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12. Table Manners; Table Matters.

I choose ham. I don't fork it onto my plate yet. Orlean is at the stove, hot gravy coming. Ileace reaches to the counter behind her, brings back a trivet, sets it on the table by the platter. Orlean arrives seconds later, turning carefully with the hot pot.

I'm planning;
Plan A: Throw my body between Ileace and the hot gravy. Become disfigured, think Quasimodo.
Plan B: two biscuits, ham. Spoon the gravy over the biscuits. Be careful. Don't burn yourself. Don't drop anything down the front of your shirt, onto your pants, on your chair, her chair, on Orlean's floor!
Plan B-2: Run across the lawn, into the woods.

You have to plan these things in advance.

"Howard, will you say grace?" Orlean says, reaching her hands to Ileace and Howard. They both reach hands to me. I take them. They bow their heads. I'm looking at them, bow my head just in time as Orlean is looking up at me! Did I make it! Or is hot gravy coming for my head? Sinner! Blashphemer! Devil boy! The Heart sisters sing, 'Gravy on you! Gonna go gra-vy gra-vy on you!'

I'm realizing how hard it is to turn off my inner dialogue. I've been... alone... a long, lonely time.

Howard says, "Lord!" kind of facetiously, in tone, "Thank you for biscuits and gravy, good company with good-lookin' women, and Bengals football! Amen!"

They let go of my hands. I look up. Orlean is giving Howard a look. Howard's mugging, tilting his head a little toward her, his face a little away, meeting her gaze. He's waggling their hands, like he's trying to let go and she's not! She shakes her head, grins. Howard makes a little not-Howard voice, a squeal. She lets go. Orlean starts filling her plate. Ileace is reaching with her fork for pieces of ham. It looks like those thin, spiral sliced ham pieces. I act like I'm going for the same one, withdraw, quietly say, "Sorry." She grins.

"You snoo-ezz you loo-ezz!" she says. "Right Daddy?"

"Ass right!" he says. "Don't get between her and her ham!" Howard warns. "She'll kick your ass! She's a black belt!" Howard's busy getting squinted at by Orlean. Ileace is glancing at me, rolling her crazy eyes across the table top, making karate choppy motions with her hands, fork brandishing in the air.

I take another one. Two biscuits. Howard is ladling gravy. He ladles some onto Orlean's plate. She smiles, a beautiful smile, utters, "Thank you, Howard!"

He sets the pot on the table, turns the handle to me.

Orlean erupts! "Don't set it on the table! I grab it up, look around; no one's been shot! I ladle gravy onto my biscuits. Ileace has pushed her plate toward me. She smiles, grins. I ladle gravy onto her biscuits, think of it as a way to say something dirty, 'I'd like to ladle gravy on HER biscuits!' Goofy laugh in my head. I push a couple biscuits over on the platter, set the gravy pan on it, spin the handle toward Orlean. She takes it, sets it on the trivet.

Howard speaks; "So do you make a living playing music? I've never known anybody around here to be able to. They travel and pay their expenses, then come home and get a job."

"No," I tell him, "I just dabble at it."

"You should be famous," Ileace says.

"Well thank ya darlin'!" I say. "That's kind of you to say. Fame is over-rated." She's grinning. Her face is red. I turn to Howard. "Robbie Robertson, in "The Last Waltz", Martin Scorsese's documentary about The Band, talks about the work of it, traveling in the music industry, saying," I try to figure out how to quote him without blaspheming... the gravy's still hot, the trivet free for throwing, "saying "It's an impossible life." I find I'm not willing to do that work," I declare. "Traveling, always coming somewhere new, day after day to make the profit margin, having to meet new people. It's a fun fantasy but the reality of living like that for... well... how long? A working lifetime? It lost its appeal to me some time ago. I'm not even a musician. I'm just a songwriter."

"Yes," Howard says, swallows some biscuit, "every musician I ever knew talked about it that way. Lots of setbacks. Personnel problems. Personnel with drug problems, family problems, problems. Lots of expenses. They say a musician is a guy who will put five-thousand dollars of equipment in a five-hundred dollar car and drive a hundred miles to make fifty bucks!" He laughs at his joke. Orlean doesn't. Ileace is frowning.
Howard goes on; "So you didn't quit your day job. What do you do?" I tell him where I work; not what I do. He starts asking 'Do you know' questions, names the Executive Director, a couple other people. "Ileace works in records, mainly," he says. "She's not a street cop. She can be. She's fully qualified. She's been out on the street a couple times when needed. But mainly she's a paper-pusher!"

