Southern Hospitality

by George Aitch

Celine fretted the folded napkins and second-best silverware. Her ears kept guard for the beans lapping and babbling at the edges of the pot on the stove. She straightened the napkins’ starched hems a third time before an outcry of steam drew her back into the kitchen. At the flood of blanched greens, she threw up her hands and extinguished the heat after lifting the pot away from the stove top.

Celine mopped her brow and then smeared the cloth across the window. She saw that rain was threatening her sheets swaying on the clothesline. Already the basswoods were shaking their heads, warning her of the winds’ change. It was really too much. If they hadn’t had to let that Swedish girl go back in September, then all of this might have been more manageable. The beans would have to wait, else she’d have two messes on her hands.

Tossing her apron over the sink, she lifted the latch and raced out to seize the laundry from the line, calling for Johnboy as she did so. He’d be out on the front porch finishing his pipe while the evening clouds gathered, or else at ease listening to his radio. Celine spat curses at the man and the raindrops spattering the half-dried linen.

No sooner had she thrown the sheets into the basket unfolded, than the heavens opened. A rich tattoo slapped the dust, stirring the back yard into mud. She carried the washing basket back into the kitchen. Dumping it to one side, Celine relit the hob and gently pored through the beans with a spoon, keeping one eye on the chicken roasting in the oven underneath. She lifted her apron back over her shoulders then took a breath.

Johnboy strolled into the kitchen, limbering himself against the doorframe. He sopped his brow with a napkin he’d lifted from the table and blew his nose on it for good measure.

“Do you mind? I’ve just laid those,” Celine snapped. She tore the fabric from his hand and, pinching it between her fingers, dropped it into the sink with the dirty pans.

“It’s nothing,” said Johnboy. “We’ve got more in the dresser, besides.”

“But I already laid out those ones, you lump. They’re for the table, not scourging the tip of your nose.” Celine lifted a pan lid and speared the contents with a fork. The potato fell apart and breathed a fluff of steam.

“Don’t know why you keep that habit of slamming the windows in this weather,” said Johnboy. “You know I sweat more than any ordinary man should.”

As if to prove his point, he snatched up his wife’s apron and drew it across his glistening temples, tickling her side for good measure.

Celine jumped back and jabbed her fork against Johnboy. The potato caught in the prongs slopped to the floor, and she laughed despite herself.

Johnboy fetched his sundered napkin from under the faucet then stooped to collect the mashed potato. Depositing it in the slops, he rinsed the cloth and began to wipe the up the puddle of boiled beans at Celine’s feet.

The kitchen air was stifling, but the windows would stay shut. They both knew why, but there had already been enough words said about the fug washing downstream from the glue factory. Though it brought Celine’s migraines on, Johnboy insisted that this land was his daddy’s and his daddy’s before him. They wouldn’t sell up and leave just for some local Landry who made good pulping horse bones upriver.

Johnboy’s eye gazed through the treeline to where the factory stood. He tutted at the downpour. “Why do you work yourself into such a fuss when it’s just the two of us. We’re hardly entertaining the chamber of commerce.”

Celine drained the beans and scooped the potatoes into a crockpot. She set them on the counter on a cork mat. Her husband licked his lips and Celine stored his look away in her memory, pleased in his admiration for her cooking. While she turned, from the corner of her eye, she caught Johnboy lifting the lid. She rapped his hand with her fork and the pot top clattered shut.

“Do something worthwhile and set out the china, then wash your hands. It’ll be ready soon enough.”

“Yes’m.” Johnboy bowed.

Celine lifted the chicken from the oven, keeping an ear out to a sudden smash of her good plates coming from the dining room. She was relieved, twenty minutes later, to see Johnboy sat with arms folded and hair combed wearing his best slacks. He peered up at her with angel eyes and all of his kitchen foolishness was forgiven.

As good as his word, the table was set for two, the spotless crockery matching the tablecloth. Bearing the chicken platter, she heaved it onto the center of the small table then took her place opposite Johnboy. Both dipped their heads to recite grace.

