Horrible Harvest

 A woman too full of drink took a seat next to me. How she know’d Felix I couldn’t say, but she was among the mourners. She was a pretty gal. Young. Near 40 or so years my junior. She’d got hold of the old plantation drink, sherry, and it was laying heavy on her breath. I’d moved from the general crowd and took a spot at the counter where I was sipping on a cup of coffee. I felt her give me a stare before she sat her ass on the stool next to me.

“You’re him.”

I didn’t respond because I didn’t know if I wanted to be the him she was referring to.

“You’re him. The one – The fella he served with. In the Army. The Confederate Army.”

“Right this second I’m just a fella having my coffee.”

“I can’t believe some of you are still around.”

I sipped from my cup.

“Heroes. That’s what you are. You. Uncle Felix. The whole-lot of you.”

“Uncle Felix?”

“Not blood. He helped my daddy out back in the day. Got him out of some trouble. Took him in. Momma, too. I was born in his living room.” She stuck out her hand for me to shake. “Allison. Allison Weaver Duffy.”

I shook her hand and caught a glimpse of Otto staring daggers at me.

Allison turned in his direction. “Yeah. Otto. He doesn’t care for you. ‘Course you probably suspected as much.”

“I did.”

“So, you never did say.”

“Say what?”

“If you’re him or not.”

“You didn’t ask. You assumed.”

“Well then, in polite society, one should confirm or deny such assumptions.”

“You got it twisted. In polite society one shouldn’t make such assumptions.”

“Oh, pish-posh. Are you him or not?”

“I am Augustus Tennyson. I served with Felix. He was my friend. We were basically brothers. What we were not was heroes.”

“You are as modest as he was.”

“It ain’t modesty. If you come to hear old war stories, you picked the wrong seat.”

“If you must know, I picked this seat because I want something to eat.”

“It’s a diner. Foods brought to every seat in the building if you ask for it.”

“Yes, well, I have brothers and bothers at my table who are so obnoxiously drunk, I fear for the waitress’s safety should she get too close.”

“What are bothers?”

“Men are bothers, Mr. Tennyson. Men.”

“Can’t argue that.”

The waitress, a woman worn from the hours and the mourners presently filling hers, approached and smiled with great effort. “You two need anything?”

“I’d love a bowl of rice and pile of sugar, sweety,” Allison said.

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Sure thing. How ‘bout you, mister?”

I waved her off, and she headed to the kitchen.

“I just love sugar and rice.”

I didn’t reply.

“It’s a treat, is what it is. Of course, I love rice with just about everything, but sugar and rice is my special favorite. You?”

“Are you asking me if sugar and rice is my favorite food?”

“No. I’m asking you what your special favorite food is?”

“Why?”

“Because war stories are off limits. Is food not a topic you wish to discuss either?”

The waitress brought a bowl of rice and bowl of sugar and set them in front of Allison.

I stared at the rice.

“Goodness. You’re glaring at my rice like it insulted your momma.”

I give loose a sigh and said, “Let’s just say it ain’t my special favorite.”