Excerpt from Blackbird by Jennifer Lauck, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Daddy sits down in the big chair at the end of the table, unfolds his napkin too.

"Hand me your plate, son," Momma says.

B.J. lifts his plate with both hands and Momma puts B.J.'s plate on her plate. " Are you hungry?" she says.

"I'm starved," B.J. says.

Momma cuts two pieces of meat loaf, lays them on B.J.'s plate, three big spoons of mashed potatoes with a cut of butter pushed in the middle.

"Not too many beans," B.J. says.

B.J. never eats vegetables and Momma laughs when he says that. She puts one spoon of beans and three big spoons of applesauce on his plate, lifts the whole thing up, and reaches the plate to B.J. The plate wavers a little up there between them and Daddy reaches, steadies the plate to B.J. Momma takes a deep breath and sits up tall in her chair, the posture of a lady. She looks at me, smiles, and puts her hand out for my plate.

"Are you hungry?" she says.

"I am," I say.

Momma cuts me one slice of meat loaf, puts one spoon of potatoes on, a little butter in the middle, two spoons of beans, and two spoons of applesauce.

"Enough?" she says.

Nodding my head, I stand up, reach with both hands so she doesn't have to lift.

Daddy hands over his plate and she doesn't have to ask if he's hungry. B.J. and Daddy are always hungry. She loads up his plate, lots of everything on, and he takes it from her hands.

Momma serves herself last, and even on the best days, she never takes much. Tonight it's half a slice of meat loaf, a spoon of potatoes, a few beans, and a spoon of applesauce. She pushes the applesauce bowl away and smiles at all of us, her hands in her lap.

The dining room is dinner smells, butter, and meat loaf, and I'm so hungry there's water in my mouth.

Daddy closes his eyes and puts his head on his hands.

Daddy says we're Catholics, except we never go to church, not unless it's Christmas or Easter, and that's why I don't understand about praying like we do every night. Daddy says it's not really prayer, it's just taking time to be thankful.

After prayers, Daddy tells a story about a man in his office and Momma tells about Aunt Georgia's visit. Daddy says the weather feels like fall and Momma says we should take a trip up to Lake Tahoe before the weather gets too cool.

When Momma says we should go to the lake, B.J. looks up from his dinner, looks at Daddy, at Momma. Daddy is quiet and he looks at Momma.

"Do you think you're up to it?" Daddy says.

"Up to it?" Momma says.

"What I mean is," Daddy says, "do you think this is the time?"

Momma sits up tall, posture of a lady.

"I'm not an invalid, Bud," Momma says.

The sound of Momma's voice is sharp in the dining room.

Daddy clears his throat and sets his fork down in the middle of his plate.

"I know you're not an invalid," Daddy says, "I just thought we would discuss going to Palo Alto before planning any other trips."

B.J. looks at me and I look at B.J.

Momma takes a sharp breath and sets her fork down next to her plate.

"This is not the time, Bud," Momma says.

Daddy looks at B.J., at me, and he rolls his lips together.

"All right," Daddy says.

Daddy picks up his fork again, takes a bite of mashed potatoes. Momma lets a breath out her nose, her shoulders down a little. She smiles at me and touches her hand to my head.

I wish kids could be heard instead of just seen, wish I could ask about Palo Alto and the special doctors, but I just sit still.

"So?" B.J. says. "Are we going to the lake?"

It's quiet in the dining room, the smell of food all around. Daddy looks at B.J. for a long time and then he shrugs his wide shoulders.

Copyright © 2000 by Jennifer Lauck.