“Then she’s the one who needs to get her thinking straightened out.”
“Stay here,” I said. “I’ll get the pliers.”
I walked across the yard to the barn. The pliers weren’t in their usual place, and I had to search for them. I finally found them sitting on a half-used roll of barbed wire. When I came out of the barn, Zach wasn’t at the corner of the house. My heart sank. I was sure he’d gone into the house to confront Mama and accuse her of having a dirty mind. I ran to the back steps. Zach and Mama were standing beside the kitchen table. They weren’t smiling. However, they weren’t yelling either. Mama saw me and nodded.
“Zach was apologizing for his comment. I’ve accepted his apology and put it behind me.” She handed me a large plastic ziplock bag. “You’ll need this for the fish. Make it easy on yourself. Fillets will be fine.”
Zach and I returned to the corner of the house. I turned on the water.
“What did you say to her?”
“That I’d made a thoughtless, wrong remark. I think she knew the truth.”
I wasn’t so sure.
“And I apologize to you, too,” Zach continued. “You warned me to watch what I say. I’ve not done it.”
I looked in his eyes. All I saw was sincerity.
“If Mama is okay, I’ll let it go. Just be careful.”
“Now, show me what to do with these catfish.”
“Do you remember how to pick one up?”
Zach reached into the bucket. “I think so.”
“Better a second lesson than another sting.”
I retrieved a fish.
“Like this,” I said, holding it up. “That way you avoid both the dorsal and pectoral fins. This fish doesn’t have much fight left in it.”
“Just like your mother when it comes to any negative opinions about me.”
“No, nothing like my mama. Pour out the rest of the water. There’s no reason to keep them alive.”
Cleaning a whole catfish required nailing the fish’s head to a board and peeling off the skin with a pair of pliers. Slicing fillets was simple. Holding the fish by the head with a gloved hand, I cut down-ward just behind the gills and slid the fillet knife the length of the fish, avoiding any contact with the bones. I then used the knife to separate the pale meat from the skin. I turned the fish over and handed the knife and a glove to Zach.
“Your turn.”
He worked slowly but botched his first attempt.
“You give new meaning to ‘mess of fish,’” I said with a smile. “Cut a little deeper behind the head and avoid gouging into the body.”
I trimmed his fillet to make sure there weren’t any bones hiding in it. I put another fish on the board, completed one side, and handed the knife to him.
“I get another chance?”
“Yes, there’s more grace in the Taylor family than you might imagine.”
He did a much better job, and his fillet was almost as large as mine. By the time we finished, Zach had mastered rudimentary filleting skills. I rinsed the final fillet in the water gushing from the hose.
“Don’t tear up your med school application. You still might become a surgeon.”
“That’s not in my future, but every admiralty lawyer should know how to clean a fish.”
“You filleted a fish, not cleaned it. We’ll save the advanced course for another time.”
We dumped the fish carcasses into a fifty-five-gallon drum that Daddy used to collect organic waste to mix into a compost pile on the back side of the garden. In the kitchen Mama held up the bag and weighed it in her hand.
“This should be plenty. Zach, there are fresh towels for you in the downstairs bath.”
Walking up the stairs, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder in time to see Zach go into the sewing room. Several strands of light brown hair had escaped from the tight ponytail at the base of his neck. Somehow I had to let my parents know about Mr. Callahan.
That would turn the tide in Zach’s favor. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
After I dried my hair, I spent a long time deciding which dress to wear. Everything in my closet looked the same. Finally I shut my eyes, stuck out my hand, and grabbed the first hanger I touched. It held a light blue cotton dress with faint yellow stripes, an adequate choice for a catfish supper.
When I went downstairs, the door to the sewing room was open.
I cautiously peeked around the corner. Zach wasn’t there, and I was pleased to see he’d neatly made the bed. There weren’t any dirty clothes scattered across the floor.
“The twins took Zach outside to show him the garden,” Mama said when I came into the kitchen. “I also told them to pick the corn for supper. Did you give the corn to Mrs. Callahan?”
“Yes, ma’am. She wasn’t there when we arrived, but she came in just before we left.”
“How’s Mr. Callahan doing?”
Constrained by Zach’s gag order, I didn’t answer.
