Chapter 6 - The Feast of Pretense
Easter Sunday arrived with that peculiar, deceptive perfection that early spring in central Oklahoma occasionally produces.
The north wind had died during the night, replaced by a gentle, seventy-degree breeze that drifted out of the south, carrying the scent of blooming wild plums, fresh clover, and moist, warmed red soil. The sky was an unbroken dome of pale, immaculate sapphire blue.
Inside my house, the smell of hickory-smoked ham, roasted asparagus, brown sugar, and Carolyn Eubanks’s famous hash brown potato casserole filled every corner of the ground floor.
My dining table—an eight-foot trestle table of solid oak that Aaron and I had built ourselves from salvaged barn timbers—was set for nine.
The white linen runner was centered; my grandmother’s vintage blue Willow transferware plates gleamed under the warm light of the iron chandelier; the cut-crystal water goblets caught the morning sun streaming through the bay window. In the center of the table, beside a basket of warm yeast rolls, sat the small cardboard egg-dye box containing three dozen pastel eggs Callie had decorated with wax crayons the night before.
And hidden directly beneath that egg-dye box, lying flat against the oak grain under the edge of the blue linen runner, was Sarah Higgins’s heavy, cream-colored linen envelope.
At twelve-forty-five, the convoy arrived.
First came Dad’s F-250, newly washed, its chrome bumpers gleaming in the sun.
Second came Chad’s square-body Chevy, its dual exhaust rumbling with that low, unbaffled roar that always vibrated the pictures on my hallway wall.
Third came Danielle’s white Explorer.
They walked up the front path in a tight, coordinated cluster, dressed in their Sunday best.
Dad wore his pressed western snap-button shirt, his dark denim trousers with a razor-sharp crease, his polished ostrich-skin boots, and his silver belt buckle bearing the emblem of the Logan County Cattlemen’s Association. He walked with his chin up, his shoulders back, the undisputed patriarch arriving to inspect his northern province.
Mom was beside him, wearing a lavender floral dress with a lace collar, carrying two glass Pyrex dishes wrapped in faded terrycloth towels, her silver hair curled into an elaborate, lacquered shell.
Danielle wore an emerald-green blouse and dark slacks, her mouth painted in bright red lipstick, her eyes scanning the front porch as if looking for defects in the caulking.
Chad trailed behind, looking uncomfortable in a stiff blue button-down shirt that was too tight across his thick shoulders, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the toes of his work shoes.
And running ahead of them were the twins, Bryce and Braden, wearing matching khaki trousers and navy polo shirts, their hair slicked down with pomade that smelled of synthetic green apples.
"Happy Easter!" Mom called out, bustling through the front door, pushing past Aaron to set her casserole dishes on the kitchen counter. "Oh, Crystal, the house smells wonderful! Doesn't the house smell wonderful, Arlin?"
Dad stepped into the foyer. He didn't look at Aaron. He didn't look at me.
His eyes swept over the living room, lingered on the clean hardwood floors, and then he gave a curt, formal nod—the gesture of a bank inspector who had found the ledger acceptable for the moment.
"Afternoon," Dad grunted.
"Happy Easter, Arlin," Aaron said, standing by the coat rack, his tone perfectly polite, perfectly level, and entirely devoid of warmth.
Callie came running out of the hallway, wearing the ivory linen dress with the handmade lace collar and the lavender satin sash that Mom had spent three weeks sewing for her fifth birthday. She looked like an antique porcelain doll, her light-brown curls bouncing, her little white patent leather shoes clicking against the oak.
"Grandma! Look at my dress!" Callie squealed, running toward Mom.
Mom turned, her face lighting up with genuine, grandmotherly delight. "Oh, look at my sweet angel! Arlin, look at her! Doesn't she look just like Crystal did when she was six?"
Dad looked down at Callie. A faint, rare softening touched the corners of his mouth. He reached out a thick, calloused finger and tapped her nose. "You look like a little lady, Callie. Just make sure you stay out of the dirt until we get our pictures taken."
"Where’s the ham, Crystal?" Chad asked, wandering into the kitchen, his voice thick with the gravel of a man who had worked twelve hours on the graveyard shift. "I’m starving."
"Everything is on the table, Chad," I said. "Go ahead and sit down."
We gathered around the trestle table.
Dad took his seat at the head of the table, naturally, without waiting for an invitation.
Mom sat to his right; Danielle and Chad sat across from each other with the twins between them; Aaron sat at the foot; and I sat on the left, with Callie perched on a booster seat beside me.
Before anyone reached for a roll, Dad cleared his throat.
A deep, commanding rattle that silenced the twins instantly.
He reached out his large, weathered hands—taking Mom’s fingers in his right, reaching across the corner to take Danielle’s hand in his left.
"Bow your heads," Dad commanded.
We bowed our heads.
"Heavenly Father," Dad began, his baritone voice filling the room with practiced, pulpit-trained resonance. "We thank You for this day of resurrection. We thank You for the sacrifice of Your precious Son, who paid our debts upon the cross so that we might have eternal life."
He paused. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked three times.
"We thank You for the food set before us, for the health of these children, and for the blessings of family."
He squeezed Danielle’s hand; I saw her fingers tighten under his grip.
"And Lord," Dad continued, his voice rising, carrying that unmistakable, pointed edge of patriarchal rebuke, "we thank You for the shelter You have provided to this family. We thank You for the house and the land that You gave us through hard work and sacrifice. We pray that You soften the hearts of those who are proud, that You remove the spirit of selfishness and division from this home, and that You remind every person under this roof that blood is thicker than pride, and that what God has joined together in one family, no city ordinance can tear apart."
Aaron’s hand tightened under the tablecloth, his fingers finding my knee, squeezing with an iron grip that told me: Hold your line.
"In Jesus’s holy and precious name we pray," Dad finished.
"Amen," the table murmured.
Dad lifted his head, opened his eyes, picked up the bone-handled carving knife, and began slicing into the spiral ham.
"Danielle," Dad said, dropping two thick slices onto her plate. "I talked to Darren again last night. He’s going to bring the mini-excavator out on Tuesday morning to finish that sewer ditch. We’ll have the framing inspection scheduled by the twentieth."
Danielle smiled—a bright, triumphant, razor-sharp smile that she aimed straight across the table into my face.
"Thanks, Dad," Danielle said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "We picked out the bunk beds at the furniture barn in Guthrie yesterday. After dinner, we can take the boys out to the shop and show them where their room is going to be."
I picked up my water goblet. I took a slow, deliberate sip of cold water.
"Not today, Danielle," I said.
The room went dead silent.
Chad’s fork froze three inches above his potato casserole. Mom’s smile vanished behind her napkin.
Dad set the carving knife down on the pewter platter with a sharp, heavy clack.
He looked across the table at me, his eyes cold as well water in January.
"Then when, Crystal?" Dad asked.
May you like
I set my glass down. I looked him dead in the center of his pupils.
"Never," I said.
