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After
setting down the food Luna pulled Darryl to sit between her and
the budding star.
Billy went to stand at the head of the table to Socrates’ left. There was an arc shaped indentation there, one of the gnawed
out spaces that had survived the giant footstep.
Next to the gumbo pot stood stacked a pile of a dozen porcelain bowls, also borrowed from Miss Northford. Billy used a
teacup to put a dome of rice in the bottom of a bowl and then ladled the dark green stew on top of that—making sure that each
serving received at least one of the small crabs.
Leanne carved the cornbread. People took the large squares
as the platter was passed down the center of the table toward the
front.
Socrates set his eyes on Darryl. When the boy looked up the
host moved his head, indicating the empty seat next to Zeal. To his credit Darryl took up his paper napkin and moved to
keep the uncomfortable killer company.
When Billy finished serving he sat in his. Socrates remained
on his feet.
“I thought you called these blue crabs,” Wan Tai said across
the broad plank to Billy. “But these are red.”
“They turn red when you cook ’em,” Billy said. “But you know
them li’l suckers got the best tastin’ crab meat anywhere.” Those were the last words before the table went silent, waiting for Socrates to address them.
“There’s ten of us now,” he said. “And later on there will be
one more. We got all kinds ’a people at this big table. Mustafa,
who belongs to Islam, Wan Tai is a Buddhist and prays the way
those people do, Darryl an’ me ain’t seen the inside of a church,
temple or mosque in many, many years. We got Baptists and
Catholics and other Christians—some practicing, some not—at
the table. The last man to come is something different yet
again.”
The guests were looking around at each other while Socrates,
who seemed uncharacteristically nervous, took a deep breath. “We got a gambler, a singer, a teenager, at least two killers, a
carpenter, social workers, and even a lawyer sittin’ right here in
this big tin-plated house.”
A few people, including Cassie Wheaton, snickered at the
lawyer line.
“Not all of us were born in America,” Socrates continued, “but
we’ll probably all die here.”
These last words sobered many an eye gazing upon Socrates. “Death is our moment of reckoning,” he said. “It’s what calls
up our hardest prayers. And so death has to have a place in the
words at the beginning of the meal. Also words of hope and
truth. But not Christian or Muslim or Buddhist words. No. We
are here to come up with a new kinda faith. Maybe not even a
faith but somethin’ true, somethin’ that will give us some kind
of, I don’t know . . . wisdom.
“And so I will say some words today and then, the next time
we get together for a talk, somebody else will say somethin’.” With that Socrates bowed his head and everyone else, even
Luna, followed suit.
“I have eyes to see and a mind to think; I have feet to take me
and lungs full of breath; I have arms and legs, a sex and a nose to
smell trouble. I have everything I need . . . everything but a sign.” “Amen,” Mustafa intoned.
Socrates sat and the people began gabbing and eating. The seat to Socrates’ left was empty. He turned right to Billy
and said, “Damn good, gambler. Why don’t you get a job as a
cook?”
“Why don’t you be a preacher?” Psalms asked back and both
men laughed.
4.
    The dinner had been going on for half an hour or more. Billy was telling jokes about gambling schemes he had come across that had nearly everyone laughing; all except for Luna, Ronald Zeal, and Leanne Northford. The gumbo was good, the whole table agreed on that. The small house was perfect for their get together.
    “So why you got us here, Socrates?” Mustafa asked. He was half the way down on the left side of the Big Table.
“Wait a bit longer, brother. We have one more coming.”
“No matter to me,” Antonio said. “This food is good.”
The