Rabbit & gravy

Iris glared at the girl opposite her at the table, between the butter and the homemade mustard pickles. Shame on her, Iris thought, pretending the rabbit was delicious, spewing lies on Easter Sunday of all days, setting herself up for a liar’s double penance. How was anyone supposed to stomach meat that tasted like hay and tree bark? No one, including Iris or the girl, should have it on their plate that day or any. What was she trying to prove?

‘It’s a proper crime to be servin’ rabbit at Easter dinner. Next thing you know we’ll be eatin’ chocolate Jesuses for dessert,’ Iris had the urge to blurt out, to show the girl how clever she could sound. But her sister, Donna, would say, ‘No dessert for you today,’ and Iris didn’t dare argue with her in front of the girl because bossy Donna always won their arguments.

Why did the girl keep repeating ‘No, mom, yes mom’ like she was one of the brood when she obviously wasn’t, there being only Iris, her twin, Michael, and their sister, Donna? Ever since Donna had earned her clerk’s certificate and job at the orphanage, that was it. She carried on however she felt like, inviting a strange girl to their Easter dinner, no asking Iris or Michael if they minded. Speaking of strange, their mother was being syrupy-sweet with the girl, saying ‘Dear Marina’ this, ‘Dear Marina’ that. When was the last time she called Iris ‘dear’? ‘Lazy,’ ‘saucy,’ never ‘dear’. Something wasn’t right.

Potato, turnip, & cabbage

Iris’s mother once threatened to send her to live with nuns at the orphanage if she didn’t stop talking back, or with a family of famished Biafrans in Africa if Iris complained about being forced to eat vegetables. If anyone deserved to be sent away, it was Michael, not Iris. Hadn’t he nicked coins from their mother’s purse—coins saved for the collection plate? What about peeping through the keyhole while Donna took a bath? Since Michael was headed to hell anyway, the orphanage would be merely a detour along the way.

The girl asked for a second helping of turnip and cabbage. ‘Please, mom.’

‘Give her some more rabbit smothered in gravy, while you’re at it, mom. She loves it,’ Iris said in case the girl didn’t already know she’d caught on to her tricks. ‘More potato for me. Vegetables are my favourite,’ she said, fingers of both hands crossed in her lap.

Trifle and Bread Pudding

Since when did Iris’s mother serve two desserts? Something definitely wasn’t right. Was Donna plotting to replace her with a girl she could turn into her slave? Earlier that week, she’d ordered Iris to hop, skip, and jump to the store and buy her a bottle of Orange Crush and a bag of cheese and onion Tayto crisps to which Iris had replied, ‘See that flash?’ the snarky comeback borrowed from Donna herself.

While her mother went to the kitchen to turn off the kettle, Iris blurted out, ‘When are you goin’ back to the orphanage?’

‘Don’t mind her,’ Donna said. ‘Her twin’s just as rude. Stop gawkin’ at the girl, Mikey.’

Iris and her twin had age in common, and that was it. Normally, she’d never defend him except the girl might think she was spineless. ‘Paws off him, Donna,’ she said.

The girl wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘Before five. Sister Carmelita warned me to be in the pew at quarter to.’

Iris’s mother returned from the kitchen and cleared away their bowls and spoons. ‘Stay and play with Iris after dinner, Marina,’ she said. ‘She’ll walk you back to the orphanage in time for Mass. Come visit again sometime. You, Iris, be home in time for supper.’

‘Thank you, mom,’ the girl said, or at least that’s what Iris thought she heard until it occurred her that, all along, the girl had been saying ma’am not mom. And hadn’t her mother just said ‘visit’? Silly Iris for worrying that her mother might send her away and keep the girl.

Iris eyed Marina and smiled. ‘I got a new rope for Easter. You any good at skippin’?’

‘Nowhere near the skipper you are, I bet,’ Marina said.

That night, lights out, Iris knelt, hands joined, head bowed, eyes closed, said her prayers, then added, ‘Amen. I promise, from now on, I’ll eat whatever’s on my plate.’