Stain

A silent social agreement enforces silence

and when it is broken, sometimes the veils slip

ever so slightly before they are caught and replaced.

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The break may look like an accident but it is not:

everything was prepared by long complicity.

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Sometimes a stain is only a stain, but sometimes it is more. Everyone sees it though no one will mention it. An apparent accident exposes what order was meant to conceal.

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Stain

Martha laid out her grandmother’s silver, green with tarnish. She rubbed one spoon, but the stain only spread. Plastic lilies crowded sideboard in glass vases that clicked when people walked by. She told Ruth to hold her head up while carrying the tray in.

The church ladies arrived with handbags and stiff smiles. Hats quivered on their heads like small birds. “Such a heat,” Bea Dobbins said, already blotting her brow with a hanky. Martha stood by the punch bowl on the lace doily with a ladle in her hand, standing guard.

“Order makes a home,” she said. “And its women who make order.” She nodded at Ruth, who set down the cups on cue, hands shaking. Martha grimaced. She sternly ordered Ruth to start pouring tea. The church ladies looked at one another approvingly in silent agreement with Martha’s harshness.

Ruth reached for the teapot, but she lifted it awkwardly, letting tea escape from under the lid. It streaked across the tablecloth. Martha lunged for the pot and grabbed it away so forcefully that the lid popped off. Half the pot slopped into her lap.

Silence. The church ladies froze. The fan ticked as it changed direction.

Then Ruth let out a sharp, startling laugh. Two women snorted, then bent their heads.

Martha stood with her skirt soaked, lid in one hand, pot in the other. Bea Dobbins dabbed at the tablecloth. Cassie Pothergood straightened the plastic lilies. “Accidents,” someone muttered.

Ruth stifled her laughter. Chairs scraped closer to the table. Martha set down the pot, smoothed her wet skirt, and took her seat at the head of the table. “Ladies,” she said. “We’ll begin again.”

They did. They discussed recipes for the upcoming potluck, flowers for the veterans’ memorial, repositioning the missionary collection basket. No one asked for tea. Bea Dobbins left her napkin over the stain. When Ruth moved to lift it, Martha stopped her.

When business was completed and conversation turned to chatter, Ruth collected spoons at the sideboard, rubbing at the green until it stained her fingers.

Near the end, Martha called for Ruth to bring the hymnals. “Hymn Number 62, All Creatures of our God and King.” Dolly Potts took her seat at the piano and played an introduction. The ladies’ voices rose but Ruth kept laying spoons silently in a row, bowls facing down rather than up.

On the way out to the porch, the ladies complimented Martha. “So gracious.” “So well kept.” Martha smiled and said goodbye to each lady, pausing once to look at her face in the hall mirror, patting her hair with the hand that smelled of tea.

Inside, Ruth lifted the napkin. The stain had dried. They would never get that out. She lowered the napkin and stood still until the last hat passed through the door and down the walk.

Martha returned, set the teapot in its place. “Ruth,” she said. “Clear.”

Ruth stacked the cups. The lilies knocked in their glass vases. The fan ticked. The room rearranged itself around the stain.