“If someone would have give me a call, I could have sent to the store,” Grandma said.
“Oh, I’ll go to the store,” Verna said impatiently.
“No, you won’t.”
Verna opened her mouth to argue.
“It’s closed.” Grandma took a dish out of the fridge and shut the door. “Angel, whyn’t you look in that cabinet over there? See if they’s beans or anything.”
“I don’t like beans,” Bernie said.
“I thought you said you was hungry. If you ain’t hungry, no sense bothering.”
Angel shook her head toward Bernie before going to the cabinet and opening the door. There were two shelves packed with cans. Cans of pork and beans crowding each other like people pushing to be first in a store sale. Toward the end of the top shelf, the beans turned into peaches. She took out a can of beans. “Want me to heat this up?” she asked, keeping an eye on Verna, who was still puffy with anger.
“That’d be nice. The hot plate is down this ways.” She waved a hand at it. “I don’t want to light the stove for a can of beans. Waste of good firewood.”
“You still cooking on the woodstove, Grandma? I can’t believe it.”
“Some of us ain’t got the money to go out and buy us a fancy propane range.”
Angel stood by the counter with the can in her hand. Should she rummage around in the drawers and cabinets to find a can opener and a saucepan, or should she ask?
“The drawer by the sink, girl, if you’re looking for the opener. Bernie, get down on your knees and find your sister a pan. No, not that door—the next one. That’s it. Yeah, that one will do.”
The can opener was not like the one on the wall at the apartment. While she was still trying to figure it out, Verna came over and took the can and the opener out of her hands. “I’ll do it.” She sighed. “Can you believe this woman?” she muttered. “Here.” She handed Angel the opened can, the jagged lid still hanging on by a narrow spit of metal.
Angel poured the beans into the pot and switched on the hot plate. “Spoon?” she asked the old woman quietly, trying not to get Verna more upset.
“That drawer in front of your belly has the spoons,” Grandma said.
Angel nodded and tried to smile a thank-you before she turned her full attention to heating the beans, stirring them constantly with the old pitted metal spoon. She was terrified she might let them burn and cause even more unhappiness.
Neither Verna nor Grandma ate any beans. At first, Bernie just ate the dish of peaches Grandma had gotten out of the fridge, but after Angel kicked him, he took a bite of beans, squirreling them in his cheeks as he always did with food he didn’t like.
“Chew,” Angel commanded under her breath.
“They’ll probably poison me,” he muttered back. “Chew, Bernie, or else!” She repeated, keeping her voice too low for the women to hear. Grandma had eased her body back down in the rocker, wrapped herself in the blankets, and was rocking away with her eyes half shut. Verna was pacing around, opening cabinet doors and drawers and hum
phing and grunting.
“Okay,” she said suddenly. “Bedtime! Up you go!”
“Bernie hasn’t eaten his beans yet.”
“Well, he’s had plenty of time to. I don’t think Mr. Bernie was as hungry as he let on to be.”
“I wanted a milk shake.”
“Well, I wanted to win the Tri-State Lottery. Go on. I’ll get the bags. I said go on. Angel, take your brother upstairs. Now!”
Angel jumped to her feet. “C’mon, Bernie. You heard Mama.”
His eyes were hard as little BB gun pellets, but he got up and followed Angel up the stairs, stamping his feet on every step to let Verna know what he was thinking of her.
“Stop it, Bernie. You’ll upset your great-grandma. We promised to be nice so she’d let us live here.”
“Was that really Santa Claus out there?” he asked.