MARYBELLE PENNYWORTH HENNINGS—widow to Reverend Allen Abraham Hennings—sat with closed eyes in the morning sun and calmed her heart. The talk and clamor of her daughters and granddaughter came from downstairs. They insisted she rest while they prepared a hideous version of Sunday dinner. They reminded her to be civil to the new pastor's wife, in spite of the "pruning." Marybelle drew a breath to stop her heart from fluttering.
Don't upset yourself over silly things, Marybelle's daughter, Grace, had said during their drive from the doctor last week. Truthfully, it had been frightening—the dizziness, the breathlessness, the way it rose to the heart like a glass overfilled. But Marybelle saw nothing silly about the defilement of her husband's roses by the wife of a man too cowardly to call himself Reverend. And, Grace went on, You must promise me you'll take your bots.
Marybelle opened her eyes, and narrowed them at the bottle on her vanity beside the photo of her husband. His eyes too stared disapprovingly at the pill-bottle filled with undulating powder. Marybelle shuddered. She hated the way the things climbed around in her mouth, the way one had to swallow it down in so ungainly a way. She thanked the Lord the Reverend was allowed the dignity of dying before having to suffer such unholy medicines—and foods too, for that matter.
Smells rose from the kitchen. Marybelle stood and smoothed her dress in the mirror. Today she would just have an Aspirin.
—
"I DON'T WANT TO EAT THEM," screamed Jasmine, Marybelle's four year old granddaughter. Jasmine tugged at her auntie Hope's skirt, who was busy wrestling a strainer filled with NewFood shell-meats beneath a steaming faucet. Te shell- meats writhed, a pile of miniature arms and legs. They snapped their little aluminum jaws.
"I don't wish to eat them either," said Marybelle, taking Jasmine by the hand to a fruit bowl. Grace gave her mother a look. "That is not a help." Marybelle didn't respond. She smoothed Jasmine's hair, handed the child an apple. Marybelle remembered Sundays when seafood came from the sea. She remembered fish boils on the church lawn. She could still hear the Reverend's beautiful voice—Boil over!—as a can of fuel was added to the fire beneath the cauldron, steam rising skyward like a pillar of smoke. Now those were meals.
"Ouch!" cried Hope. Grace moved to her. "Did you get bit?" The shell-meats clattered around in the sink. Marybelle turned quickly away when she saw one of them pull itself onto the counter. The shell-meat fell to the floor and ran circles. Jasmine screamed. The doorbell rang.
"Mother," pleaded Grace, moving for the broom. Hope, sucking on her sore finger, tried to corral the shell-meat with a spatula. It evaded her. "Mother, the door," pleaded Grace again, trying to sweep the shell-meat into a corner. It regained its feet, opened a cupboard, and climbed into a box of Jasmine's cereal.
Jasmine climbed Marybelle's dress. Steam rose from the sink. More shell-meats spilled to the floor. Marybelle watched them scurry under tables and trip over carpets. They hid beneath cushions. They climbed curtains—the food, of all things. Hope fainted with a mop in her hand. Grace batted a shell-meat from a coatrack. Marybelle Pennyworth Hennings became aware of her heart in her chest, while the woman who accosted her late husband's roses rang and rang and rang at the door.
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