Ileace makes a scoffing sound. It's cute.

"I make sure documents are properly created, and filed, and found when someone needs them," Ileace says, protesting, I think, an oversimplification of her job. "I try to make sure reports make sense. Daddy, the other day Mackleroy turned in a report saying the accident was at the 'intersection'," she emphasizes, "of Eleventh and Twelfth Streets." They laugh. Orlean looks puzzled. I'm puzzled too.

Howard explains to Orlean, "Eleventh and Twelfth Streets run side by side. They don't 'intersect'."

"Did you correct it?" Orlean asks.

"I radioed out and asked him to stop by if he was in the neighborhood, for a record check," Ileace says. "He came in and I asked him, 'Where was this accident?' He read it and his face got red. He's a good cop, mostly. But then he started calling me 'Teacher', and asking if he got an 'A' or a 'B-plus'. Then he said he'd like an 'F, leaned over the counter grinning like a... horse's hind end. I asked him if he'd like a sexual harassment lawsuit. His face got red again. He didn't apologize; just left, and that was good enough for me." She grins at me. I smile back. Bite.

"Cops!" Howard and Orlean say at the same time. They both laugh! Ileace shakes her head.

"You handle 'em, honey!" Howard says, "but let me know if you need me to!"

I eat. It's all good. Orlean can cook! Ain't nothin' like biscuits and gravy, any time of day. I don't need to speak. They talk. There's lots of laughing. Ileace and her Dad have zingers for each other, surprise observations by one that makes the other laugh, back and forth, the joker just grinning as the joke lands on the other person. It's really fun! Orlean gets the jokes both ways. She laughs. She throws in little observations that one-up the joke. She's funny! The more she laughs and is able to join in the conversation the more sane and likeable she seems. I get to look at Ileace a lot. Looking at her Mother is a lot like looking at her, twenty years from now. Howard looks at me a lot, includes me in the conversation without having to say anything. I grin, shake my head, laugh when appropriate, genuinely when the joke takes me by surprise.

Ileace drops a forkful of biscuit down the front of her shirt! My lavender shirt!

She jumps up, runs out of the room. I hear the knobs on a washing machine clicking. I want to go tell her not to worry about it, but consider stumbling in on her in her bra in the laundry room of Mrs. No's house not the place to be right now, found biting her shoulders. Howard looks at his watch, says, "Football!" jumps up, slaps me on the shoulder, jerks his thumb toward the living room. He heads that way, out through the small arched doorway, which leads to a larger arched doorway. I can see what look like a dining room, chairs, the end of a dining room table out that way.

He stops, looks back, looks at Orlean, comes back. I'm watching. He doesn't look at me. He bends down, crosses his big left arm over her chest and shoulders, snuggles into the right side of her face, kisses her cheek! Her hands come up, touch his forearm.

"Orly, honey, you're still the best cook in five counties around," he says, "and the prettiest!" He stands up, goes through the arches, disappears.

"More later!" she says, after him.

'Orly'. I'm sure I heard that right. 'Orly, honey.' Not... Orlean. She's looking to her left. Her face is... placid. All the... worry... the anger... or... stress is dispelled. She looks... like Ileace. I notice, she has her elbows on the table, her thumb and index finger of her right hand... are holding the ring finger... of her left hand. Her profile. She's smiling, thoughts to herself. I look at my plate, take another forkful of gravy, all that's left. I'm aware as she comes to herself, looks my way, drops her hands

"Thank you , ma'am," I say. "Best biscuits and gravy I've had in a while!"

"You're welcome," Orlean says. "We do this every Sunday, after church. Or..." she hesitates, "we used to."

"Well I highly recommend a..." search for a word... find one, "...revival of the tradition. I haven't seen so much genuine familial interaction and laughing in a long, long time."

"I haven't either!" she says, laughs, grins. "Thank you for coming, here..." she says, "and to church. Did you enjoy it, at church?"