“Is he worse?” Mama asked, alarm in her voice.
“No, ma’am. He’s better, much better after our visit.”
“Good. He’s always enjoyed having you around.”
While we pulled the strings from the green beans, Mama reminisced about some of the times I’d spent at Mr. Callahan’s office.
“I’ll never forget the time he took you with him to the jail,” she said. “He convinced me to wait in the car while you went into the cell block. I thought you’d be terrified, but you came out with the names and addresses of two men you wrote to faithfully for the next six months to a year.”
“Bob Sellers and Renfrow Ayers,” I said.
“That’s right. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea and wouldn’t let you put your return address on the letters. But you drew pictures, printed out Bible verses, and told them how many eggs the hens laid each week.”
“And when Bob Sellers got out, Daddy got him a job at the chicken plant.”
“Yes, I saw him and his wife at the grocery store a few weeks ago. They’ve joined a church on the east side of the county.”
Zach and the twins returned from the garden with ears of corn sticking out the top of a paper sack.
“Shuck it outside at the feedlot,” Mama said. “The steers and calves would probably like a snack.”
“Where is Kyle?” I asked.
“In town with your daddy. They’ll be back shortly. You go with Zach and the twins to shuck the corn. I’ll finish in here.”
We walked across the yard toward the feedlot. Zach lagged behind, and I stayed with him.
“Is your mother okay?”
“I hope so.”
“Ellie gave Zach a raw peanut to eat,” Emma called over her shoulder.
“Really, how did you like it?”
“It made me appreciate why they roast them.”
We caught up with the twins.
“Tammy Lynn likes boiled peanuts,” Ellie said. “I think they’re slimy and gross.”
“I’ve never tried a boiled peanut,” Zach said.
“Most of the peanuts in Georgia are grown farther south,” Emma said, “but Daddy found a variety that will grow in our soil if they break it up deep. Mama makes homemade peanut butter.”
“I’m a big fan,” Zach said. “Any single guy who doesn’t eat peanut butter is at risk of starvation.”
We reached the feedlot. The five calves from the Moorefield place looked so much alike it was hard to pick out the one that had escaped.
Zach and I settled on a frisky fellow with two white blotches on its face. When we began dropping the corn husks inside the pen, Mr.
Callahan’s steers sauntered over. Emma and Ellie suggested a contest to determine who could remove all the corn silks from an ear of corn.
I offered to serve as judge, but they insisted on Zach. He spent a lot of time inspecting each ear.
“You’re spending so much time with those two ears of corn you’re not cleaning any yourself,” I said.
“That’s the way it is with judges, Ms. Taylor. They inspect other people’s work without doing any themselves.”
Zach continued turning over the ears of corn. Finally he nodded his head.
“I’m ready to render a verdict.”
We all stopped.
“I’m going to rule like King Solomon. Emma and Ellie have equal claim to the cleanest ear of corn I’ve ever seen. Both of you are winners.”
“But there was only one baby,” Emma protested. “We have two ears of corn. It’s not right to make the Bible fit a situation unless the facts are the same.”
“Real judges do it all the time,” Zach answered. “They call it judicial reasoning. If either of you doesn’t like my decision, you can file an appeal with Judge Tammy Lynn Taylor.”
I laughed. “And my decision is that both of you start cleaning another ear of corn before I send you to jail.”
By the time we finished, the calves had come close enough to share the husks with the steers.
“I wish we could keep this one,” Ellie said, rubbing the top of a calf ’s head. “If we did, I think I’d name you—”
“Hold it,” Zach said. “You said you can’t name next week’s supper.”
“I named the catfish that stung you,” Ellie said. “I’m calling him Neptune Poseidon. He attacked you because you snatched him from the depths of the deep.”
“You’ve studied Greek mythology?”
“Yes. The Greek god of the sea was Poseidon and the Romans named him Neptune. We have to learn about ancient religions so we can understand the books and poetry we read.”
Zach turned to me. “Did you—”
“Yes. Mama teaches that kind of thing, along with the best way to can fresh tomatoes from the garden.”
We took the corn to the house. Mama had a pot of boiling water waiting on the stove. After we washed our hands, we gathered in the kitchen. Daddy and my brothers had returned from town.
