All That Lives by Melissa Sanders-Self

irritated with me, I know, for she shot an injured expression sharp as a whittled arrow at me before running
     off without a backward glance to join our friend Becky Porter, who was talking with Ephraim Polk and Mary Batts beside the
     church steps. She said something to them about me, for they all looked in my direction, but then Father returned to our buggy
     and our silent family climbed inside.

    Our Sunday supper began routinely. Father said the prayers and Mother said Amen, and Chloe served a hen, with ash-roasted
     potatoes. The smell of wild garlic followed her around the table as she bent to tend to our plates and I felt very hungry.
    “Miz Lucy, I done most of the washing up and I done set the beans to soak for tomorrow, and I was wondering if I might leave
     a little early so I can get home to my girls. They like it when I’m there before the dark.” Chloe spoke softly to my mother,
     but we all heard her request to be dispatched to her cabin.
    “This chicken is so tender I believe you must’ve wrung its neck with kindness, Chloe. Certainly, you may depart.” Mother waved
     her out the door and I chewed and swallowed my first delicious mouthful, thinking it was often lately Chloe did beg to be
     excused. Abruptly Father pushed his chair away from the table.
    “I cannot eat.” His voice was hoarse and he held his throat in his hand, assuming an expression of great discomfort.
    “Jack, you look so pale. What is the matter?” Mother set her fork down and turned to him, concerned. Father shook his head,
     apparently unable to speak. He stood, one hand at his throat, using the table edge for support. Mother also rose and, putting
     his arm around her shoulder, she helped him to the parlor. John Jr. and I stopped eating and followed them, to see what was
     the matter.
    “Something, a twig, is in my throat,” he gasped.
    “Good Lord, pray it is not a bone. Open your mouth wide, Jack.” Mother held a lamp above him, peering down into his throat.
     “I see nothing there. Most likely you have swallowed a bit of salt bread the wrong way.”
    “Water,” Father breathed, and John Jr. went to fetch it.
    “Betsy, return to the table. Your father will be fine.” Mother did not want me there and I did as she said, but it was difficult
     to believe Father would be fine, especially when I heard him choking out his words.
    “Lucy, there is something … sideways in my throat…. I cannot swallow.”
    “Drink this, Jack. Here, John Jr., help me get him to the bed.” At the table, Drewry, Richard and Joel looked at me, concern
     evident in their eyes.
    “Is Father ill, sister?” Joel asked.
    “So it would appear, but Mother says it’s nothing, we must not worry. We must finish our supper without them.” This was most
     unusual, as we always ate together, except during the harvest or market days when Father and John Jr. might be absent. We
     very rarely sat at supper without Mother. We chewed carefully, and did not talk. When we had finished, we had to clear away
     the plates and do our own washing up out back of the kitchen in the washing tub Chloe had thoughtfully filled with warm water.
     The light was fading slowly and the sky was a pure turquoise color, its shades of blue defined by the black silhouettes of
     the trees. I felt uncomfortable in the growing dark and I hurried through the task, running back inside with the boys. We
     slid the wooden bolt across the door.
    Mother had dosed Father with valerian and slippery elm and he had fallen fast asleep. She and John Jr. had moved him to his
     bed and she had readied two lamps for the boys and me to carry upstairs.
    “Will you tuck me in, Mother? Please?” I allowed my fear to be present in my plea, and she nodded and followed me up to my
     room.
    “Is Father ill?” I asked as I climbed under my quilts, hoping she would stay with me until I was asleep.
    “He is simply tired, Miss Betsy, and much in need of rest.”
    “What will happen in the night?”