She was ten or eleven, about Mark's age, and the face of this pretty little girl caught his attention and took his breath. She had a wonderful smirky smile, and it was obvious she was the center of the family's attention and enjoyed this immensely. Reggie was between her parents, in the center of the portrait. The boys were stiff and awkward, obviously not happy to be dressed in ties and starched shirts. Love was a foot taller, and sat rigid and unsmiling. Momma Love had dark hair and a beautiful smile. Love were on a small sofa in some studio with two boys in tight collars standing beside them. It was an old photograph of the Love family, matted and framed by thick, curly wood. A large family portrait hung above the sofa.
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The TV was color, but without remote control. Momma Love admired his empty bowl, and sent him to the den while she finished cleaning. Most of the time they ate microwave meals on trays in front of the television. Dinner at the trailer was usually a ten-minute affair.
He thanked her again, said it was delicious for the tenth time, and stood with an aching stomach. HE FINISHED THE PEACH COBBLER AND ICE CREAM WHILE she cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. How do you make this stuff? It's great." "Well, it's an old recipe." She sipped the wine, and rattled on tor ten minutes about the sauce. Momma Love was silent until she heard Reggie's car start, then she said, "What on earth did you boys see out there?" Mark took a bite, chewed forever as she waited, then took a long drink of tea. I'll take you to the hospital later." She patted his shoulder, and then she was out the door. You finish eating and visit with Momma Love. He's in jail crying for his mother, but they can't find her." "How long will you be gone?" Mark asked, his fork still. The cops just picked up Ross Scott for shoplifting again. "You like it," Momma Love said, taking a sip of her wine, He nodded with a mouthful, and this pleased her. He remembered a rubbery taste, nothing like this. Swanson's frozen, or something like that. "Just great." His only experience with lasagna had been a year or so earlier when his mother had pulled a plastic tray from the microwave and served it for dinner. "It's great," he said, going for the second bite. She'd poured herself a second glass of wine, and held it halfway between the table and her lips as she waited for a response to her great-grandmother's secret recipe.
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