Chapter 41
So far Claire's plan had worked. The family sat in their customary spots. Da: in his throne. Ma: on his right; the instant helpmeet. Before them, the table beckoned. Food steamed. There was real butter, a luxury Mrs. Stiles managed to unearth week after week (no one asked how). In the unlighted parlor next door, the radio was off. There was never music during meals, at her father's command.
Meals were for thanks. Prayer. Gratitude. You righteously and rightfully and right-mindedly worshipped the plenty our (not their) God provided ... despite our persistent ineptitude and moral decay. Radio music might come later, optionally.
We did not deserve. Yet YOU have provided, oh Lord.
"The potatoes, if you would, Mrs. Stiles."
She would. The potatoes made their usual circuit, through him and on. And then the mashed turnips. And then the meat, today a heavenly roast, ruddy as an Englishman's rump. Again: not a bare-naked thought he would share with his wife.
A good roast made him inexplicably happy. And carefree in his thoughts. Everything was ersatz now in this time of war. Ersatz coffee. Ersatz fats. Ersatz meats that came from god knew how many unsuspected places on God knew what kinds of animals, if even they were animals. Not tonight, though. Tonight was English roast beef, sound and solid. A day for celebration. And appreciation. A day for gravy, too.
"Thank you, Mrs. Stiles. It looks perfectly delicious."
"It does, Ma," Claire said.
"Would you like more, dear?" her mother asked. "You took almost nothing."
"I'm fine."