Sisters in the Wind(50)
The social worker declined Mrs. Hoppy’s invitation to stay for dinner. Suddenly, there was a gals’ dinner in Alpena that Miss Debbie Strong had never mentioned during her two-hour monologue to Hoppy Farm. I looked past her shoulder as she reminded me about checking in in a few days. Then she was gone.
“Lucy, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Hoppy repeated as soon as the social worker’s taillights had disappeared. “We held off on dinner so you could join us. Family meals are a special time, and I wanted this to be your introduction to Hoppy Farm.”
She gestured for everybody to take their seats.
People, mostly teens, had been milling about but quickly sat in what must have been prearranged seating assignments. Mr. Hoppy sat at one end of a long wooden dining table; Mrs. Hoppy sat at the opposite end. She held out a chair to the right of her, the first of six seats that were mirrored on the other side. I placed my backpack beneath my chair before sitting in front of a place setting of blue-and-white dishes.
An attractive man who looked more like a cowboy than a farmer carried a platter of plain spaghetti to the table. A shorter, burly guy, who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Hoppy, brought an identical, heaping platter for the other end. The woman with a serving bowl of red sauce and meatballs nearly took my breath away with her doll-like features—rosy cheeks, plump lips, and eyelashes that were twice as long and full as I’d ever seen.
I glanced around the table set with matching blue-and-white dishes. There were seven teens besides me: four girls and three boys. They smiled whenever my eyes met theirs. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but they all seemed … normal. Like classmates I had known in Petoskey, Harbor Springs, and Mackinaw City. Most were white, which wasn’t surprising given the lack of diversity in the region. I looked more intently at two girls and one boy who were a bit browner than the others. Two were my skin color, and the other was a few shades darker.
Again, I remembered being asked many times whether I was Native. Each denial had been an unwitting lie. After I’d learned the truth—or at least a sliver of it—my answer should’ve changed but hadn’t. Sometimes the person commented about my resemblance to a cousin or someone “back home.” Maybe I looked familiar because I was a blood relative for real.
When the center length of the table couldn’t fit another serving dish, the three adults continued the seating pattern of girls on one side and guys on the other. I’d had more than one classmate over the years who was kind of both genders or not really either. I wondered which side of the dinner table they would have chosen at Hoppy Farm.
My breath quickened when Mr. Hoppy bent his head in prayer. Mrs. Hoppy bent her head as well. So did their adult children, and two of the teens around the table. The teens—a chubby girl and a brown boy whose gold crucifix was visible against his white T-shirt—both made the sign of the cross.
If the Hoppy family forced everyone to pray, I’d wait for my social worker’s call with my trash bag packed. I was terrified by how religion had been used in the Sterling home. Complicit women training little girls to be obedient while making excuses for the bad acts of boys and men. Their religion pushed God so far away from me. I had stopped praying.
I steeled myself, tightening every muscle in my body and gritting my teeth.
Instead, those who prayed did it quietly while the rest stared at the food unbothered. A few met my eyes and smiled as if to say, Relax. It’s all good.
My stomach growled loudly enough for Mrs. Hoppy to hear. She patted my hand, which I withdrew instinctively. I offered a contrite smile for being so jumpy.
After the few moments of quiet grace, the table talk started and never let up. Mrs. Hoppy said my name. When I met her eyes, she spoke in a low voice just for me, not a grand proclamation to the entire table.
“I promise you will never go hungry at Hoppy Farm.”
When you hear the truth, it travels through your body like oxygen within red blood cells.
Each serving bowl or platter was passed around the table. If the item ran out, the younger Hoppy son refilled the bowl or platter.
It was the best spaghetti and meatballs I’d ever tasted, along with fresh green beans that were cooked enough to remain crisp and not wilted. There was salad lightly tossed with Italian dressing and homemade croutons. Thanks to Miss Lonnie, I knew homemade bread. Even the water in the tall mason-jar glass tasted fresh and alive somehow.
While everyone ate, Mrs. Hoppy tapped a knife against her water glass.
“Let’s welcome Lucy by introducing ourselves and saying one favorite thing about the farm.”
I silently groaned, but everyone else seemed eager.
There were too many names for me to remember, except for the eldest Hoppy son, Allen, his doll-faced wife, Jennifer, and the younger Hoppy son, Bruce. The only other two names that stuck were Tonya—the girl who was darker than me and said she was my roommate—and Boyd, who looked like the guy in High School Musical. Stacy Sterling had watched that movie at least a dozen times over the past two months.
“Hi, Lucy. I’m Boyd McCarty. I’m sixteen. I’ve been at Hoppy Farm for two years.” He spoke with a bit of a twang, and brushed long bangs aside to reveal sky-blue eyes. He smiled brightly, revealing teeth that were white but desperately in need of braces. “I like taking care of the horses and when Allen lets me drive his pickup truck.”
By the time I was stuffed with spaghetti and meatballs, I’d learned that everyone called Mr. Hoppy “Mister” and Mrs. Hoppy was “Missus.” Dessert was home-canned peaches with the faintest hint of cinnamon. I had never tasted peaches seasoned in that way. I didn’t hate it.