When Odell tells Wanda his mother is coming for a visit, she hurries to the kitchen, jerks the silverware drawer open and grabs the paring knife.
“What on earth is the matter with you,” he says, following her into the kitchen.
“I…I just remembered I forgot to peel some potatoes for supper,” she says, fiddling with the knife, “You just can’t have meat loaf without mashed potatoes.”
Odell gazes around the kitchen. “This floor could use a good scrubbing and waxing,” he says, “The whole house could use a good cleaning. You know how Momma is.”
Wanda caresses the handle of the paring knife after Odell leaves the kitchen, making a mental note to hide it as soon as she finishes peeling the potatoes. Her mother-in-law would recognize it in a flash.
She shutters, just thinking of Grace. She will never forget the first time she laid eyes on her. “Hello,” Grace said, looking her up and down. She said nothing more to Wanda the whole evening, and rarely talked to her during subsequent visits.
Wanda thought things would get better after they were married, but they didn’t. She also thought things would get better after she met Odell’s two younger brothers. Instead, things got worse. Virgil and Erwin never tired of harassing her and making fun of her Kentucky roots.
“How’re y’all?” Virgil said.
“Yeah, how’re all them hillbillies down thar in Kaintuck?” Erwin said.
Grace seemed to think the boys’ antics were funny. She always sat there, laughing along with them, trying to act as if she weren’t.
They visit the farm often, since they are only two hours away in Southern Illinois, and Wanda dreads each and every visit. Odell is always off somewhere, helping farm, visiting friends, or in that tool shed with his brothers working on a piece of farm equipment. Grace refuses to let her help with the housework, so she meanders around the yard, or stands around, feeling useless in the house where Grace is always busy scrubbing floors, polishing the appliances, or dusting. She even dusts the paneling. She also vacuums every day, does the laundry every day, and prepares three big meals each day.
Wanda must admit Grace is a fantastic cook. Her apple pie is out of this world; the crust melts in your mouth, the apples just tart enough and just sweet enough. Her mashed potatoes are creamy and smooth as silk, her yeast rolls light and flaky. Wanda’s favorite, though, is her tender, juicy roast beef, which Grace carved in perfect, paper-thin slices with the little paring knife.
But that was before her knife disappeared.
Wanda first spotted it about a year ago, when she was drying dishes for Grace. A peculiar little knife, it was smooth and worn from years of use and had been sharpened so many times that the blade was less than a quarter-inch wide at the tip. The base was the size of a regular paring knife, but toward the center it curved inward, then back out at the tip. It was the sharpest knife Wanda had ever held in her hands.
“Odd looking, isn’t it?” Grace said, “I’ve had it for years and years. Just look how worn-down the blade is. That’s a testimony to how much it’s been used.” She lifted a plate from the soapy dishwater and ran scalding water over it. “It’s my favorite knife.”
Guilt slides over Wanda as she takes the meat loaf out of the oven. Grace is coming tomorrow, and she will be forced to hide the knife again.
The last time Grace visited, she was peeling potatoes with it just minutes before she was due to arrive; the time before that, Grace was actually coming in the front door when she grabbed it off the counter and hid it under the sink
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