smart with his ideas and doing all that math in his head, she reflects. Maybe he is smart at that, she concedes to herself. But to these people, she, Marie, is the clever one, the Queen Bee, the one with the puns and the big ideas.

  "Della, people tell me YOU make THE BEST cakes for miles and miles around," Marie adds a compliment for her hostess and helper.

  "She does at that," another woman chimes in. Until that moment Marie has forgotten that she and Della are not alone in the kitchen. Five other women are helping with the preparations, all supporters, all volunteering their time and efforts because they have faith that the 37th amendment is going to improve the situation in the country, because they have faith that LiberTEA philosophy holds out the best hope for continued enjoyment of their lives of relative privilege and comfort, because they have faith that Marie Mallon and Nicholas B. Wright are campaigning to maintain detached islands of safety and prosperity for themselves and their families.

  "Stop that, you'll make me blush," the hostess says, and her cheeks turn a medium range pink.

  "Well, Della, you know your cakes ARE the best cakes anybody around here has ever seen," another woman adds, and all nod and murmur agreement, looking straight at the local cake queen, who turns a more intense pink.

  "Well, Angela," she answers in echo, "you know my cakes had better get started on their way to the oven then."

  So saying she measures three pounds of butter into the big bowl. Butter isn't just a secret ingredient. The goodness of butter is an article of faith for a woman married to a dairy farmer. She adds a five pound bag of sugar and turns on a noisy electric mixer, stopping the embarrassing conversation.

  Again the rooster crows, audible over the noise. Another cat scratches up dust from the litter box. Again Marie sneezes, and this time one of the other women echoes the sneeze. They continue preparing the gala Sunday dinner. The clouds continue to drift in slowly.

  Della's 10-year old son Butch rushes in through the kitchen door, white-blonde hair sticking up here and there like ripe wheat, gangly limbs waving in all directions. "Mama! There's going to be an execution on the TV tonight!" he exclaims, clearly excited by the news. "Can we watch it, Mama? Can we watch it on the big screen?"

  "Well, what execution is that, now, Butch, darlin?" asks one of the women, his aunt Becky. "And who told you about that?"

  "Cousin Bobby," he answers, fidgeting like a six year old needing the bathroom. "It's in TEXAS!" he answers the other questi
on, eyes growing wide. "They use the ELECTRIC CHAIR."

  "Electric chair, hmm?" Aunt Becky considers it, and turns to her sister, Butch's mother Della. "This must be that Bill Benson thing. You know. The abortionist. And they say he was doing stem cell research to boot! It's desecrating the dead, is what it is."

  "Stem cell research! Well, I never," Della shakes her head. "What time do you suppose it's on?"

  "Seven o'clock," the boy offers sheepishly. "Tonight."

  "Well, the big dinner will still be in full swing at seven o'clock," Della holds back, remembering her duty to her guests and the cause. But an actual electrocution! She hasn't seen one of those in weeks. "A lot of important people will be here. They might be in the middle of making speeches."

  Marie chimes in, sounding expansive and generous, "Why, Della, I think our guests would enjoy watching the execution! Did the boy say you have a big screen TV?"

  "In the big room," the hostess answers. "That screen's seven or eight foot across, I'd guess, hanging on the wall in there. You probably didn't notice it cause it's so flat and all. It's not a REAL big one. But it's big enough for us I guess."

  "Well, that'll work just fine, Honey," Marie responds. "That's the same room where we'll be having the dinner anyway. And we don't have to turn up the sound until it gets to the good part."

  "That's true. Well, if you think so then."

  "Oh, I do. It'll be great. Put some life into the party."

  "All right, then, Butch," Della answers her son. "We can watch the execution. But you behave yourself! You're going to put on your good suit and mind your manners for our guests."

  "Yes ma'am," he agrees, excited and delighted. "I surely will. Thank you, Mama. Thank you, Miss Mallon."

  "Sure, Honey," Marie smiles, as if she had actually done something. "Why, I'm glad you told us about it. I'm sure everybody will really like to see that."

