Before I could admonish the child, Martha stepped in. “You are absolutely correct, Carlo. I want to know if my daughter is going to be mean again, too.”
As if Sheila’s response were not important to her, Martha picked up her mug and took a quiet sip. “Shama, I don’t know how you do it, but the coffee you make always tastes better than mine.”
Sheila’s face was red and she was glaring at everyone around the table, as if she couldn’t figure out exactly who to focus on. She picked up the cup of coffee that I’d just brought her and drank some, only to place the mug back on the table and shrug her shoulders as if she didn’t find anything worthy of praise.
“Martha told us that people are mean when they’re unhappy. Are you unhappy?” Carlo asked.
The little guy was just shy of five. His sentences were now amazingly profound, as if everything we said to him was sticking, especially the gentle sayings of Martha. I was so proud of him.
“We’re not supposed to talk to adults like that, Carlo. Let Shama deal with it,” Francis advised him. “Do you want another rabbit?”
Francis was already reaching for the platter, but Carlo shook his head. “I wish I could, but I’m full.”
“I’m not. I could eat a hundred more of them. Thank you, Martha. These are soooo good!”
He forked up two of them, then plopped them on his plate. Next he ladled some fruit on top and dug in.
“You cooked for the boys?” Sheila asked. “I thought that’s what Shama was for.”
Martha sighed loudly and heartfully. She picked up her mug again, downed it, then cleared her voice. “Sheila, you used to be sweet to everyone. I don’t understand what has changed your goodness into wrinkled prunes of disparagement.”
Sheila started to interrupt. “Mother,” she cried out in dismay.
“No. You listen. I don’t know what Ben Stevens wrote you, but this is the truth. I plan to adopt Shama and the boys. I’m aiming to make them my family, and you can argue until your face turns green with jealousy, or you can settle down and adjust to it.”
Sheila’s mouth shot open, then closed. The fork with a bite of scrambled eggs that had never made it into her mouth was still lying on the tablecloth where she’d dropped it at the first admonishment from her mother.
“Honestly, that is completely ridiculous. These boys are as common as the girl,” Sheila declared, sniffing with contempt.
Martha’s eyes narrowed with rage. “Enough! Sheila, you are no longer welcome in this house. Go home and think about your nastiness. You may try again tomorrow, but leave, right now!”
Martha rose, scooted her chair back under the table, and signaled to the boys to come join her. Although Francis still had his mouth full of pancake, he and his brother scrambled up and ran towards her, inserting their little hands in Martha’s. None of them looked back as they walked away.