Johnboy looked up with a start. His eyes locked on his wife’s startled expression, her face the twin of his own. Had they heard a tap against the front door through the rain? He was about to speak just before it came again, louder this time.

“Who on earth?” Celine asked, as Johnboy rose from the table. He discarded his napkin and approached the window. Peering between the slats, he looked out into dusk. The storm lashed the asphodel beds and sprayed the glass pane. Johnboy scrunched his eyes. At the end of the garden path, the gate swung against the picket fence. A flash of lightning illuminated a figure standing on the porch. The knock sounded again.

“There’s a man out there!” Johnboy cried.

“Well, go see what he wants for heaven’s sakes. It’s wretched outdoors.”

Johnboy left his dinner cooling on the table and faced the storm. He pulled the door half-open and took in the caller on his porch step. The man had his slab fist aloft to knock a fourth time. At Johnboy’s appearance, his arm relaxed and his jowls fell into a smile.

“Good evening, sir,” said Johnboy “do you need some assistance? If it’s a telephone you’re fetching for, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

“I have no such need, thank you,” the stranger replied. “I was out on the road and caught in this inclement shower. I only ask for the kindness of some shelter until it passes.”

He was a tall man. His height was disguised somewhat by his sunken shoulders, though as Johnboy invited him into the warmth, the man‘s hat brushed the head jamb. Johnboy took it as he closed the door, and the man peeled his moleskin coat from his frame. The catch of white at his neck revealed him to be a preacher.

A puddle collected on the hall timbers from the man’s damp clothes. “You must forgive me,” he said, “it’s quite some storm out there.”

“I couldn’t have you out there half-drowned; my lady Celine would never forgive me. The name’s Johnboy. What do you call yourself, sir?”

“Dr. Jupitus. I really am most obliged to find myself at your mercy.”

As Johnboy took the man’s coat, Celine appeared from the dining room. Seeing the new arrival’s appearance, she straightened her hair. “Oh Reverend, you’re wet through. You must stay for dinner.”

“No, ma’am, that’s far too much of an intrusion. I’ll not interrupt you. All I ask is that I wait out the rain.”

“That’s nonsense,” Celine protested. “We were just sitting down to eat. I’ll set another place. We’ve only simple fare but we’d be overjoyed to share with you. Johnboy, fetch a towel for the Reverend.”

She ushered the stranger into the dining room where he stood, rainwater seeping into the floorboards. He looked eagerly at the feast spread over the table. Johnboy returned with some towels, and the preacher stroked the rain out his hair while Celine carried a third chair through and arranged a place for their guest, who took the seat with thanks.

“You caught us at our prayers, Jupitus,” said Johnboy. “Were you checking to make sure we said His words under this roof?”

”We’ve never had the pleasure of a preacher at our table before. Would you like to lead the blessing, Reverend? ” Celine asked, throwing a scowl at her husband.

“By all means,” said Dr Jupitus. He made a sign then clasped his large hands over his empty plate. “O Father, who shakes the world with his fearsome voice, from Thee proceeds the eternal spark which graces our abodes. Blessed be your light, the power divine, to drive away the darkness and settle on this house so that we, your worthy supplicants are granted health, life and gentle peace besides. Amen.”

“Must be a Lutheran,” Johnboy muttered. A sharp tap against his shin signaled Celine’s disapproval. Johnboy took up the carving knife. He relished dividing the roast, his favorite part of every Saturday. The breast fell away under his fork as all three took in the roast aroma. Celine, meanwhile, tumbled the salad onto their plates: egg, celery and lettuce with a healthy dash of homemade dressing.

“You gave me a start, I have to say, Reverend,” said Johnboy. “The last time we took in a fellow from a poor night it was Dr. Richard from the next parish over. Do you recall, Celine? That was an irregular happenstance if ever there was one. The good doctor had been called to a birth in Laconia parish, and he stopped by us on the way home. Who was the family, Celine?”