  "Yes ma'am," the boy agrees politely, and withdraws the way he had arrived, not wanting to hang around and risk upsetting his chances now that he's won what he came for. Then he stops in the doorway, deciding to push his luck. "Do you think cousin Bobby could come over too?" he asks timidly, looking back at his mother.

  "If he wears a good suit and minds his manners," the mother agrees. "Now you run along and tell him so."

  With a final "yes, ma'am," the boy leaves the kitchen, elated. On the way out he bumps into Nick Wright, just returning from the morning fishing with three other men. Nick is holding out a string of dinner-size fish in his right hand, and is thrown off balance for a second when the boy runs into him. Butch also loses his footing momentarily.

  "Whoa, boy, where you going in such a hurry?" Nick says jovially, reaching out his free hand to stabilize the boy.

  "Sorry, Mr. Wright. I was just going out to tell Bobby we get to watch the execution on the big TV tonight, but we have to get cleaned up and wear our church clothes. That's all. There's a real execution on tonight, Mr. Wright! In Texas. They're going to use the electric chair!"

  "Well, that sounds mighty fine, Butch. Yes it does. It's a long while from now to then, though. What do you say you go get Bobby while we drop off these fish here, and then we all go out back and shoot some hoops for a while?"

  "Yes!" Butch answers, pumping both arms in an enthusiastic victory gesture. "Thank you, Mr. Wright." Out he runs into the yard. His uncle Eugene, also holding a string of freshly caught fish in his right hand, closes the door behind his nephew.

  "Nice boy you have there," Nick says to Butch's father, Della's husband Pete, another member of the fishing expedition. "Right energetic though."

  Pete chuckles with reserve. "He is at that," the man allows.

  Leading the way into the kitchen, Pete finds a stainless steel sink that doesn't seem to be in use, and plops down his string of fish on the drain board. There are about a dozen fish and the string hangs over into the adjacent sink. The other men follow his lead. "Got you some fresh fish for your dinner," he says to his wife, nodding toward the sink. "We can hang around and clean them if you don't want to," he adds, "if we wouldn't be in your way here."

  "Never mind," one of the younger women jumps in. "I'll do that. You go get cleaned up and shoot hoops with the boys."

  "Well, thank you, Sarah," Pete says and nods his head toward her in a vestigial bow. "That's right nice of you." His eyes light up as he glances back at his fishing companions, as if they've gotten away with something. They all leave the kitchen immediately, as if afraid the women might change their minds. Safely in the hallway outside the kitchen they all break into big grins.

  "There's a bathroom down the hall here where we can wash off some of this fish smell and leave our clothes," Pete announces, and again leads the way.

  "There are some bathrobes in the closet there, we can just put those on long enough to go upstairs," he adds as they pass a closet in the hall. "Anyway the women are all in the kitchen. Everybody got a change of clothes upstairs?" he asks, looking around. "Well, if you don't, you can just borrow something for now. I got plenty of old jeans good enough for playing basketball. May as well have some fun between now and dinnertime. Good idea you had there, Nick."

  "Hey, I'm full of good ideas," the politician answers. "Just ask the voters."

  "You're full of something, all right," Eugene jokes, and again they all grin.

  Back in the kitchen, the bread dough Marie has been kneading is set aside to rise, and six loaves of bread that have already finished rising go into one of the big ovens. The nice thing about a farmhouse kitchen on a big farm like this, Marie realizes, is that everything is set up to make really big meals for a lot of people. Whether for farmhands, relatives, or political supporters, the food cooks the same. What a great idea that college kid had, raising money with a home-cooked dinner, and getting a farmer's wife to volunteer the venue and round up the labor. All Marie has to do now is bake the bread and put on her usual charming show, things she's known how to do for a long time.

  "This will all work out just fine," Marie announces confidently to the women in the room, and everyone returns her good humor. "An execution. What could be more entertaining than that?"

  "Why, one of your speeches, Dearie," Angela, an older woman, answers. "I just love the way you talk about how far we've come, getting rid of O-BUM-a-care and those awful vac-SIN-ations. You do say the cleverest things."

