Gertrude tried to remember back to a time when she didn’t roll her eyes at a man’s “so what’s a nice lady like you doing ...” or smirk with one edge of her mouth down and one cheek protruding at a teenager’s “I meant to take the garbage out, honest” or yell at the TV news anchorman when the latest president took full responsibility for the latest scandal but insisted, he knew nothing about it, it was all the underlings.
When could those moments have been?
“Miz Foster,” Velma called from the kitchen, “your dinner’s ready. Fried chicken thighs, peas, and rice tonight.”
“My favorite,” Gertrude answered, projecting her voice from the den all the way across the River Oaks house to the kitchen. She rolled her eyes, smirked down one corner of the mouth and puffed out the other cheek. “Can’t wait.”
There was this fifteen-year-old girl called Trudie back in Wichita, she danced at ballet recitals and received lots of staccato applauses, smiles from church strangers, pinches on the cheek from her parents’ society friends wearing white gloves, veils, and purple hats. The little dear, they’d say. And Gertrude beamed bright pink cheeks to them, liquid azure eyes, and milky white teeth – both sides of her mouth up, both cheeks relaxed. And no eyes rolling ...
She walked over to the kitchen and opened the door. Velma stood at the sink, scrubbing the wooden cutting board. Velma turned her head toward Gertrude, but kept her eyes down, somewhere between Gertrude’s breasts and nowhere.
“Oh, what a surprise,” Gertrude said, freezing her eyes, mouth, and cheeks into place, “chicken, rice, and peas for Sunday dinner.”
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