Sheila:
I really didn’t know what to say to my mother. So far, although I realized that I’d been guilty of rudeness, there had been little that I could say that she hadn’t taken badly. I certainly didn’t feel up to another argument this early in the morning.
For a moment I debated whether I should progress into the kitchen, but the smell of the coffee had an irresistible fragrance that drove me forward, my legs seemingly unable to stop.
“Good morning, Mother,” I said. “Is it okay if I pour myself some coffee?” I added. “Shama said I could.”
My mother turned to look at me. I thought she’d greet me cordially as she would have before the other night, but instead she simply shrugged. “If Shama invited you in the house and offered you coffee, then go right ahead.”
The platter in my mother’s hand was being filled up with pancakes, not the round kind that normal folks made, but each one containing twin projections at the top. I studied them as I walked toward the coffee pot.
Bunnies. My mother had made bunny pancakes like she used to when I was a child. Why would she do that? But then I remembered the two little boys she’d seemed so fond of the evening before: walking them upstairs with her arms around them, reading them a story, and then tucking them in bed. Had she kissed them?
A sharp stab of jealousy punched me in the stomach. My mother had never done that for my two children. But then I’d kept them away. They’d never even met their grandmother. Had that been a selfish thing to do? Should I have made an effort to introduce the three of them? Maybe if I had, my mother wouldn’t be trying to adopt those two little hooligans.
For goodness sake they were the children of a murderer. How could Mother even invite them into her home? What would the neighbors say when they found out?
The coffee mugs were lined up on a shelf, easy to grab. I didn’t recognize the pottery pattern. It wasn’t one from our house. Perhaps they been in the house before? I didn’t recognize the coffee pot being kept warm on a slow burning stove top flame either.
I poured myself a generous mug full and tasted it. Thankfully, the coffee was just right, not tepid, which I abhorred. I took a couple of sips, enjoying the flavor, savoring the warmth and the coffee bean smell. Lovely. My coffee never tasted this good. I wondered what my mother or Shama did to make it so rich.
I should have been content with the coffee, but then, like an unwelcome gift, my tongue began to babble. “Your servant girl was dressed ridiculously this morning. Were you aware of how dirty and smelly she was? It was a horror to see. Not only was she wearing men’s clothing, but she had on dirty boots. Right in your lovely new house. Why do you put up with that?”