  "And Med-DECAYED. That was funny too," Debra agrees with Angela, reciting another of Marie's well-worn lines.

  "And truthful," Della adds. "All that public health nonsense is just a big expense and a waste of our money."

  "The pioneers didn't have any public health care, you can bet," Angela agrees quickly. "Just relied on their own hard work, like we're doing now."

  "Didn't that Donner party of pioneers eat people?" a younger woman asks.

  "For shame. You've gone to public school too much, that's your problem, Little Miss. They teach the utmost nonsense in those public schools. Probably teaching you Evolution too." Angela shakes her head and clucks disapprovingly before continuing. "Anyway, if they did eat people, I'm sure the people were already dead on their own. The point here is, the pioneers were survivors, self-reliant. Not like these lazy sickos today, with their abortions and their stem cell research."

  "Abortion is murder," Debra chimes in gratuitously.

  "Maybe I'll make an electric chair shaped cake," Della gets an idea, and looks toward Marie for approval. "You think?"

  The women in the kitchen murmur for a minute indecisively, then the murmurs turn into approval. When that happens Marie Mallon answers, smiling broadly, as if she had thought of it herself, "YES! That is a GREAT idea, Della! Oh, you ARE just as talented as they all say."

  "Let's wait until we see the cake before we say that," Della laughs modestly. She pulls out large rectangular pans for baking the cakes. An electric chair is a fairly boxy shape, she recalls, so it should be pretty easy to a
ssemble a cake recognizably close to the shape of an electric chair.

  So the afternoon passes, until by 4:00 there are dozens of loaves of fresh warm bread, big bowls of potato salad, big platters of fried chicken and sweet corn, a bit of tomato and lettuce salad, two trays of carrot sticks, scallions, pimento-stuffed green olives and cubes of a very mild cheddar cheese garnished with fancy toothpicks, all the makings of a gala home-cooked dinner. There are assorted desserts, but the pinnacle of it all is a very large electric-chair shaped cake that sits as a centerpiece, chocolate iced with bright red cherry icing drizzled over it suggestively for trim. Gold lightning bolts made out of yellow candy canes stick out from it at odd angles, suggesting electricity. Everything is covered with clear dome-shaped tops, so the cats can't be tempted to steal a snack.

  "That's really something," Marie admires the cake, which looks like a museum piece under its glasslike dome. Della feels proud about the cake but at the same time humble and embarrassed at being complimented by the celebrity lady.

  "It's just a cake," she says sheepishly. "But I'm glad you like it. I'm glad if I could do something to help the cause. I mean, look at all you do!"

  Marie smiles at her, and that is all the reward she wants.

  The women dry off their hands and take off their aprons, ready to go upstairs to change before the guests start arriving. No guests are due until 4:30, but with the farm so far from the airport, it's hard to be precise about timing a trip. And so many people are coming! All the women drift out of the kitchen.

  After a few minutes Butch and Bobby sneak in and steal cookies, then leave to change clothes themselves, hiding the cookies in their overall pockets.

  The kitchen is quiet. All the tables are set. A mist of rain starts to come down outside, almost imperceptible.

  . . .

  By five o'clock the party is going strong, and guests are still arriving.

  Everyone who comes in is dressed as if for a semi-formal dinner at a grand hotel. Without looking outside you wouldn't know they were on a farm. Della feels important, for one of the few times in her life. She wears a simple black dress and her grandmother's jewelry.

  The children are subdued, not wanting to do anything to risk their chance to see the big TV show at seven. A good thing, Della reflects, that they're having this execution tonight. It guarantees the boys will behave properly for once. The television is on, turned to a Modern Christian music channel, but it can't be heard over the conversation of the guests.

  Everyone seated, Nick B. Wright says grace, trying to invoke blessings on the meal, the assembled faithful, and their political cause. "And please help us to pass the 37th Amendment," he ends with a deep loud voice that passes as inspirational.

  "A big Amen to that," Marie adds the finishing note.

  "Amen," all present assent. Some add, "Hallelujah."

  A thin instrumental version of Amazing Grace plays in the background.

