“What are you smiling about?” Lovey’s father regarded her with a curious expression.
“Oh, nothing. Why don’t I make us some breakfast?”
“You’re hungry?” Her father closed the black leather cover of the enormous Bible in front of him and slouched back in his chair. He removed the wire-rimmed spectacles from his prominent nose, giving her his full attention. She thought her father had aged quite a bit since she’d been away in Chicago. He was always a slender, bookish man, but somehow he seemed thinner, maybe even stooped a little at the shoulders. His thinning gray hair was a bit unkempt first thing in the morning.
“Yes, I suppose I am hungry.”
“You seem different this morning. Did something happen last night?”
Lovey realized that he was right. She felt different. She almost felt happy, and for the first time in months, she actually had an appetite. She wanted to eat rather than having to force herself to eat something.
“No, nothing special happened. I just went for a walk and it was a lovely night. How many eggs would you like?” Lovey turned to look at her father before she opened the icebox.
❖
Royal waved back at Frank as she headed up the steps. Her mother was in the kitchen pulling biscuits out of the cast iron stove as she pushed through the door. The smell of hot buttermilk biscuits hung in the air. She figured if heaven had a scent this would be it. Her stomach growled in response.
“Royal, is that you?” her mother asked.
“Yeah.” She settled into a chair at the table, a bit exhausted by her escape and walk into town. Her head ached, her heel was surely blistered from her boot slipping with every step, and she now realized she was starving. What an impressive mess. No wonder Lovey thought I needed assistance.
The large black iron pan clanged loudly on the stovetop, causing Royal to jump like a spooked rabbit. Her mother regarded her with a look that seemed to be a mixture of fear and anger. She knew what was coming next and chided herself for not cleaning up before coming into the house.
“Lillian Royal Duval, what in God’s name have you gotten into? Have you been in a fight? Did you wreck your car?” Her mother’s voice got progressively louder with each question.
“I bumped my head is all.” Royal’s mind raced ahead of her words as she attempted to conjure up a believable story that would bear no resemblance to what had actually happened. “Ned and I were goofing around in town at the tavern and I fell. You know what a dead hoofer I am.”
“I’ve never seen you dance poorly enough to knock yourself silly. Don’t lie to me, Royal.”
“Momma, I’m tellin’ the truth. I got distracted by this girl, and the next thing I knew my feet were all tripped up and I banged my head on a table as I went down.” The sincerity she could muster for a complete fabrication amazed her. Maybe because her encounter with Lovey had made her dizzy, but she reckoned the rest of the story was more to protect her mother from the truth than to be dishonest. This occasion had to be the one instance when telling a lie was the more honorable thing to do.
When she was a child, her father had been killed in a similar accident. The last thing she wanted was to frighten her mother by telling her she’d rolled the Ford. Her cousin Ned would help her get the car back on four wheels and no one would be the wiser.
“You chasing girls is gonna be the death of me.” Her mother huffed, bracing her fists against her hips.
While her mother would likely never completely embrace Royal’s boyish dress or her attraction to women, at least she’d come to terms with it on some level. Royal had been incredibly stubborn as a child, or so she’d been told. Her mother had stopped trying to coerce Royal into wearing dresses by age nine.
Her mother had been equally tolerant of the long spells Royal spent hidden away in her room. What have you been doing in there for so long, her mother would ask upon her emergence. Thinking and writing things down, would be Royal’s response.
She’d discovered a book, a collection of selected poems, in her father’s things one afternoon, and ever since had been captivated by poetry. Royal would pronounce to her family that poetry didn’t tell you how to think, it told you how to feel. Royal was lucky that both her mother and her grandfather let her find her own path.
“Go wake your brother. He’s got chores to do.” Her mother spoke over her shoulder as she stirred eggs in a pan.
Royal begrudgingly got to her feet. After all, she’d just sat down and still hadn’t managed to snag one of those hot biscuits. “And put on a clean shirt before you come back to the table,” her mother shouted.
Royal stepped into her brother’s room and shoved the bed frame with her boot. “Teddy, get up. Breakfast is ready.”
Her brother moaned but didn’t move.
“Get up!”
“Stop shakin’ the bed, Royal. I’m up.” She couldn’t see his face, hidden in the covers, but she heard his muffled voice.
“Don’t make me toss you out of that bed.”
He pulled the covers back so she could see his annoyed look. “Don’t make me toss you outta this room.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell Momma you’re coming soon.” Theodore Duval was sixteen going on twelve in Royal’s opinion. In their father’s absence, their mother babied him no end, so she felt like it was her sisterly duty to toughen him up. Or at least try. She’d experienced only limited success in this endeavor, as he was very sensitive for a boy. He’d cry at the drop of a hat when he was a kid,
