Saturday Morning Serial is the weekend section of Library Binding. It’s a personal corner where I publish short stories, book reviews, and literary musings.
It’s been a while since I’ve written you a story. I dedicate this one to Rachel and Kathy for reasons that, I hope, are obvious to them both.
Betty brushed the flies away from the sun-ripened potato salad and then started scooping the leftovers into plastic Ziploc bags. Her feet hurt, and all she wanted to do was collapse in front of a fan, but the picnic wasn't over yet.
Clusters of church folk were still sitting at tables under the ramada, chatting, heads together, their crumpled napkins and grease-spotted paper plates testifying to the shared meal. Sweaty moms and dads swapped stories as they watched their kids swarm over the playground, breaking conversation only to kiss a boo-boo or yell, "Don't throw sand!" Teenagers thundered across the grassy lawn, hurling frisbees and footballs with the vigor and self-satisfaction of the young.
I'm getting too old for this, Betty thought, waggling the metal spoon so a glob of potato salad slid into the bag. Her ankles ached. So much for those orthopedic shoes her doctor told her to buy.
"You're making a mess with that," said Fran, equally as old as Betty and equally as exhausted by their potluck exertions.
"Well, why don't you help me?" said Betty, "Hold that plastic bag open, will ya?"
Betty and Fran didn't agree on all particulars when it came to church picnics, but they saw eye to eye on cleanup: Everything must go. They diligently bagged the chicken legs and ears of corn so they could give it all away in good conscience. If people wanted to throw away what they took with a guilty one, that was between them and God.
Betty had just started divvying up the watermelon slices when Fran's signature tsk-tsk pierced her ear. Fran patted her white permanent and gestured toward the dessert table with a swollen knuckle. "Just look at that," she muttered in her husky alto.
Betty squinted and saw Ronald hunched over the dessert table, legs wide, knees bent like a linebacker. Well, a pot-bellied, injured linebacker. Ronald had a paper plate in one hand, and with the other, he indiscriminately plucked cookies, brownies, and cake squares from the various platters and piled them onto his flimsy dish. It was rather impressive, she mused, the sheer number of sweets he managed to cram onto one Dixie nine-incher.
"Waste," hissed Fran, as she pitched grape clusters into a Ziploc. "He can't eat all that, and if he does, well..."
Betty shrugged. She and Fran had a version of this same conversation at every potluck. Ronald was notorious for eating mammoth portions and then taking enough leftovers to choke a moose. Even now, he was crushing a pair of peanut butter bars to create a flat space on which he balanced the last of the red velvet cupcakes. Betty tried to repress a grin.
"Oh, leave him alone," she told Fran, "You know the man's poor as all get-out."
"Yes, yes, I know," Fran frowned into the hollowed-out mac-and-cheese casserole. "But there are others in same straits as him, and why don't they get their share?"
"Fran, if it bothers you so much, just go tell him he's gotta put some back."
"Well, now he's touched it all, hasn't he?"
"Everybody knows the leftovers are first come, first serve,” said Betty, “Leave it alone."
Betty piled dirty dishes into a plastic bin for washing later in the air-conditioned church kitchen. She knew Ronald wasn't greedy, not really. Over the years, the poor fellow had left one too many of his marbles at the bottom of a liquor bottle, and the polite nuances of leftover-taking escaped him.
After a few moments, Fran grumbled, "It's a shameful waste. I'm going to tell Pastor Ernie he's gotta put a stop to it."
"Ernie's got bigger fish to fry. Don't you go bothering him."
Fran tsked again as she squeezed the extra air out of a Ziploc, buzzed it shut, and tossed it with the others on the table. She fanned herself with the skirt of her apron and snipped, "I don't like it, and it's not fair. And I'll tell you another th—"
"Shh," warned Betty.
Ronald, smiling like a toddler, moseyed up to their table and boomed, "Can I get some tin foil?"
"Sure can," said Betty, as she reached for the industrial-sized box of Reynolds Wrap.
Ronald set his overcrowded dessert plate on the table and began eyeing the bags of leftover fried wings and cornbread.
"Can I get a Wal-Mart bag, too?" he asked. "I’ll take some home for dinner tonight." Fran snapped a plastic grocery bag open and handed it to him with a squinty smile. Ronald beamed back at her and smacked his misshapen lips.
With a metallic flourish, Betty freed a piece of tin foil from the roll. As she moved to cover Ronald's sugary pile, Fran blocked her with an outstretched arm.
Oh no. Had Fran finally grown cranky enough to make a scene over this? When Betty looked into her friend's eyes, as wrinkled and watery as her own, she didn’t see huffy indignation. Her mind fumbled to make sense of Fran’s expression, but when Fran arched an eyebrow and playfully gestured with her chin, Betty finally registered that it was, in fact, amusement flickering across her face.
While Ronald busied himself stuffing savory leftovers into his grocery bag, sweet old Jim Conti had approached the leftover table to see what was on offer. Fran and Betty stood motionless, as Jim, who was deaf as a post, laid eyes on Ronald's dessert plate. Jim's normally starch-white cheeks had pinked in the sun, and he resembled one of Santa's elderly elves as he smiled innocently at the sight of a beautiful dessert platter filled with nice things.
Fran and Betty exchanged a momentary glance in which they both silently agreed they weren’t about to intervene. They watched as Jim folded his hands together in consideration and delicately plucked the red velvet cupcake from the top of Ronald's plate and cradled it in a napkin. Ronald was none the wiser. Jim turned to go but then swerved back and—with an expression that said, "Don't mind if I do"—added a couple of strawberry thumbprint cookies and a brownie to his napkin. He nodded pleasantly at the two women before walking away to join his wife in the shade.
Fran and Betty turned their heads to look at one another, proverbial cups filled with unholy mirth.
"Can I get somma that tin foil?" Ronald asked again.
"Yes!" Betty remembered the warm silver sheet in her hand and quickly covered Ronald's minimally diminished dessert plate. When he sauntered away, pleased as pie, the two weary women leaned on each other and laughed themselves empty.
It’s the Last Day to get Vol. 1 of The Novel Envelope
Slow mail for lovers of classic tales
The Novel Envelope is a monthly snail-mail subscription that delivers a classic short story, curated book list, surprise paper goodie, and more to your (real) mailbox.
For $5 per month, you get to retreat into a soft, still analog space. I'll bring a classic author with me, and we'll share words and ideas across the miles.
The FIRST volume rolls off the ink-stained press tomorrow, so be sure to subscribe by the end of the day today (Saturday, May 31) if you want to receive Vol. 1, The Rose of Summer.
And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. –2 Cor. 9:8
I’ll leave you with one irresistible indulgence—simple and true.
Your devoted,
Michelle
Michelle, I loved your story. I could picture Fran and Betty so clearly. Leftovers made me smile. Thanks for all you do. It matters.
Dear Michelle, I do love the space you've created here. It sure is a home-sweet-home!