The house is bustling with activity as Ma directs everyone on what to do before our guests arrive. I imagine we look a lot like a tornado does - bits and pieces flying every which way. Nothing is done to Ma's satisfaction, but we must do our best with what we have. Time is up.
A man knocks on the door in three sharp taps and then announces his presence, as is customary in this part of town.
“It is Mr. Evert Compati here with misters James and Sortin.”
“Good luck, dear,” I kiss my youngest sister on the head before heading to the kitchen with Ma, “I know you will do wonderfully!”
I don’t know that, actually. She is usually the worst of us at following the rules. Jem says it’s because we are all terrible examples. I am fairly certain she is right.
Nevertheless, Dad needs to keep his job so I must be a delightful young thing this evening as we entertain our guests.
“The glasses, dear,” is all my mother says to me as I enter the kitchen. A normal family would exchange pleasantries. But we are not a normal family. And there is no one here to see us for another two minutes, so we can afford to be curt.
I get right to work polishing the glasses on the tray as Ma fills the pitcher with a perfectly mixed refreshment. I was extremely thankful she hadn’t made me attempt to make the drink. To say I am not skilled in the culinary arts is perhaps more obvious than to say that my hair is blonde.
Ma pins a stray piece of my hair into the knot at the base of my neck as we hear the door opening.
“Misters Compati, James, and Sortin. It is a pleasure to have you here,” my dad’s voice rang with confidence, as was befitting a man in his position. I could tell by the shuffle afterwards that he had ushered them into our foyer.
A small, meek voice came drifting through the house next as my sister clearly did a wonderful job, “Please, may I offer to take your coats, sirs?”
I had never heard her put it on this well in her entire life. I am so proud of my sister in that moment. Part of me wishes she were always that quiet and demure, but then she wouldn’t be my sister, so it wouldn’t be right.
The footfalls approach the dining room as my father makes quiet conversation with his colleagues.
“It’s time, dear,” my mother whispers almost imperceptibly into my ear, “I’ll hold the door for you.”
I nod and pick up the tray, silently willing myself to remember the proper etiquette for this situation. Words, glass, pitcher. No, that’s not quite right. Words, tray, glass, pitcher, tray. Yes, that’s it. I silently repeat the mantra to myself as Ma opens the door and allows me to enter the room before her.
Words. “May I offer you all a beverage?” I almost forget to listen for the answers, but they make it easy on me by all accepting. Are they being kind to me or trying to test me? I continue regardless of their intentions.
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