Chance
I stay in my stuffy alcove feeling chewed up and spit out, until Mrs. Canberry fetches me for supper.
“Call me Florence,” she says.
Grandpa would never approve of me calling a grown woman by her first name. But he deserted me, so I say, “Yes, Florence,” and trudge behind her down the stairs to the dining room.
Mama would expect me to help set the table, but napkins, silver, and dishes are already in place. For six. Is it too much to hope Grandpa will be one of them?
I plunk into a chair and watch Florence and Mrs. Grome carry bowls of steaming potatoes and vegetables from the kitchen. Instead of holding the heavy swinging door, I let the two women elbow it open and struggle hot, laden dishes to the table. I avoid their faces and sit like a pile of fresh mule droppings, wishing I’d been dropped somewhere else.
“If the men don’t hurry, they’ll be picking bones,” Mrs. Grome says, setting down the chicken platter. Will Grandpa be one of the bone-pickers?
The last dish is on the table, when a man Grandpa’s age, with thinning gray hair and a neatly-trimmed mustache, walks in, followed by…my mouth drops open! It’s the same gray-eyed boy I have seen at the bakery three mornings in a row!
His surprised look heads toward a smile, revealing the space between his front teeth.
“This is Virginia Kent,” Florence introduces, as the older man pulls out her chair. “My father, William Redmond, and my son, Chance.”
My mouth is still open at seeing the fellow I met three times by chance, but hearing his name is Chance makes all sense bolt from my mind. “Chance? Your name is Chance?”
His face reddens, and any sign of a smile vanishes like a flame in a downpour. I hear Mama’s words: Think before you speak.
Chance waits for Mrs. Grome to settle into her chair before he sits. I aim to apologize right off for my rudeness, but Mr. Redmond jumps in before I can make my voice work.
“An unusual name, but with a reason behind it.” He coughs, clears his throat, and takes his seat. “During the battle at Chancellorsville, I was shot in the foot. As Rebel forces closed in, a Union cavalry scout rode out of nowhere, pulled me onto his saddle, and took me to get patched up. I owe that man my life—or at least my foot.”
He unfolds his napkin. “I never saw that man again. Never even learned his name.”
Florence picks up the tale. “We wanted to honor the man who saved Papa’s life, but since we didn’t know his name, we named Chance for the battle site.”
Without a pause, she bows her head and says grace.
The food’s delicious smells make my mouth eager, but I won’t be able to swallow a bite until I set things right. I look into Chance’s tin-colored eyes. “I’m sorry I was rude. Mama warned me to mind my outspokenness, but I sometimes forget.”
Chance’s clenched brow and jaw don’t look convinced.
I try again. “I meant no disrespect. I know how it is when folks show reverence with a name. Sakes alive! I was named for the whole state of Virginia, and my middle name of Lee is to honor the general.”
Nobody speaks, and I wonder if I ought to have minded my tongue before I spoke of General Lee to this Yankee family.
Chance laughs and his gap-toothed grin beams across the chicken platter at me. “After our encounters at the bakery, I didn’t expect outspokenness to be a problem for you.”
“You two have already met?” Florence says it like a question, but doesn’t wait for an answer. She traipses off on a story about a neighbor, and I don’t even try to keep up.
Supper is right tasty. Ask the flies. A slew of them join us, and Mrs. Grome keeps her swatter close. More than once during our meal, it comes down on the table with a splat!
The sixth chair remains empty. I ask Mrs. Grome, and she says “Mr. Kent said he might take supper with us. I’ll keep his plate warm on the back of the stove.”
I carry my dishes to the kitchen to wash them, but Mrs. Grome waves me away. Grandpa’s food sits on the stove, dry as paper and crawling with flies.
