“What is for supper?”
Reverend Bell gave a helpless little smile.
“Beans.”
“With what?”
“More beans, if the Lord provides.”
A few children laughed softly, more out of loyalty than humor.
Nora rolled up her sleeves.
“Well, let’s see what He has already provided and what we can make of it.”
The pantry offered very little.
A sack of cornmeal.
A heel of salt pork, mostly fat.
Three onions gone soft at the edges.
Dried beans.
A jar of sorghum.
A handful of shriveled apples someone had donated before they turned completely bad.
To another woman, it might have looked like proof of despair.
To Nora, it looked like a challenge.
She had learned cooking from her mother in a house where there was never enough of anything except work. She knew how to stretch broth, sweeten hardship, coax flavor from scraps, and make children believe a full bowl meant they were safe for at least one evening.
“Clara,” she said, “can you slice those onions thin?”
The girl blinked.
“I can try.”
“Trying is how most things begin.”
“Miles, I need kindling. Small pieces, dry if you can find them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Jane, show me where you keep bowls. Twins, wash your hands. Peter, if that slingshot shoots anything indoors, I will feed it to the stove.”
Peter’s eyes widened.
Then he grinned.
For the first time, the room moved with purpose.
Nora browned the salt pork fat in the skillet until the kitchen smelled almost rich. She fried the onions slowly, letting them turn sweet and golden before stirring them into the beans. She chopped the apples and simmered them with sorghum into a warm sauce. She mixed cornmeal with hot water and a little grease, then fried small cakes crisp around the edges.
By the time supper was served, the beans were still beans.
But they tasted like someone had cared.
That was different.
Eli, or maybe Ezra, took the first bite and stopped moving.
“It tastes like Sunday,” he said.
Jane shot him a look.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged.
“Like something special.”
Nora turned away quickly to hide the tears burning behind her eyes.
She had not been called special in a long time.
After supper, the children helped clean without being asked, though most of them watched Nora while they worked. Not suspicious exactly, but careful. Waiting to see if she would vanish like other adults had.
When the dishes were done, Samuel climbed onto the bench beside her and touched the cloth bundle near her bag.
“What’s that?”
“My skillet.”
“Just a pan?”
Nora smiled.
“Not just. My husband bought it the week we married. Said a good skillet could make a home out of almost anywhere.”
Samuel thought about that.
“Can it make this one?”
Nora looked around the broken room.
At the children pretending not to listen.
At the reverend with his tired eyes.
At the wind rattling the windowpanes.
Then she placed a hand over her belly.
“We can try.”