Chapter 6: Sunday Dinner with Mother

My mother came to Sunday dinner in her navy church dress with the cameo pin at her throat.

She wore her white cotton gloves, and she did not take them off for the first ten minutes.

Hal had fetched her in the Ford after the late service.

He had opened the car door for her. He had carried her pocketbook. He had said, "Mrs. Eckhart, you look well."

"Mildred," my mother said. "You may call me Mildred, Harold. You are a married man."

"Then it's Hal, Mildred."

"It's Harold."

I saw his mouth twitch and I knew we were going to be all right.

She walked through the front hall with her chin high and her eyes working.

She looked at the rug. She looked at the lamp. She looked at the umbrella stand.

She ran one gloved finger along the top of the hall door.

She looked at the finger.

It was clean. I had washed the top of that door on Saturday on a stepladder.

"Hm," said my mother, which from her is a medal.

I'd cooked a ham with pineapple rings, mashed potatoes, green beans from a can I'd dressed up, and a lemon pie.

Rule 4 says, "Have dinner ready."

At one o'clock I stood in the dining room, ready.

Hal held my mother's chair. I held his.

That is not a rule, but it felt like one.

"Harold," she said when we were seated, "you will say grace."

Hal said a short one. He said it plainly, and he didn't hurry it, and my mother nodded once.

We ate.

My mother asked about the tire plant. She asked about the shift and the pay. She asked about church, and where we would attend.

She asked about the pot roast, because Marlene had told her about the pot roast.

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