I don’t know. But I can’t say that.
I just tremble and stay silent.
“You don’t know, do you?” He laughs, a vicious bark. “Too good to remember your own poor Mama’s birthday, are you?”
She died when I was eleven, and that was fourteen years ago.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Please forgive me.”
“You’re sorry.” He nods, still facing away from me, thumbs hooked behind his buckle. “Yeah, I’d bet you are.” He whirls on a heel, glaring at me, his expression frozen and unreadable. “A few days in the lockup, maybe. That oughta teach you to make sure you plan better.”
I did plan better. I had enough flour for the whole month. But he invited his “war council” over for a meal, and demanded I make bread and pies and pot pie and cake, and I used most of it, and then he refused to take me shopping, saying he was too busy with “training exercises.” Which means I ran out.
But that’s not his fault, it’s mine.
I’m supposed to anticipate his every need.
My whole body shudders, and I drop to my knees in front of Papa. “Please, Papa. Not the lockup. Please.”
He stares down at me. “No? Not the lockup?”
“I’ll do better.”
“Yeah, you will.” He juts his chin at the table. “Serve us.”
The table is crowded: both of my uncles, my older brother Zeke, and the rest of Papa’s inner circle—Mike, Matt, and Tony. The latter three are Papa’s closest and oldest friends, going back to Boot Camp.
I rise to my feet and hurry to the kitchen, trying to hurry but not make any mistakes. I can’t go back into the lockup. I can’t—I just can’t.
I ladle stew into bowls and top each serving with a piece of cornbread, setting two at a time in front of each man. When they’ve all been served, I dish myself a portion and take my seat between my brothers.
Papa pauses with his spoon in one hand, cornbread in the other. “Did I say you could eat?”
I swallow. “N-no.”
“Put it back. You can watch us eat and think about being more obedient.”
“Yes sir.”
I dump the stew back into the stock pot and take my seat. I haven’t eaten all day—my list of chores kept me busy from sunup till now. My stomach growls, cramps. I wasn’t allowed to eat yesterday, either.
I hold back tears. My lips burn.
They take their time eating, and there’s not so much as a crumb left by the time they’ve all headed out to the porch to smoke cigarettes and drink moonshine.
Papa is the last to leave the table. “Clean up this mess.”
“May I please have something to eat, Papa? I’m hungry.” I say this with my eyes on the table, head ducked, hands on my lap.
I feel his gaze but don’t dare look up.
“Clean up. Then we’ll see.” He joins the others on the porch, then, leaving me alone in the house.
It takes me an hour to clear the table—saving the scraps for the hogs—wash the dishes, and wipe things down. By the time I’m done, my stomach is in knots, gnawing at itself. The men have left, my uncles to their cabins with their wives. Zeke’s cabin isn’t done being built yet, so they live here in the main cabin with Papa and me.
When I’ve cleaned up, I stand in front of the sink and wait to be addressed.
Papa is on the phone, a thick cigar in one hand, the jar of moonshine in the other. Through the screen door, I can make out a few words here and there. Something to do with a new exercise for the men, a possible hunting trip. He’s talking to one of his men, then.