“Who wants cornmeal and who wants salt and pepper?” Mama asked.
“Give Zach some of both,” I said. “Maybe you can cut Neptune Poseidon in two.”
“What?” Mama asked.
Ellie explained while I helped Mama fry the fish. As soon as the hot fish were draining on sheets of paper towel, we gathered around the kitchen table to pray. Before I could protest, Zach grabbed my left hand.
I didn’t hear a word of Daddy’s prayer.
Every nerve in my body directed its attention to the places where my palm and fingers made contact with Zach Mays. Ellie was right.
His hand was strong and friendly. I could feel the slightly raised places where the fish had cut him and avoided any hint of a squeeze.
I didn’t want to hurt him—or send a silent invitation. Still, it was one of the most intense physical experiences of my life. When con-tact between a man and a woman hasn’t been devalued by casual use, the slightest touch can be more potent than a nuclear explosion. I took a deep breath. I didn’t want the moment to end, yet wasn’t sure I could stand much more if it didn’t. Daddy said, “Amen.” A couple of seconds passed before my hand returned to its owner.
“Which is the salt and pepper?” Zach asked Mama.
I looked at him in shock. Instead of meeting my eyes, he stepped past me toward the food on the counter, leaving me facing Ellie instead. She touched her hand and gave me a knowing smile. I tried to look serious but knew it was in vain. She stepped close.
“Was I right?” she whispered.
“Quiet,” I responded under my breath. “Wait until it matters.”
It was a wonderful meal. Zach was less a stranger to the family, and the conversation flowed more freely. I didn’t say much.
Zach loved the salt-and-pepper catfish. Any qualms he had about eating meat he’d met in person left with the first bite. And as always, the corn was heavenly.
“Mrs. Taylor, this is one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten,” Zach said as he deposited a third corn cob on a scrap plate at our end of the table.
“Chasing that calf gave you an appetite,” Daddy said. “I heard you and Tammy Lynn ended up in a heap.”
I cleared my throat.
“Yes, sir,” Zach said.
“And we saved the garden,” I added.
“Mrs. Taylor, I could eat this meal for Thanksgiving dinner,” Zach said.
His comment prompted a discussion about the best Thanksgiving menu. Zach’s mother prepared a traditional turkey. The twins liked chickens stuffed with cornbread dressing and a sweet potato casserole topped with pecans and marshmallows. Bobby kept quiet until the end.
“I’d rather have hickory-smoked barbecue than anything else,” he said. “If Mr. Bowman would give us a couple of pork shoulders for Thanksgiving dinner, I’d split enough firewood to last him until Christmas.”
I knew what would happen next. The subject of barbecue was more controversial in our family than the doctrine of predestination. I’d heard debates about the merits of different cuts of meat, choices of wood, and the best sauces. Mama said it gave the men something to argue about that wasn’t really important. But what I’d heard over the years didn’t support Mama’s theory. Visible veins in a man’s neck signaled the presence of a passionately held belief, and I’d heard men raise their voices over cuts of meat and sauces.
Even in our family there were sharp differences of opinion. Daddy, Kyle, and Bobby disagreed, and having Zach at the table gave each of them a chance to present his case.
“What kind do you like best?” Kyle asked Zach when he finished his argument for cooking the whole hog.
Zach didn’t hesitate. “Sliced beef smoked in mesquite with a thick, sweet sauce on it. Those steers in the feedlot would be great candidates for barbecue.”
The three males in my family looked at Zach in disbelief. To drop beef into the discussion of barbecue was unthinkable. In our world barbecue came only from pigs.
“Are you serious?” Bobby asked.
“Of course I am.”
Zach defended the merits of smoked beef, and Mama nodded her head. She didn’t like the smell of pork, which was the reason our family didn’t make our own barbecue.
“That sounds good to me,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Daddy said, “but it shows that where and how you’re raised plays a big role in what you like.”
“But a person can change,” I said.
“Not about barbecue,” Kyle and Bobby said at the same time.
“Girls, head upstairs,” Mama said to the twins when we finished.
“You’re helping teach the first-grade class in the morning, and you need to study the lesson. I’ll check with you in a little bit.”
Faced with a direct order, they left without protest.
“Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, could we talk in private for a few minutes?”