#94 Reservations

by Gayla Williams

Leon hung up the phone and called upstairs. “That was Mom and Dad. They want us to meet them after church . . . at the Hitching Post.”

I made a face thinking of the awful buffet we so often had to endure. “What did you tell them?”

“I said I’d call them back.”

“Tell them no,” I said. “We hate that restaurant. The food all tastes the same. And remember the last time? Mrs. Horsham walked along the dessert table sticking her finger into every piece of pie, licking her finger after each one! That was so gross.”

“Could you believe that?” Leon said. “I’ll never eat their pie again.”

After thirty seconds of useless wavering, I said, “Oh, tell them yes. They do so much for us. We have to go.”

Our drive to the Hitching Post was a silent one, as was our walk toward the double Mediterranean style doors, left from a time when the restaurant was named something that suited its gaudy, flocked, red wall paper.

From the foyer, I frowned toward the dimly lit buffet heaped with gray mashed potatoes, cold fried okra, pale macaroni and cheese, and dry roast beef lumped under a glowing red heat lamp. On a nearby table, small plastic plates held unguarded slices of meringue pie.

A cute young hostess bounced forward to greet us.

“Welcome,” she said merrily. “Did you have reservations?”

“Yes,” I said, “but we came anyway.”