"Well, frankly, I didn't care for that 'sermon'," I tell her. "He just, well he kept saying 'Ain't it gonna be wonderful when we all get to heaven'. I counted seven or nine times. I didn't start counting until I'd heard it more than twice. And that was pretty much the only 'Biblical' thing he said. Everything in between was just talk. He doesn't seem to know HOW we're all gonna get to heaven. And that ain't so hard to know. Take care of this life, and that one will take care of itself!"

"Yes," she says, troubled frown clouding her face. "I know. I just like...", she dabbles at the biscuits with her fork, repeats, "I just like... being there."

"Next Sunday we ought to go church shopping, visit some other place," I suggest.

"Church... shopping?" she repeats.

"See if we like another preacher somewhere else," I say. "We can probably like being in another church just like you like being in this one. We can see if another preacher has something... thoughtful to say. You can come back to yours the next Sunday after that, if you still prefer it. Or, we could keep shopping. Maybe a black church!" As soon as I've blurted it out I wonder if it would be appropriate, for her.

"I think I'd have to have an invitation to a black church," she says, "the way things are in this country these days. It might scare people to see a bunch of white people just come walking in."

"Good point," I say.

"I'd better go see how she's doing with that shirt," she says. "That's a pretty one." She gets up, goes past to my left. I nab a piece of bacon while no one's looking! I AM a bad person.

I get up, go right, following Howard where he went into the living room. There's a big dining table in a window-filled area to the left, separated only by a large arched opening. The TV's in on the right, the other end of the living room. Howard's kicked back. The game is ready to kick off. He's snoring.

"Kickoff Howard," I say, just in a normal voice. He jerks awake! His legs kick out, his arms jump up! I think his whole body cleared the chair! I'm startled, but laughing!

"Thanks man!" he says. "I hate when I miss the kickoff! They'll let me sleep right through it! This channel reruns games and I missed this one when they played it! Bengals!"

"I was wondering why you were talking football in July," I tell him, crossing to a chair. "I'm not much of a sportsman."

He's leaning toward me with a high five sign. I never get those right. I try. It's not a direct hit but it'll have to do. I sit in an armchair to his left, between him and the couch. It's a recliner. I don't recline.

The kickoff! They decide to return it from the ten. Fifteen. Twenty. And down. Could have just called 'Fair Catch'.

"Looks like they came to play," I say. I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no football. Howard's got it. He talks about it, knows who he's watching, players on both teams, coaches. Who won't be there next season. Howard loves football.

Orlean... Orly... and Ileace come through the hall by the TV, not out of the kitchen behind us, like I did. They stop, bend like twins from the waist to see if there's a play in progress. Seeing there isn't,they come on across the room. Howard's grinning at Orly. She's grinning back.

"Get out of Mom's chair!" Ileace says.

"Oh! My apologies!" I say, jump to my feet. Orlean is saying, 'No! No! That's okay', but I'm up. I move to the couch. Ileace has changed into a t-shirt, with a bra. She comes and sits next to me, slips out of her shoes, takes hold of my arm, finds my left hand with her right, pulls her legs up onto the couch. I'm freaking out. She makes it seem natural. It, of course, isn't. It's like she's decided we're going to explore this as... not just... dating... but... coupling... a relationship. It couldn't match my desire any more perfectly, at this precise moment, but I'm aware of how quickly she's changed gears on me, public displays of affection (PDA PDQ). I remember her saying, 'You can quit flirting; I'm in.' I'm hot. I murmur, 'Take this coat off', she lets go. I stand, take it off, hold it by the collar, toss it on the couch beyond her, sit back down. She resumes her position. Natural PDA.

The game goes on, slow, the ball moving in ten-yard increments up the field, back down the field. Nobody's scoring; field goals. Howard's snoring attracts my attention. Looking, I see Orlean's asleep too. I look at Ileace and she looks back, sleepy-eyed.

"Let's go," I whisper. "We're both exhausted." She nods, slips into her shoes. We get up, tiptoe out to the hall, out the garage door, and out to her car.

"Will you drive?" she asks.

"Sure," I say. "Fancy-smancy car!" Getting in I realize I haven't driven a standard shift in years. I tell her that. She shrugs. I drove a standard shift vehicle in the service, lo those thousand years ago, with 500 pound bombs, on it, million dollar nuclear bombs sometimes, so I'm fairly confident I'll get the hang of it again. I'm a little rough. She tells me it's okay. I get going, doing good, and the damned light changes!