“Fairley.” she said, not looking up from her potatoes

Johnboy doled out the chicken with his fork and continued: “Yeah, Kitty Fairley’s child. That was it. Anyhow, Dr. Richard came by our place in the aftermath. And, would you know, he told us that the Fairley boy had come from his mother speaking perfect French with the first breath? Well, Reverend, did you ever hear of a thing so odd? Next day. the word got ’round the neighborhood, and you’d never seen the exodus of young Cajun men making for the state line or otherwise. Ol’ Pa Fairley certainly had some words to say about it after that, eh, Celine?”

Johnboy laughed while Dr. Jupitus continued to smile politely, chewing his chicken and beans. His fork scraped the last morsels around his plate. The wall clock’s pendulum sliced through the silence.

“What brings you round our way, Reverend?” Celine asked. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance before.”

“No, ma’am. I’m on an errand to Arcadia, though I’m a good many days from it. I’ve left more behind me since I set out from Philadelphia a few weeks back. To tell the truth, I was hoping to lay over in town, though they hadn’t any vacancies for me, so you can understand how grateful I was to see your little light on all the way out here when the rain started.”

“Oh my, but to come such a long way. Tell me you aren’t making your way on foot?”

“Regular exercise is the backbone to a healthy constitution, I’ve always said. I get by just fine on the road. There’s plenty of people who’ll listen to the good word from a wandering preacher, and it’s a pleasure to visit the good people of the South and their legendary kindness towards strangers.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and gestured to the meal Celine had prepared.

“My wife’s a tidy little cook, Jupitus.” said Johnboy. “We’re only glad to give you some geniality against the forces of nature beyond our door.” He slapped the big man on the back and ladled the last of the chicken between the two of them.

It was only then that Celine gave voice to what she realized had been bothering her. “That clock hasn’t worked in years,” she exclaimed.

They all looked up. Sure enough, the wall clock guarding the entrance to the kitchen had a swinging pendulum. The internal mechanism clacked in satisfaction. The clock was an heirloom, passed down from some great aunt years before. Though the gears and cogs had long since stopped, Celine had had it mounted on the wall. She adored its lacquered design as a keepsake, though it had never struck the time for as long as she’d owned it.

“Now that’s a curious thing,” said Dr Jupitus. “Could it be that some atmospheric pressure from the storm or errant electric activity has activated the internal structure? Of course, one reads about such things in the scientific papers, but I’ve never seen it myself.”

Johnboy rubbed his whiskers and got up to examine the clock. “Well, I can scarcely credit it,” he said “but the darned thing sure seems to be counting the hours just fine now. How about that? And the rain’s stopped, too.”

They glanced through the window to watch a crisp moon gleaming through clouds like tintype. The Reverend placed his cutlery on his plate. When the hostess stood to carry them through to the kitchen, he pacified her with a rich smile and took it himself, returning for the rest of the tableware.

“If the weather’s turned, then I really must be on my way,” said Dr Jupitus. “I thank you for the tremendous kindness you’ve done in taking me in as an unexpected diner this evening.”

“You can stay if you like,” Johnboy suggested. “Night can get horrible cold, even without the rain, this time of year.”

“Yes, Reverend, please,” Celine added. “It’s late already and we can make a bed up for you, no trouble. We’re miles from anywhere; you’ll never make it to anywhere else tonight.”

They followed him out into the hallway, both enticing him to remain in their warmth. The preacher tossed his head and lifted his coat over his broad shoulders. It was somehow dry.

“No, I think I’ve quite overstayed my welcome. I shall be just fine walking by moonlight. I find most admirable company among the twinkling stars. There’s no need for concern at all. If I ever find myself in these parts again, I shall surely drop by to wish you well. Until then, I hope I may return you a favor some day.” He saluted them both and, planting his hat atop his head, Dr. Jupitus swept out of the door and into the night.

The couple watched the tall man stroll down the path and along the hedgerows at the roadside, whistling to himself, until he was out of sight. Both of them noted, though neither remarked, how strange it was that his boots left no prints in the fresh mud churned up by that evening’s rainfall.

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[Author’s note] The story is based on the myth of Baucis and Philemon in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

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