  "That chicken sure smells good, Della," Nick says, taking a piece and passing around the platter.

  "Oh, Angela and Debra made that," she answers, blushing and gesturing towards the two.

  "Well it's darn fine fried chicken," he repeats the compliment, looking at the two responsible for it. "And is this Marie's bread?" he feigns astonishment, slicing a thick chunk from a warm loaf. "Who knew you could cook like this?"

  "Here, this is real butter, from the farm here," Della offers. "Fresh churned this morning."

  "Food should be cooked with lots of love and lots of butter, my Mom always said," Nick answers her with a smile, spreading butter thickly onto the warm bread. Dairy farmers are big supporters. Butter has to be praised. He passes the butter dish on around the table in the same direction as the bread and the chicken had gone, with the same smile still installed on his face.

  By 6:30 the speeches are going strong. "Private Police forces," a standing man is saying, "do a better job than publicly funded ones ever did. They're more loyal. They work harder. And they aren't so bothered by sissified regulations!" He concludes and takes his seat.

  "Here, here," several people agree, raising their glasses. "To private enterprise," someone offers a toast, and all cheer. "To freedom," someone adds, and they cheer again.

  "To NO TAXES, at all, ever again!" Nick adds the final verse, with his loud deep voice. "HURRAH!" and all down their drinks.

  "How much you figure they'll make on the tickets, from the execution tonight?" a young woman asks. Nobody hazards a guess.

  "More than they'd make supporting the bum for the rest of his life in a tax-supported prison," Nick supplies an answer to fill the vacuum. "Execute the lot of them and they won't cause any more trouble."

  Laughter.

  "As long as it's enough to pay for the electricity to fry him," another man adds.

  Laughter again.

  Rainfall begins to be audible, like a slow drip from a leaking pipe, like partially held-back tears. Everyone knows it can only get worse. No one says anything about it. A distant crack of thunder is heard, and a flicker of far away lightning strobes outside the windows.

  "Hey, what channel is that on, anyway?" Someone asks, "Isn't that starting pretty soon?"

  "At seven," Della answers, and the TV is turned to the boisterous celebration that forms the lead-in to the big event.

  People on the screen are blowing party horns, waving flags and signs, as excited as if a football match were about to start. An interviewer holds a microphone out to people in attendance at the execution, people whose interview comments echo the sentiments heard inside the farmhouse. Fry them all. The party horns sound their discordant refrain, banners and balloons bounce and float across the screen, and, outside the farmhouse, lightning plays across the sky.

  Someone thinks to put birthday candles onto the electric chair cake. They place the candles carefully in the general shape of a man. Just before the stroke of seven the candles are lit. A very accurate grandfather clock chimes seven in the farmhouse just as the switch in Texas is thrown. Electricity sparks visibly across the screen as the dying man twitches like an epileptic in his death throes. Laughter and cheers both on the screen and off. People blow out the candles and the cake is cut and served.

  "Here's to the 37th amendment!" Someone offers the same toast again.

  "Here's to Nick B. Wright for our next president!" Someone else ups the ante. "Be Right with Nicky B. Wright!"

  "Be Right," the crowd cheers.

  "And Marie Mallon for second chair!" Nick adds to the cheer, holding his glass high to the group. "Marie and me! Be Right! Be PERFECTA!"

  This is the first time he has actually announced that the two are a combination ticket. The group goes wild, whooping, hollering, swallowing drinks in big gulps. Della is so proud it happened here, at her house. They've announced they're going to run together as a ticket for the next election. She claps, starting a round of clapping. Thunder and lightning join in. The wind howls at the chimney and the windows.

  "Nicky Be Right!" Marie stands up and proposes the same toast again, and again all cheer. Altogether a successful evening, she sighs to herself, still smiling the practiced smile, making eye contact with everyone, aiming the smile at each in turn. "Nicky and me! and the 37th!" She shouts. She also thinks to herself about the half a million dollars raised by the dinner. "Thank you, Della," she says quietly to the farm wife at her side as she seats herself again. "This is a major evening for all of us."