"Why is there a traffic light here?" I complain. "They should put in a roundabout! Look; there aren't any other cars on any of the other four streets that come together here. I downshift, stop, wait. She's smiling, touches my forearm. I make a Ieft, take streets I know will get me home with the least amount of stop and go. Soon we're there. I back in. She reaches and turns off the key, gets out. I think she's coming in.

I can't help admiring her jeans as she's going up the walk. She's round in all the right places. She opens the storm door, waits for me. I reach around her and unlock the door. She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. She goes in, crosses to the couch, picks up the fuzzy blanket, t-shirt, sweatpants, turns, comes back to me, says,
"I'm exhausted! Can I sleep in the bed with you? And I mean sleep. No... stuff."

"I'm exhausted or I would tell you that's a bad idea and I can't promise you anything," I tell her. She steps in, kisses me. It's sexual. It's lips, pinching lips, kissing and kissing again.

"Thank you," she says, turns, and I follow, get to admire her jeans going up the stairs. I maintain my distance to do so. "Is my toothbrush still... Never mind. I see it."

The toothbrush I laid out for her the first time she slept here is still on the sink. She had opened it, used it, put it back in the package it came in, and I left it there, a talisman to bring her back again. And... now... she's back again! We're going to sleep... and she means sleep... in the same bed. List of places to bite her has increased but I've lost count. Somewhere in the twenties. I'm a rational man. Did you ever try to ignore places you want to bite someone? They insist on being imagined! They... multiply. You imagine them from different angles, front, back, side, other side... upside down. I'd bite her toes! Top of her head. 'Thhpt! Thhpt! Hair!' Her ears. I like her ears. And lips. I like her ears and lips... and toes! I haven't really examined her toes, but I'm sure I'll like them. It was just something I said; now... I actually have a list.

"I'm going to change," she says, going to the other side of the bed. She tosses the blanket at the foot of the bed. "Sit down and don't look," she commands. "Okay?"

I sit down, say, "Okay." I take off my shoes, socks, shirt. I get up, go to the bathroom, shut the door, start the shower. I'm quick. I'm tired. I come out, look at the guy in the mirror. He's too tired to register any state of mind with that face. I raise my eyebrows, look in my own eyes, as I brush. I don't often look in my own eyes. I think I'm okay with this. I think I want this... to be... a relationship. It's weird. I never got... into a relationship... this way. Drunken one-night stands. Thanks! See ya! But this... slow, fast, slow, fast thing. That's new. I like her kisses. They feel unnatural but then natural, nice. We're... learning each other. She makes it... seem... natural. I think I can... control my... Lust List. I'm sure I can. All I have to do is go to sleep. I can do that without much effort. I'm worn the hell out! A woman is hard work! I dry off. I didn't bring clean underwear. I put my pants back on, put my dirty underwear in the pile at the top of the stairs. I cover them up with other stuff there.

In the bedroom she's in the t-shirt and sweatpants, looking out the window. "I need my uniform out of the trunk," she says, jingles her keys. She comes to my side of the bed, picks up the clock radio.

"I need to get up at six," she says. "I'll reset this for you when I do. What time do you get up?"

"Seven," I tell her. Oh! We're not just... taking a nap. She's spending the night? Sleeping... just sleeping... in my bed? My Crazo-Meter red-lines, and I'm looking into my own eyes in a mental mirror; I'm the Crazo!

She goes down the stairs. I hear the doors. I hear the trunk slam as I'm taking off my pants, finding clean underwear. Putting on my shorts over them. She's coming up the stairs. She hangs a black uniform in the closet, lays shoes on the floor. I'm sitting on the bed. She comes over, pushes me back, climbs over me. I pull my feet in, lay back on the pillow. She's back, looking in my eyes, closes hers and starts kissing me. Now... I can control things to a point, but this is... this is making out! This is freakin' foreplay! I reach for her. She catches my wrist like she's afraid I'm going to grab her somewhere. She lays back, lets go, lays her head on the pillow against my bicep. I only have one pillow. She doesn't seem to notice. I can hardly hold my eyes open, despite my skin being stretched very tight, if you know what I mean. "Good night," she says. "Thank you for today. Thank you for... exploring the possibilities of us... with me."

What can you say to that? 'You're welcome?'
"You're welcome."
I'm afreakinsleep. I am. I know I am. I'm aware of this delicious piece of... woman beside me. And I'm asleep.