by Janet Walker
* * *
When they came inside, Grace picked up the phone receiver in the den to check the voice mail for messages. Darrel had not called again last night, so she assumed he had arrived safely in Alabama. Now, she held the phone to her ear and listened. One message, the electronic voice announced. Him, she thought, and felt smug—he was so predictable. Friday, November 23rd, ten-thirty a.m. A woman’s voice spoke next, startling Grace. Good morning, this is Mrs. Gentry came the greeting. I didn’t know if you folks were out of town, but just in case you were home and wanted any, I have some Thanksgiving supper left over—still very good. I’ll bring it out and leave it for you, if you’d like. Otherwise, it’s just sitting here. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll be there Monday, for work.
Grace pressed the button to hang up the phone. Her disappointment over Darrel’s silence ebbed in the face of Mrs. Gentry’s offer, for it was after 4 p.m. and dinnertime would be soon. Grace took the receiver into the kitchen, where Mrs. Gentry’s phone number was stuck to the bulletin board. Grace dialed the number. After only two rings, there was a pickup. Mrs. Gentry’s pleasant voice sounded on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Gentry, hi. This is Grace Nelson.”
“Well, hello, there!” came the warm response.
“Is it too late to avail myself of your offer?”
“Oh, no! Not at all! I can bring it out right now!”
“That would be great. I have one of the students here and”—Grace chuckled as one embarrassed—“I didn’t feel like cooking.” Serious again, she continued, “And I insist on compensating you.”
“Oh, please, no, Mrs. Nelson. Trust me, it’s my pleasure! I cooked all of this and…I don’t know why.”
Grace heard the eagerness in the older woman’s voice and wondered if Mrs. Gentry had relatives in town or if she had spent Thanksgiving alone. “I’m sure you don’t mind, but I must—at least let me give you something for gasoline. No argument!”
“Well, if you insist,” Mrs. Gentry agreed.
“See you when you get here, then.”
“I’m leaving now!” the maid declared.
Two hours later, the three women—the pubescent, the nubile, the aging—stood at the island counter in the Gracewood kitchen, gazing at the dishes of turkey and dressing and other homemade fixings.
“Mrs. Gentry, I insist.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Please,” Grace said sincerely. “Eat with us.”
The oldest two women glanced shyly at each other. The invitation marked a change in their relationship, a taboo in employer-domestic etiquette, and both knew it, but Grace did not back down from the offer and Mrs. Gentry stopped politely resisting. Both surrendered with a smile and began preparing plates, though Mrs. Gentry, a woman who became more industrious when she was in a good mood, did most of the preparation. Presently, they sat in the dining room and exchanged smiles of appreciation. They were here—three disparate women, separated by age and status, not connected by family ties, and yet in the mind of each was the thought that she was, at that moment, part of a family. Grace looked expectantly at the older woman. “Would you, please?” she asked.
Mrs. Gentry, who sat at the head of the table, stretched out her hands to the females sitting to her right and left. Grace had not expected the handholding during prayer but appreciated it, for it was something she had done with Tip. Tracy had never seen anyone hold hands to pray, but when her coach grasped the old lady’s hand, Tracy did the same thing but felt a stab of uneasiness. Aunt Madge would not approve of her praying with worldly people, to a god who was not Jehovah. Still, Tracy joined the women in bowing heads and closing eyes. She listened skeptically, at first, but then opened her eyes and watched in fascination as Mrs. Gentry spoke in an unhurried, heartfelt manner, a manner Tracy had never before heard anyone use in prayer—not even Aunt Madge.
“Dear Lord, you are, indeed, the hearer of prayer and the provider of all good things. Because we are here right now…because these two dear young people and I are here, we know you exist. Each of us could have been somewhere else this evening. Lord, one of us would have been alone. But instead, you put it in this beautiful young woman’s heart to arrange to have us here, and for this blessing your love overflows in us at this moment. May you bless Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, and their union, and bless this very sweet-mannered child, Tracy. The three of us thank you for this meal, and for life, and for companionship. We praise you, and we love you for your goodness. Through Christ our Lord, we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Tracy and Grace, as they all looked up. Tracy, reeling from the sincerity of the prayer, gazed at the women and wondered why Jehovah would consider them wicked. Grace made a thoughtful grunt in her throat and seemed to have trouble meeting anyone’s eyes. Mrs. Gentry’s eyes were pink and she fixed her mouth strangely as if keeping something inside. She quickly recovered, however, snapping back into composure and fussing over the food. “Well, I’m hungry,” she declared eagerly. “So am I,” agreed Grace. Tracy was hungry, too, but she didn’t say anything. She merely picked up her fork and thought how fortunate she was to be eating dinner in the house of Jazz Nelson.
