Midnight Faith

“…that time John was trying to steal my sopaipilla and I tried to spear it with my fork and stabbed him in the hand instead? That’s what started the water fight of all time!”

“Ooh, yeah!” LydaAnn chimed in. “That was in Tulsa at the Fourth of July show. We had everybody at the stalls soaking wet before it was all over.”

Jackson added something, too, but Cait barely heard it. She felt she was the one stabbed. That was a story John had never told her, had never even mentioned, and everyone else here knew all about it. Everybody in the family, judging from the number of voices recalling more details.

“I remember,” Faylene said, “when Johnny was little and he’d string honey all over his sopaipilla and his plate and the table and everything else and refuse to pass it on and—”

She stopped talking the minute Cait stepped into the room. So did everybody else. No more talk about John. Or anything.

Just for one heartbeat.

“Ah, Cait, there you are,” Bobbie Ann said, and indicated her place.

Clint held the chair for her before he went around to what must be his regular seat at the end of the long oak table.

“Let’s hold hands and say the blessing.”

They did. Cait had never heard that blessing. She didn’t know the words.

Then Bobbie Ann began filling the brightly colored bowls with chili, one by one they passed them around the table, and everyone started talking at once. Faylene served the tamales from the pottery platter; they all passed around the huge salad and the salsas and quesos, chips, corn bread, tortillas, red, yellow and blue corn and flour ones, too, pico de gallo and guacamole.

Cait concentrated on the beautiful sight of the table and its bountiful, colorful food. She tried to fix her mind on what Faylene was telling her.

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