there, then went inside. Marietta was busy in the kitchen and the house smelled of fried bacon and corn cakes. He said good morning to her and took a seat at the breakfast table. She poured him coffee and he began reading the Tupelo morning paper. From the old phonograph in the living room, a soprano wailed in operatic misery. He often wondered how many other folks in Ford County listened to opera.
When Florry was finished with her birds, she came in the rear door, said good morning to her brother, and sat across from him. There were no hugs, no affection. To those who knew them, the Bannings were thought to be cold and distant, devoid of warmth and rarely emotional. This was true but not intentional; they had simply been raised that way.
Florry was forty-eight and had survived a brief and bad marriage as a young woman. She was one of the few divorced women in the county and thus looked down upon, as if somehow damaged and perhaps immoral. Not that she cared; she didn’t. She had a few friends and seldom left her property. Behind her back she was often referred to as the Bird Lady, and not affectionately.
Marietta served them thick omelets with tomatoes and spinach, corn cakes bathed with butter, bacon, and strawberry jam. Except for the coffee, sugar, and salt, everything on the table came from their soil.
Florry said, “I received a letter from Stella yesterday. She seems to be doing fine, though struggling with calculus. She prefers literature and history. She is so much like me.”
Pete’s children were expected to write at least one letter a week to their aunt, who wrote to them at least twice a week. Pete wasn’t much for letters and had told them not to bother. However, writing to their aunt was a strict requirement.
“Haven’t heard from Joel,” she said.
“I’m sure he’s busy,” Pete said as he flipped a page of the newspaper. “Is he still seeing that girl?”
“I suppose. He’s much too young for romance, Pete, you should say something to him.”
“He won’t listen.” Pete took a bite of his omelet. “I just want him to hurry up and graduate. I’m tired of paying tuition.”
“I suppose the picking is going well,” she said. She had hardly touched her food.
“Could be better, and the price dropped again yesterday. There’s too much cotton this year.”
“The price goes up and down, doesn’t it? When the price is high there’s not enough cotton and when it’s low there’s too much of it. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
“I suppose.” He had toyed with the idea of warning his sister of what was to come, but she would react badly, beg him not to do it, become hysterical, and they would fight, something they had not done in years. The killing would change her life dramatically, and on the one hand he pitied her and felt an obligation to explain. But on the other, he knew that it could not be explained, and attempting to do so would serve no useful purpose.
The thought that this could be their last meal together was difficult to comprehend, but then most things that morning were being done for the last time.
They were obliged to discuss the weather and this went on for a few minutes. According to the almanac, the next two weeks would be cool and dry, perfect for picking. Pete offered the same concerns about the lack of field hands, and she reminded him that this complaint was common every season. Indeed, last week over omelets he had lamented the shortage of temporary workers.
Pete was not one to linger over food, especially on this awful day. He had been starved during the war and knew how little the body needed to survive. A thin frame kept weight off his legs. He chewed a bite of bacon, sipped his coffee, turned another page, and listened as Florry went on about a cousin who had just died at ninety, too soon in her opinion. Death was on his mind and he wondered what the Tupelo paper would say about him in the days to come. There would be stories, and perhaps a lot of them, but he had no desire to attract attention. It was inevitable, though, and he feared the sensational.
“You’re not eating much,” she said. “And you’re looking a bit thin.”