Fran's Night

Fran wiped the last of the dishes dry with her apron, then took the long red and white checked cloth from around her waist and carefully folded it on the washing machine, to be cleaned with the morning clothes. Oliver preferred clean linens whenever possible, even though he never bothered to step through the two-way swinging door into the kitchen to see her in her apron.


Dinner on the table at five thirty in the evening, sharp, Fran. Your husband needs his dinner after a long day. No mind that Billy and George and Janet have been pressing their tiny hands to her legs all day, tugging on her while she scours the house, does the laundry, makes their meals, and puts them into crisp clean sheets for naptimes. How many times did she change their clothes today? The five o'clock change, to ensure they were presentable for their father, was always the one that frosted her the most. Dinner and full wardrobe changes, just so Oliver wouldn't be bad news when he walked through the door.


All three children and their father ate dinner in the solemn dining room, rolled the buns, tested the bread. Tonight Oliver had sent the buns back, telling her they were too moist. He needed them dry to sop up his gravy. Damn jamoke in his suit all day. Had a secretary at work, and a maid at home. She popped the oven back on, and stood shaking while the bread warmed, then realized it would just overcook them. She grabbed the oven mitts and yanked them out. Damn jamoke. No noise from the dining room. The children knew better than to cut up in front of their father. She heated a cast iron skillet, brushed some butter on the bottom, and toasted the buns a little, hoping that would do the trick.

A deep breath, and a smile, and back into the dining room.

George had his pudgy fingers placed on the table, on either side of his plate like he'd been taught, and he beamed at Fran. "Thank you, Momma."

Fran's fake smile shifted into a real one. "You are most welcome, son."

"Hep me with my bread en budder?" Billy asked.

"Me too, Momma, me too," Janet echoed.

Fran slathered butter on Oliver's bread, and laid it carefully before him on his bread plate. She buttered the children's then, and for the first time during dinner, sat down at her place.

Oliver placed his hand on hers, and the warm spot grew in her chest, and without looking up from his dinner, he said, "Yes, dear, thank you." The jamoke was capable of illuminations every once in a while.

After small, quick bites of half her food, after the dishes were washed and dried and the table scrubbed, while the folded red and white checked apron rested on the washer, the children played quietly on the living room floor, Oliver read the paper, and Fran sank into the chesterfield, ankles crossed.

Ever since I wrote "New Neighbors," Fran has been bugging me to write more about her. She is a fascinating character to me. Seventy five years old, and today's post was one of her experiences in the fifties. http://crazycoppertop.blogspot.com/2009/10/new-neighbors.html