Instead, two seconds after Daddy said grace, I raised my bowed head and blurted, “By the way, Westley and I are getting married.”
Unlike Westley’s parents, who ate the last meal of the day in the dining room, we had supper at the kitchen table. That night, our everyday china plates were full of fried pork chops and mashed potatoes cradling a spoonful of gravy and resting beside a mound of English peas. And when I made my announcement, both parents left their concentrated efforts on eating to look up at me; working mouths suddenly stopping mid-chew. My mother reached for her seafoam-green Tupperware tumbler of sweet iced tea, took a gulp, and swallowed hard. I looked from her to my father, who did the same, and waited.
When they said nothing, I continued. “It’s no big deal really.”
My mother blinked then. “What do you mean? How can getting married not be a big deal?”
“I mean the proposal.”
My father found his voice. “How did he—what did he—” He took another drink from his powder-blue tumbler before adding, “I don’t remember him coming to me about this.”
“Daddy,” I said with a shaky smile, then placed my fork and knife against the plate and reached for his hand, pale like the rest of him. “I don’t know that men do that anymore.”
“Well, I think they should,” Mama said. And then, as if we were now ready to move on to the next subject, “But never mind. When is the wedding?”
“I haven’t approved this—”
“Of course you have,” Mama said, her words passing in front of me as if I had no bearing on the weight of them. “He’s Westley Houser, for crying out loud.”
“We haven’t set a date,” I interjected. “Like I said, it was no big deal.”
Mama stood, walked to the sink, rinsed out the dishcloth, and began to wipe countertops already spotless. “How can you say that? How can you say that the words a young woman hopes to hear—how can you say …” She turned to face us then, crossing her arms, the dishcloth dripping water to the linoleum at her Keds-shod feet.
I laughed. I had to do something. I was so nervous and giddy and scared, so I laughed. “His father caught us—” I paused, feeling heat rise in me, then thinking I should hurry and finish my sentence lest my father think the absolute worse of his chaste daughter, I said, “—kissing.”
“Kissing?” My father boomed, then laughed so heartily, the table shook under the heaviness of his forearms resting against the edge. “Well, thank you, God, for small favors.”
The heat inside intensified, so I picked up the fork and knife and went to work on slicing a bite of pork chop. “Anyway … he caught us kissing and he said Westley’s name and then Westley said my name, only he added his name to the end of it.”
“Allison Westley?” Mama laid the dishcloth over the faucet and returned to the table.
I raised my brow at her. “No, Mama. Allison Houser.”
My father chuckled again. “That’s original.” Daddy turned his attention back to his supper. “When will Westley be here?” He raised a teasing brow toward me. “I will need to talk to that boy.”
“Tonight,” I said. “I told him you were coming home this afternoon and—this should make you happy—he insisted that he—we—talk to you … both … tonight.” I glanced at the round acrylic clock hanging high over the kitchen sink. “He’ll be here around seven thirty.”
“An hour,” Mama said. “That hardly gives me time.”
“For what?” I asked. “It’s just Westley. The same man who came over last Sunday to watch the game with Daddy. The same man who arrives every Friday night at seven thirty on the nose.”
“But this time he’ll come as your fiancé,” Mama said, then looked at Daddy with pleading brown eyes. “Explain it to her, Darryl.”
I looked at Daddy, whose square-shaped face registered the same surprise I’d felt after realizing I had become engaged. “Explain it to her?” he asked. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
Mama stood from the table, this time with a grunt of frustration. “I’m going to get ready,” she said before leaving the room. “So much to do … so much to do …” Her voice faded the farther into the house she went.
I looked at Daddy, who now ran a hand over his close-cut white hair. His blue eyes danced a little as he said, “Darlin’ … that mama of yours …” as though the brevity of words were some form of explanation.
I squared my shoulders. “Well, a wedding should keep her occupied for a while,” I said. “I think now that I’m grown and working and what with you gone so much of the time, Mama needs a project. You know, other than knitting and circle meetings.”
Daddy pushed his plate an inch away from where it rested. “Ah, but what will she do after the wedding?”
“Probably run over every morning to wherever Westley and I live to make sure I’ve mitered the corners of the bedsheets.”
Daddy laughed again. “Look here,” he said directly. He placed his warm hand over mine, which I’m sure was ice cold at the thought of what I’d just said. “Give Mama some space, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get this kitchen cleaned up for her, will you? Lord knows what she’s doing back there in our bedroom but putting on the dog is probably at the head of it.”
“Yes, sir.” I stood and began to gather the plates.
Westley arrived at exactly seven thirty, which was his way. Everything about Westley was calculated. In the short period I’d known him, I’d come to realize that right up front.
We’d met only six months earlier—which in retrospect
